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My 2025 Christmas Letter: letting Christmas happen

It’s been an eventful year for us, with its triumphs and its various ups and downs, just as everyone has. My youngest, Roise, graduated college from Sam Houston State and began the graduate program she wanted where she is doing great. My eldest, Maire, just had a new baby we are all crazy about. Valor is a wide eyed baby with a lopsided smile and a face that looks more “finished” than the faces of babies usually do. My other three grandchildren, Arelani, Blaze and Brazos, have become funnier, more creative and smarter even than they used to be. Or maybe it is that I am listening better. I enjoy them very much. Arelani is into crafts, science, fixing things, and putting things together with a box of parts, a couple tools, and an instruction manual. I don’t understand that at all. She makes the most ingenious things. She makes me laugh every day.

Blaze and Brazos are into running around out in the country, climbing trees, hauling beaches for their mom, filling their pockets with rocks, that sort of thing. The boys and I have a routine of reading from the series Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing and watching The Hoof GP together. That last one I don’t understand either. But we like it. They will cuddle up to me and watch it. It’s a You Tube show from a Scottish Hoof Trimmer. There is just something fascinating about it. They are the sweetest little boys.

My dad turned 75 this year. and I turned 58. We are growing old together. He was just a kid when he had me. He and my step mom take good care of themselves and I fully expect them to live forever.

My new book, Meeting the One Who Loves you; the way of prayer of St. Teresa of Avila was released this summer. I hope it does what St. Teresa and Jesus want it to do for its readers, and gets into the hands of people who are supposed to read it. I try not to worry about how it’s doing. My last one did so well I worry my new book baby won’t get as much attention. But I only need to trust it will do what God wants it to do.

My young dog, Daisy, died suddenly this summer. We still don’t know why. I think it was a killer bee. (We saw some under our car port). The vet couldn’t save her. We all miss Daisy. Our other dog, Joey certainly misses her. However, we are recovering well. I haven’t decided whether to get another friend for Joey. He looks bored in the back yard without her.

I planted a couple of vegetable gardens- something new to me this year.

Roses I am used to and I planted more of those too. I always will plant more roses. I want this place covered in a wild, lovely tangle. I have a dying elm tree in my front yard. It’s sad. However, I planted an Old Blush climber next to it. I plan for it to wrap around it, for rose laden vines to hang down from its branches. Then it will be a rose tree. I have done that before at the house I raised my kids in and it looked like fairy land. It smelled amazing too.

We almost lost one of the young special needs guys I take care of this year. Mac got pneumonia which is very dangerous for him. Unbelievably he made it through and has even recovered far more than we thought possible for him. He is doing great. I thank God for this all the time.

I started a new second job this year too, for another young’n with special needs. I pick him up after my first job and spend the evening with him. He’s fun and I have loved getting to know his sweet family.

I have read plenty of books this year as always. I don’t know how many. But since I read a book about every 4-7 days I suppose it would make quite a stack. I’ve developed and interest in T. Kingfisher books and the like. I read one after another.

I’ve lost myself in lots of music. I found plenty of new stuff I am happy with exploring. There is still plenty of weird, interesting music out there, and people still create plenty of beauty. Of course I still love the Cocteau Twins and Dead Can Dance. And hey “King’s X forever!” I still make coffee and listen to jazz every day at 2pm. I mostly like hard bop and straight ahead jazz. And sometimes you just need Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holiday.

Sometimes you need something fun and different.

I still have chickens, though those traitors spend most of their time at the next door neighbor’s house. They are an elderly couple and they love the chickens so it’s alright. They still come home too. I love having them around, scratching and pecking and being hilarious in the yard. They are Clementine, a crazy game hen, and Jewel, a fat brown hen. They are friends with a wild guinea in the neighborhood who lost its mate. So now it hangs out with my chickens. Its name is either Fred or Lola. I can’t tell which one the remaining one is. However it was lonely so I am glad it hangs around.

My cats are relaxed and happy. Every time I open the door, one is coming in or going out. Whatever they want to do. Presently there are three sleeping on my bed. I have three orange girls; a mother and two of her daughters. These are Annie, the mom, and Dia and Buttercup (don’t blame me my granddaughter named her Princess Buttercup). My daughter has Frankie, a temperamental black cat with beautiful green eyes.

I had a great birthday this year. I felt very loved by family and friends. Plus, I told my friends I wanted a pie in the face at my birthday dinner and they actually did it! It was so funny. I also have been wanting to start a “Little Free Library” in front of my house and my friends made it happen! On my birthday night Maire and I and the kids went to see my youngest daughter, Roise, play and sing with her band, The Fragments, over at Black Water Draw. We had a great time; great music and kids running in circles around our table, us handing the baby around, everybody happy. I love that.

