During the Mass for the Solemnity of Pentecost this [...]

It can seem like the transition from Lent to Easter is more relief than rejoicing. After sticking with, or starting over and over, our Lenten asceticism, we shift to singing “alleluias” without deeper awareness. Glad the 40 days of sacrifice is over, I think we often forget that the church calls us to 50 days of Easter celebration.

The lack of snow on the ground has made it challenging for my family to feel that pure and fluffy holiday spirit this Advent. It’s been a bit easier for me as I can recall Decembers I lived in both Ireland and Mexico, neither of which have snow in the winter with any regularity.

On Sept. 30, the eve of the General Assembly of the Synod on Synodality, Pope Francis addressed 15,000 pilgrims during an ecumenical prayer service in St. Peter’s Square in Rome. Those gathered, which included heads of many Christian churches of various denominations, gathered to call on the guidance of the Holy Spirit during the synodal proceedings.

A few weeks ago, I had the privilege of covering a story with ties closer to home. Every year we try to include something about the summer youth events – Extreme Faith Camp and Totus Tuus – that take place in the diocese.

One Saturday morning last fall, I randomly – and providentially – discovered a renowned Catholic poet with ties to Cumberland while visiting the city’s historic library. Little did I know then just who Sr. Madeleva Wolff was, nor the impact she would have on my life and the potential impact I might have on continuing her work of promulgating creative writing, especially the art of poetry, as the spiritual tool she believed it to be.

Almost two years ago, a tribute article for the passing of Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI was put on my list of upcoming stories. I have thought about what to write several times, but I could never have known that reflecting on his legacy would coincide with that of my last living grandparent.

Thanksgiving is one of the few holidays where God is still given a seat at the table.

When I recall how it felt to put my first-grade son on the bus for the first time, I can still sense the lump rising in my throat. It was one of the first concrete acts of letting go for me as a mom.

Before you start reading this column, I’d like to ask you to grab some paper and something to write with. We’re going to do a short exercise.