I visited the major relics of St. Therese this year with my youngest daughter and my granddaughter. I have thought a lot about how I felt about that. I wrote about it too. But when I look back at it I think what comes through is how little I felt, how I could see all my wounds in a general way, and that I was seen by God and I was OK. I also felt my love for Therese and that was overpowering to me. I don’t feel a lot of big feelings these days. And I never cry even when I do feel them. That day I did both and I was kind of surprised. I’m glad too.

I also gave a talk at Little Flower Basilica in San Antonio this Advent on The Prayer of Recollection. I think it went well. I gave a handout to everyone there to take home and practice the prayer even if they didn[t have the book yet. I took them through a brief guided version of the prayer. I made my dumb jokes. 🙂

As we get ready for Christmas this year, I notice I feel different than I usually do. Christmas is a mixed bag for me as it is for most people- especially for us who have lost people we loved. I’ve kind of hated Christmas. As a neuro-divergent person, the executive function that appears to be required is overwhelming for me. It’s not even a lot but it totally freaks me out. I see the lovely things other people do for their friends and neighbors. Sometimes I can do some of that stuff and sometimes I can’t. I get really scared of forgetting someone. I worry about what to get or what to do.

And there is grief that comes up of course.

It used to be very important, after losing almost everyone I always spent Christmas with except my kids, that I keep up traditions we always had when I was raising my daughters. This is the first year I have kind of let Christmas happen. I usually have my daughters and my kids over to decorate the tree and make cookies. The kids love this. But I also do Advent candle lighting and prayers, and there is a certain order of me putting the star up at the end and us singing “I want to walk as a child of the Light.” when the tree is finished. We have always listened to Dead Can Dance’s album, “Aion” when we decorate the tree.

This year I was working and when I got home everyone was here. They already had music; traditional and pop Christmas songs on. They had the boxes of decorations out from the garage. Everyone was happy. We decorated the tree randomly. Some things I always put up first, almost in a ritual manner because they were my mom’s or from my first married Christmas. I didn’t do that. I put the delicate ones up and let everyone do whatever. Brazos wanted to put the star on the tree so my daughter Maire lifted him up and let him. I quietly lit the Advent wreathe while everyone was talking. Maire smiled at me from across the table. It was good. I just let Christmas happen.

Christmas Eve I’ll make enchiladas, beans and rice as I usually do. Maire is bringing the drinks. And Christmas will happen.

I look forward to the sense of tenderness I eventually know when things quiet down after mass and the candles are blown out. That’s when I think the morning star rises in our hearts, whatever we may be feeling. It still does. Jesus is here. He comes no matter what. And we can let that happen.

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God Remains God; prayer, courage and hope in the midst of current events

Opening Invocation

How like a widow is she, who once was great among the nations! She who was queen among the provinces has now become a slave

Lamentations 3:5

God of compassion, we bring into your presence all that weighs on our hearts this week, especially the human suffering and the most frightening things we see and hear of in the news daily. We gather these headlines not to dwell in despair or fear, but to bring them into the refuge of your healing presence. 

Deep Focus

To crush underfoot all prisoners in the land,

to deny people their rights before the Most High,

to deprive them of justice — would not the Lord see such things?

Lamentations 3:34-36

Beloved Father, you have seen so much worse than what is happening now. You have grieved with and over so many of your children over the millennia, as galaxies slowly spin on their axis, as stars are born and then burn low, you have been all seeing and all pervading. You watch the tiniest births on earth of little mice, the hatching of minuscule spiders from their mother’s wrappings, of every caterpillar spinning its cocoon. As its tiny body is falling asleep in darkness, you are there. You know our human minds and hearts too are so small, and that they are broken for our country and the loss we are going through now of the way it was. Remind us, Lord, show us that we are brave as well as broken hearted, that even our grieving the brilliant experiment of America, that we still believe. We are so little, Lord God, so small. But you make our prayers and our smallest actions BIG. We trust that you will guide us and give us courage and strength through the fight ahead, through the times we need our chrysalis to gather strength from you. This week when we hear about the next awful thing our government has done, we will stop and remind ourselves that those people, too, fall, as they eventually must. You remain You, God of all times and places, of all people and all things, and to you we belong forever in life and in death. Nothing can touch that. Until then may we hope, believe and be courageous in all that we do.

*Take a moment to close your eyes and sit in the midst of the stars with God. What does he show you? Does he say anything to you? What do you want to say to him?

Other Intercessions/headlines of this week

Consider the covenant, for the dark places of the land are full of violence

Psalm 74:20

*Another public shooting, more hideous ICE violence, more violent and hateful rhetoric, Lord, more troops sent to American cities and authorized to shoot. It’s hard not to freak out. Help us cultivate courage every day so that if there comes a time we must meet with violent injustice we will be able to access the inner peace we need to act with bravery and love. Prepare our hearts for nonviolent action. Help us find ways we can help our country, the defenseless, the persecuted, ourselves. May we return again and again to you who are all things good, the source of all life and dignity.

*We thank you for all the times this week that freedom and the truth have prevailed over hate and oppression. It’s been beautiful and Lord we needed that. Remind us of the good news we saw in the world and fill us with hope. There are still wonderful people doing great and caring things. There are still comedians who make us laugh. There is still just enough freedom of the press for us to know what is happening if we want to. We still have friends and love and music. May we lift our hearts daily to you to let the sun shine in and fill our thoughts with all that is good.

*We pray for the hungry and those living with war, especially South Sudan on the verge of famine, Gaza far past the breaking point, and Ukraine fighting for its life against the invading army of Russia.

*We pray for immigrants living in fear of ICE, for God’s cherished black children in America, for LGBTQ people, and our president’s political and personal enemies, all who are persecuted by this administration in various ways. Protect them, Lord, defend them, and show us who are not undergoing persecution how we may be called to join you in the fight.

*Let us remember that hate will never win, that our country is not lost because our country has us. And you have us too, Lord. Show us your will, grant us the power to carry it out, and we will have all we need.

Closing Blessing

Because of the LORD’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail.

Lamentations 3:22

God, in the moments when the news overwhelms, steady our spirits with the reminder that you hold the world- sun and star, nation and neighbor, beetle and bug, atom and quark, as well as our frightened hearts in your hands and that you remain you even if worlds fall. May your peace shape our hearts, your justice and love shape our actions this week. Lead us in your ways. We ask all these things in your Name, in your honor, and for love of you and our brothers and sisters. Amen

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The war against ourselves

St. Teresa of Avila talked about the role of the contemplative as a standard bearer. She described the holder of the guidon of Jesus, of love, as having the one goal to hold the banner high no matter what chaos whirls around him, no matter if he is cut to pieces. If the standard bearer should fall, he must struggle to his feet again to hold high the symbol that urges on those in battle, gives them hope, lets them know their comrades are nearby when their courage flags.

I have thought a lot in the past couple of days about what was wrong with me in the midst of the chaos; meaning the violence of thought word and deed since the public murder of Charlie Kirk. I couldn’t hold the banner so much. It wobbled, as Winnie the Pooh would say of his spelling. It wobbled, shook, slipped as I took in entirely too much of what was going on. I have CPTSD and it’s important for me to guard how much craziness I absorb. Also I am an empath type person. I feel what people are feeling deeply. I don’t know about you but the last couple of days have triggered me badly. I have felt like a microcosm of the macrocosm of horror and rage, of compassion and sympathy, of fear and dread. My fight or flight has been FIGHT as usual. I too want to fill my mouth with argument along with everyone else.

St. Teresa would be the first person to say our real war is against ourselves. she advised us to return again and again to “the room of self knowledge.” Well today I am trying that.

Simeon the Prophet told Mother Mary that a sword would pierce her heart “so that the secret thoughts of many [would] be laid bare (Lk. 2:35). I have thought about that at times of tragedy and reckoning over the last several years. It does seem that the secret thoughts of many are laid bare in the midst of tragedy, of horrific events. Mary’s heart was pierced through by her love and compassion for her Son, and really, for us too. Murder surely pierces her heart. Injustice, people doing harm to one another, these must hurt her terribly. Jesus Crucified by hate. Again and again.

I have had my PTSD triggered by the event itself; a horrible murder. A father and husband with little kids suddenly dead. I lost my first husband in a car accident when my youngest was three months old and my eldest three weeks shy of her fifth birthday. I can hardly stand to think of what Kirk’s widow is going through today and what she will go through in the days, weeks, months, years ahead of her. She will have to watch her children grieve. She will have to be there for them as her world is ending. I can’t imagine people watching video all over the world of my husband dying a gruesome death. I was surprised when the sun still rose the day after my husband died. I watched in shock as the news came on and people went to work and school and drove around as if the sky hadn’t fallen. I feel for her very much.

The secret thoughts of many have been laid bare haven’t they? I’ve been triggered by some of their reactions as well as the original event. Some people have been sanitizing the murdered man as if he had been a saint when he was a rank racist who said things every day that could get people harassed, threatened and endangered and did. His public life was all about hate. Then people I thought were sane are saying his work should be “continued,” (Gavin Newsom) or that he “did politics the right way.” (Ezra Klein).

Some have been fawning over him. Their hero is dead. Incomprehensible to me. He was horrible. Look up the things he said for yourself if you don’t believe me.

I think of St. Edith Stein’s saying that truth without love or love without truth is a destructive lie. And look. It is. Historically Black campuses have had bomb threats. The DNC had a bomb threat. Why? I guess because Kirk hated black people? Or because they assumed a black person did it? Because he hated Democrats? They assume the culprit is a Democrat? Brawls have broken out. The president wants to give the man a statue in DC and award him the presidential medal of freedom. Of course he does. He hasn’t helped with his incendiary blaming of “radical left Democrats.”

The outpouring of grief and praise for the man must be a gut punch to the people he harmed with his bullying, with his hate and his stirring up more and more hate. I know it’s a gut punch for me. My heart is the most with the vulnerable and persecuted. That’s where I think it should be. However that solidarity of mine has caused me a lot of rage over the last couple of days. A friend said, to my prayer online for peace and an end to political violence, “You’re a good person.” I replied, “Not really.” I noticed one of my kids put a laughing emoji on that. Thanks a lot Roise.

Also triggering to me is the response of people who want to skip the ugly process of truth and reckoning to get to the peace they think would come if we all decided to just get along and lay aside our differences. To me that’s fake peace. After the things I have been through I have seen enough of that. How can we love our enemies if we whitewash and sanitize what they have done? That’s fake love. It’s useless, wrong even.

I see how I have been freaking out about all this; angry, horrified, scared for our country, taking in too much of what everyone is saying and what the news is when I know that makes me so upset.

Maybe I can offer up all the wild inner agony I have had about all this to God to help someone somewhere. Mary’s piercing of the heart was co-redemptive. I can entrust my little offering of a struggling heart to her.

I pray that I’ll be able to love Kirk- who by all accounts would be an enemy of mine at least as a public figure- in the way God wants me to. Right now that seems to me to be to pray for his salvation, for a beautiful forever life with God for him. Whatever he is doing, Charlie Kirk understands more than any of us do now. He has a completely different perspective. He has encountered eternal love and life. May he embrace them, embrace him who is love and life himself with all of his heart and possess them forever. God says he will give us all new hearts instead of our stony hearts. Amen amen.

I need to ask for that for myself, too. For all of us.

I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh”

Ezekiel 36:26
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Grandaddy

It’s my maternal grandfather’s birthday today. It’s been a long time since he died- February 5, 1985. I was wishing I had a picture of him but all the old pictures burned when my mother’s house burned down. I don’t know why but I went to crying about him this evening. He never got an obituary or anything- not that I can find. But I remember him. I remember his scraggly whiskers and the smell of tobacco and coffee in his hugs. I remember his stories, his laughter and how he always knew even from another room that my granny was about to “start belly-achin’ “ about something. How I would tell him my troubles and he would listen carefully and say tenderly “Well now- doggone it all.”

I remember the old pictures of him when he was young, too. My favorite was of him in a pin striped suit, long-ish well groomed finger nails, cigarette between his fingers, slicked back hair of the period and those cool round glasses. He was a bit of a dandy in that picture.
Grandaddy was born Richard West Wallace August 3, 1911 in Cross Tracks, Texas, a town that doesn’t exist anymore. It had been near Lubbock, he said.

His father had been an oil field worker who was killed on the job when Grandaddy was twelve years old. He had three younger siblings, Edith, Jewel and Dudley. His mom’s name was Myrtle. Grandaddy had to quit school and go to work to support his family.

He had been a professional gambler when he was a young man. He played mostly a game called “Kelly Dice.” He had a hardened leather bottle with the dice in it. You shook it and threw the dice out a certain way. I never understood the game. He played card games like poker of course and could do the fancy shuffling. He played Dominoes and nobody could beat him. He had a scar from his ear down his neck where an angry opponent had cut him with a broken beer bottle.

. He is not my grandfather, we found out many years later but actually my great uncle. His brother had an affair with my granny and she got pregnant. What a mess. So my granddaddy stepped in to marry my granny to “give the baby a name.” An “illegitimate” child was a very big deal back then and they didn’t want that to happen.

He spent most of his adult life at 1518 Dewitt Street im Flour Bluff (Corpus Christi) where he raised my mom and had a seemingly stormy marriage with my granny. Their song, though, was “Walz Across Texas,” so they must have been at least a little romantic at some point. He once told me he still “held a candle for my granny.” She laughed when I told her that.


When he married my granny (Ruth Grady) he seems to have become a painter – not an artist but the kind that paints buildings. I remember his white jumpers he wore, splattered with paint of all colors. He fell off a water tower he was painting once and broke his feet to pieces. So he always hobbled. He was one of those people who could whistle a symphony if he wanted. I was always amazed at this as a child. Every morning he would come shuffling out of his room on his broken feet whistling like sunshine. When I was born he was still bed bound with his injuries. My mom used to put me in a cardboard box next to his bed and I would hold his finger for hours.

He was a good companion when I was a kid. Like my granny he drank coffee all day and rolled his own cigarettes. He had this fascinating cigarette roller. I loved sitting with him and listening to him as he rolled cigarettes with it and stacked them for himself and Granny to smoke later. He was an excellent story teller. He had pithy observations about life and people, and often drifted into philosophical speculation I thought was interesting. Memorably he was talking to me about the idea of hell. He told me he believed God was his daddy. He lit a match and asked me if he would ever burn me with that. Of course he wouldn’t. So he didn’t believe God would burn him either.

He taught my brother, Mark, and me how to play dominoes and Go Fish. We liked hanging out. He took me fishing once out in the ocean. I caught a huge crab and he was all excited. But I felt sorry for it and I cried so much he had to let it go. He wasn’t too happy with me and he complained loudly about it to Granny when we got home.


He read all the time and had a stack of ten or fifteen books next to his bed and others next to his chair. He liked westerns and detective stories. He loved my brother, Mark and me. He laughed while we talked to him. He made us “flapjacks” and and asked how much butter we wanted. (Put a lot Grandaddy so I can lick it off!”) He let us drink coffee. He used to say”bah” like a goat when we pulled his short white beard. He was a kindly and eccentric presence to us. He had a glass eye – a reminder of a suicide attempt when he was younger. He used to take it out and set it on the table and laugh at our reaction. He had a coffee can full of change in his room that my brother never got tired of counting for him. Granddaddy had an alcohol problem that affected my mom a lot but as kids we weren’t as aware of that. To us he was funny and told a good story. He was always trying to convince me that “the same thing happened to me when I was a little girl” I was indignant every time. “Granddaddy you were never a little girl!”


In some ways he was a lonely stranger and there is so much I will never know that went on inside him. He walked around quietly, deep in his own thoughts. He spent a lot of time in the hot garage outside but we were always welcome to go out and talk to him. He would sit down on a bucket, light a cigarette and talk to us.

He had a sepia silhouette on the wall in his room of a cowboy looking tired and droopy in his saddle, bowing his head. Grandaddy wasn’t religious at all though I know he believed in God. I wasn’t religious either but I always thought the cowboy was praying. I think Grandaddy felt like that cowboy; “rode hard and put up wet” as they say. The image I think of when I think of him is of a man with a tired body and a tired heart who read westerns in a cloud of cigarette smoke and coffee steam. I loved him.

By the time I was a teen he had developed what they called “wet brain” He thought he was late to work. He would yell about it. He thought there was an old man trapped in the mirror and he had to get him out. “I have to go to Whitney!” He would yell, thinking he had work out there and everyone was waiting, or that his friends left without him. He was sure my brother was stealing the change from his coffee can. One time he banged on the door for twelve hours. I ran out of patience at one point and yelled at him, “WHY?!?! Why are you doing that?!” He stopped and looked at me and then said, “”Cuz I’m crazy *** damnit!” I couldn’t help it. I started laughing and he did too.

He couldn’t remember my name by the end of his life but he trusted me. He would ask for me: “Where did that little brown-eyed girl go?” I would go to him and he would look at me earnestly with wild eyes. He whispered conspiratorially “Get me out of here!” I would say “I’m trying, Grandaddy.”


There was a lot of pain for my mom about their relationship. Her mother had been physically abusive but to her he had been the kind and tender one. As his drinking progressed she had felt betrayed and abandoned by him. There were a lot of resentments and deep hurt there for my mom as much as she loved him.


I’m always going to be grateful for the moment my mother had with him before he died. He didn’t know who she was while she was taking care of him. She said, “Oh Daddy don’t you remember me?” He said,” I’m sorry darlin” I don’t.” She said, “I’m Dinky” (her family nickname) and his eyes lit up. He said, “Well that’s my baby!”

To me that sums up his life even with all of its contrasts- that my mom was his baby.

Richard West Wallace 8/3/1911 – 2/5/1985
Now he has an obituary of sorts. And someday I will write down his stories.








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Honoring Pope Francis’ Love for Mary

I’ve found myself having trouble writing about Pope Francis since his death but I feel I should. It has been hard because I grieve him as so many do, in a deep, personal way, as well as with the Church and the world. 

However, I thought with May coming up in a few days, the month the Church has dedicated to Mary, I could honor Pope Francis’ profound love of Our Lady.

Pope Francis turned to Mary the way a child turns to his mother. One of his first acts as Pope was to visit the ancient icon of Salus Populi Romani in Rome, in the Church of St. Mary Major, the oldest church dedicated to Mary. And he returned to that image again and again—before every apostolic journey, and after, to thank her. He entrusted the whole Church to her care and often encouraged us to do the same. In the Byzantine icon, Mary holds the Child Jesus, who holds the book of the Gospel. To me, since his view of Our Lady was centered in the Gospel, much as everything else about him was, that icon seems especially appropriate for him. 

He has requested to be buried in St. Mary Major, near that icon where he prayed so often. He said to the coadjutor of that church, Rolandas Mackrikas,  Mary appeared to him there asking him to arrange to be laid to rest in that place where Francis had so often come to visit her. He said “I’m so glad she has not forgotten me!”

Francis’  daily prayers included the Rosary, and his heart was especially close to the Marian devotions of Latin America—like Our Lady of Luján, the patroness of Argentina. Mary was not a “plaster saint” to him. (He cautioned against seeing her that way). She was a presence in his life. She was a real person to him. 

The Holy Father spoke often of Mary as the “Mother of the People,” especially the poor and suffering. This view of Mary is prominent in Latin American spirituality. Mary walks with the people, accompanies them in their suffering and joy. This is what Franics himself was like. He wanted to be near people, to accompany them, love them, stand up for them, listen to them. Maybe he took after his Blessed Mother. 

Pope Francis reminded us that in her Magnificat, Mary praises the God who casts down the powerful and lifts up the lowly, who feeds the hungry and sends the rich away empty. (Luke 1:46-55).  Mary stood for, rejoiced in,  justice for the poor and the oppressed, and we should too. 

In Our Lady, he said, the Church sees what it means to be humble and brave at once.

Mary was little, and saw herself as lowly,  but she was bold in faith and love. 

My favorite Francis quote on Mary is about her brave humility at the Annunciation; in her response to the message of the Angel Gabriel. 

“She recognizes that she is small before God, and she is happy to be so.” (Angelus December 24, 2017)  He saw her humility as joyful,  open to God, and brave. 

And she was brave. Look at her life, so often turned upside down. But she always put Jesus and his mission, and put the Church, first, every time, even when she didn’t understand what was happening. She trusted, doing the will of God as soon as she knew it, no matter what it was, because she was great of heart. 

Pope Francis is the Pope who gave us the feast of Mary, Mother of the Church, celebrated on the Monday after Pentecost. She is the Mother of Jesus, involved in our salvation and in the life of the Church, united with us in prayer as she was on the day of Pentecost. (Acts 1:14)

He also called Mary the first disciple —the one who listened deeply, believed without having all the answers, and followed her Son to the cross. 

 Francis loved that she was a woman of deep prayer as well as action. 

Immediately after the Annunciation, “Mary arose and went with haste” to visit Elizabeth and assist her in her need. After the most intense and important mystical experience anybody on earth had ever had or ever would have, Mary immediately dives into service and love, helping her relative Elizabeth who is pregnant at an advanced age. (Luke 1:39-56) In the same way, Francis, and we, draw strength from prayer and contemplation. Then we immediately become servants of love. That is what Mary did, and it is what Francis did too. He thought of her as an evangelist, carrying Jesus to others wherever she went. To me this describes Pope Francis well. 

In times of crisis, Francis always turned to Our Lady. During the pandemic, he asked the world to pray with him under her protection. In war, hunger, and fear, he encouraged us to say simply: “Mother, help us.”

In a time of grief, it feels right to turn to Mary—because that’s what Pope Francis would have done. He trusted her with his life and his Church. In this month of May, maybe we can do the same. We can pray the Rosary, light a candle, sing the Salve Regina, or simply say, “Stay with us, Mother.”

If we want to carry his spirit forward, we might start by walking with her.

In one of his homilies, Pope Francis said, “A Christian without Mary is an orphan.” But none of us are orphans, even though a wonderful father and beautiful light in the world has gone from us. Mary holds us even now, and she holds her son’s faithful shepherd, Francis close. May she carry him to the arms of Jesus, and may she walk with us until we meet again. 

“Mother, help our faith! 

Open our ears to hear God’s word and to recognize his voice and call. 

Awaken in us a desire to follow in his footsteps, to go forth from our own land and to receive his promise. 

Help us to be touched by his love, that we may touch him in faith. 

Help us to entrust ourselves fully to him and to believe in his love, especially at times of trial, beneath the shadow of the cross, when our faith is called to mature. 

Sow in our faith the joy of the Risen One. 

Remind us that those who believe are never alone. 

Teach us to see all things with the eyes of Jesus, that he may be light for our path. And may this light of faith always increase in us, until the dawn of that undying day which is Christ himself, your Son, our Lord!” – Pope Franics 

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Take refuge in prayer and service on Inauguration Day

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This post is for those of us for whom the 2025 Inauguration of our incoming president will be a day of grief, or at least a difficult day.

I am very very sad for my country too and worried as well as I have said before. I am horrified by the ugliness and hate this administration is already unleashing into society – bringing out the worst in all of us.

Here are my survival plans for January 20.

I am not watching the inauguration, not in any way. In fact I’m not listening to the news at all that day. Spiritual reading or audio book sounds a lot better.

I plan to celebrate MLK whose day it is. I can do this by being grateful for him, by posting about him, by reading some of his writings, by talking about him with my family, especially with my grandchildren. Locally we have an MLK day March that because of weather will be a caravan this year. We plan to join it.

If you’re home for the MLK holiday then you can make this a mini retreat day for yourself to recharge and put on the armor of God

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“Put on the full armor of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.  Therefore put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand. Stand firm then, with the belt of truth buckled around your waist, with the breastplate of righteousness in place, and with your feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace. In addition to all this, take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one. Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.”

Ephesians 6:11-17

Pray. Because when we pray we are truly putting more love into the world , in whatever way we choose to pray. If we pray with love and attentiveness God will work through us in secret and powerful ways; our soul becomes a door of grace for the movement of divine love into this world. We don’t have to say anything. We only bring ourselves to God with an open heart. He will only do what is right.

So pray in whatever way you can. Pray as much as you can.

I plan to dedicate my actions that day and any suffering I feel or any happiness, all my thoughts words and experiences of the day, to the cause of truth and justice and right. God knows what those truly are so I don’t even have to be specific.

Next, make this a day of service. Do a good deed. Make a connection with someone. You can pick up trash in your neighborhood. Perform a random act of kindness. Volunteer at a local charity. Spend some time really listening to a child and let them lead the conversation or the activity of their choice. Kids remember things like that. Do someone else’s chores. Pay it forward at a drive through. Give someone flowers. Ask a homeless person how they are. You know what to do.


I also think at least for that day Philippians 4:8 has excellent advice for what to keep in mind. I’m going to try to master my thoughts and put that verse into action.

“Finally, brothers, sisters, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.”

Philippians 4:8


I plan to listen to beautiful music and also to take refuge in poetry. I’ve been reading a lot of poetry lately.

Make good use of that dark day of worry fear and grief. Make it something beautiful for God and for others, for yourself.

It’s like putting flowers in guns I think. Only these flowers are able to bring about the change they represent.

This is it y’all. Let’s prepare ourselves with prayer, with beauty, with acts of service, with peace. That’s our real refuge.


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Remembering the Aggie Bonfire Tragedy

If you are not familiar with Aggie Bonfire it was a long standing Texas A&M University tradition. It was the largest bonfire in the world. When I was a child we could see its flames from our front yard. My mom used to have the hose ready because the cinders would drift over the roofs of our neighborhood. Fire trucks would line the field it was held in.

It was designed by A&M Engineering students. It got bigger every year. It was the funnest to attend when I was a teenager. The Corps of Cadets formed a ring around it to keep drunk people from getting too close. It was a huge community wide party. The Aggie band was there and there was lots of singing and cheers.


A&M does not have cheer leaders. We have yell leaders. Cadet Trainees in overalls with no shirts leading. The yelling.

There was an old fashioned outhouse on top with our rival schools’ initials on it. Bonfire burned the night before our game with them. I say “our” even though I was never a student there. My parents were. Not me. However if you grow up here you’re part of it. Not much else goes on around here.

The weeks before bonfire are when the building happens. It’s a night and day thing. Girls signed up to be “bonfire buddies” and bring snacks and hot drinks and encouragement to the kids working on it. The entire process took three weeks or so. It involved giant cranes. You could see students climbing all over it in their hard hats tying logs with wire, watch its progress as you drove past on the Main Street of the town, Texas Avenue.


November 18 1999 was the end of it.

The Bonfire collapsed in the early hours just before 3am.

I woke up a bit before that with an intense urge to get up and pray the rosary. I tried to ignore it especially since I had my toddler asleep in my arms. “Get up! Pray now! Get your rosary and pray now! Now!” So I did. We lived near campus then. In the midst of my sleepy prayers I heard ambulances and sirens – more then I had ever heard before. That day I was giving Communion at the hospital. I saw staff crying in the halls, parents gathering in a glass room waiting to hear about their kids. I took communion to a young Aggie CT in intensive care but he was unconscious so I just prayed.

If you are from here do y’all remember how we were asked to stay off the phone so parents could get through to find their kids? And how the restaurants offered meals? And how our priests heard confession from young people trapped under the logs? And how all the other schools sent banners that were tied between the trees around the site? I don’t miss bonfire though I grew up with it. I’m glad they don’t do it anymore. Later I found out one of the dead was a cousin of mine from a part of the family I didn’t really know. She was a freshman and we were supposed to get together for coffee. Jamie Hand. Anyway I doubt anyone who was here for that could ever forget any of it. God bless all the families who lost someone.

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Healing Spirituality After Trauma: Finding God Again

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if you’re dealing with a profound loss, the after effects of tragedy or post traumatic stress you may be feeling spiritually dead. Maybe you think you’ve lost your faith or that God has left you. It may be helpful for you  to know there are neurological reasons for this apparent loss of your spiritual senses. 

When there is a traumatic event or a terrible loss in our lives, our brains are actually affected. Trauma can disrupt the brain’s ability to process spiritual experiences by affecting its  prefrontal cortex, amygdala, hippocampus, and  temporal lobes. These areas are also involved in emotional regulation, memory, and our sense of self, even our feeling of connection with something greater than ourselves. Dysfunction in these regions can lead to a disconcerting loss of  or distortion in a person’s spiritual life.  It’s difficult for us to feel God with us, or to reach the peace we used to find in prayer and the practice of our faith. 

The prefrontal cortex is responsible for self-reflection and focus.  It helps us in practices like contemplative prayer and meditation by supporting awareness and attention. When this part of the brain is dealing with trauma we can’t seem to relax. We may feel void of any spirituality at all. Even the sacraments we believe in feel oddly empty as if we are merely spectators.  Everything may seem meaningless to us now because the brain is preoccupied with stress and survival due to its injuries from trauma. 

The amygdala and hippocampus process emotions, especially fear and joy. It gives us a sense of our life stories, of our own history. Spiritual experiences often evoke intense emotions and build on a relationship with God that we have developed over time. Trauma can even shrink the hippocampus . It may be hard to remember the love we once knew with God. Without this memory of the lived experience of God’s love and mercy, it’s hard to trust the Lord or that he is still there at all. 

With post traumatic stress the amygdala  becomes hyperactive, keeping our brains in a state of fear and hypervigilance. We might also feel emotionally overwhelmed and dysregulated making daily life difficult let alone communion with God. 

The temporal lobes of the brain are associated with mystical experiences, and our perception of religious imagery. They also help us integrate our sensory experiences in life  into spiritual meaning. Sustaining trauma can cause either overactivation or underactivation of the temporal lobes. This can lead to either intense visions or else fear-based religious thoughts. On the other hand, we may feel emotionally and spiritually blank. Where is God? 

“God my God, why have you forsaken  me?” Mark 15:33-34

Our anterior  cingulate cortex helps us feel empathy and compassion. It’s also involved in the regulation of emotions and our sense of the Divine.The damage of  trauma can impair   the ACC. We may feel lost, cut off emotionally from our friends. We feel empty and alienated from people and God. 

“Friend and neighbor you have taken away. 

 My one companion is darkness.” Ps. 88:18

The insula processes sensations and emotions, contributing to a sense of the nearness of God or a feeling of transcendence during prayer or meditation.Trauma can impair the functioning of the insula leading to either low body awareness or too much of it. We can feel a strange detachment from our bodies, unaware of even our physical needs.  Conversely  we may be overwhelmed by physical sensations, making it hard to relax or focus when we want to pray. 

The good news is that contemplative prayer and meditation have been shown to be healing and even restorative to these  areas of the brain impaired by trauma. Interior prayer practices and meditation can calm the amygdala, improve prefrontal cortex regulation, and enhance the connectivity of the ACC and insula, restoring emotional balance and renewing our sense of connection.

It means a lot to me that Jesus experienced trauma and that he allowed  himself to descend  into the depths of the abyss of abandonment when he cried out from the cross his desolation.

 St. John of the Cross taught about the “Dark Night of the Soul,” a phase of the spiritual life of many Christian contemplatives and mystics, which seems to have similar effects as trauma does on our prayer life.  St. John of the Cross wrote  that “in the dark night of the soul, bright flows the river of God.” He teaches us that God is nearer than ever before at times we feel he is farthest away. He says to go on “naked faith” and not to give up. 

I have found it true that “God is close to the broken hearted, those whose spirit is crushed he will save.” (Psalm 34:18) 

So if you are grieving a tragedy, experiencing trauma or post traumatic stress, and your’re having trouble with spirituality as a result don’t  blame yourself. You haven’t done anything wrong. Nor have you lost God. 

We know Mary and Joseph were holy and faithful people but they still lost Jesus for three days. Maybe you feel bereft but he is still there in the temple of your heart and you will find him again just as they did. 

It’s ok to pray in ways you can handle. Don’t hold yourself to what you used to do. For me emotional overwhelm kept me from deeper methods of prayer after a tragedy in my life. I talked to Jesus about it. I told him, “I still love you. I just need you not to come so close for now. Can you sit farther away but still nearby?” So he sat with me but not too close. I chose what felt to me a less personal or emotional method of prayer.  I memorized psalms, set prayers or passages from the mystics I love like St. Teresa of Avila and  Julian of Norwich. When I could handle it I sat quietly and slowly went over them in my mind as a form of prayer/meditation. Other times all I could do was hold my rosary.  These things slowly began to bring me peace again. 

My friend Jim had said “the devil  will try to kick you when you’re down and darkness tries to overwhelm you at times like this so keep doing the things that are of light: the rosary, going to mass, whatever you can do.” He said that would keep my lamp alight no matter what I was going through. He was right. 

And after all: 

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” John 1:5 

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Cookies in spirit

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Something Zane loved to do was make cookies. This is something we did nearly every day. I used to hold his hand to help him crack an egg and make sound effects for him. He liked that. He used to try to eat the butter and show his enthusiasm for our baking activity by mouthing the bowl. His very favorite part was pouring the mix into the bowl. I used to say, “Here comes your favorite part!” I bought the same cookie mix today and I’m in my kitchen making cookies in spirit with Zane, smiling and chuckling at the parts of our process that I remember.

Well. my granddaughter will be happy and surprised to see cookies when she gets home from school.

  • Zane was a young nonverbal autistic guy with cerebral palsy that I took care of for the last four years of his life. He died at 20 years old on August 22.
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