writing

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

September 12, 2025 1

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.

August 4, 2025 2

No Kings Day Austin, Texas

“We will be protesting today in Austin. I dedicate this act of resistance to the Lord and his mother Mary, who praised the One who brings down kings from their thrones and lifts up the lowly, who fills the hungry and sends the rich away empty. I pray for all of the protestors today, that our acts of resistance may be given their full power for righteousness and Justice, amplified by the Holy Spirit. May everyone be safe and may peace prevail over all. The American people bow before NO KING, ” I wrote on social media the morning of June 14, 2025, the day of nation wide “No King” protests.

We bought stuff for our signs in the early afternoon. While we were there we saw a lady buying canvases and American flags and markers. I said, “Oh I think I know what you’re up to!” “You do?” “Yeah that’s what we’re doing too. We’re going to Austin.” I have to explain that my town is VERY conservative. If your’e not, you’re not going to talk about it in public to someone you don’t know. It’s not like anybody is going to beat you up or anything. People here are mostly kind and friendly. It’s just natural I guess. We’re definitely in the minority. Weird for a college town but it’s Texas A & M’s college town. We are always kind of excited to run into another not-conservative around here.

She invited us to come to her car in the parking lot for some masks. While there she told us about the local No Kings protest. I had thought it would be about ten people but was thrilled to hear the number was closer to 600. I could hardly believe it. I regretted not having being there.

At home we made our signs. My daughter Roise’s was so funny. (Rosie is how we pronounce it- it’s a Gaelic name that would usually be pronounced “Roh-sha” but we just say Rosie.) I had to laugh at hers it was so typical of her. It’s said,

“Dump your MAGA boyfriend.” On the back she wrote,

“They are a drop, we are the ocean.”

I wrote “He has brought down Kings from their thrones and lifted up the lowly- Mother Mary, Lk.1:52.

On the back I wrote,

“If you want peace, work for justice – Pope Paul VI” and “The American people bow to NO KINGS!”

I was happy with it. I took a dollar store red rosary along as well, to keep in my hand. I took a dollar store rosary so if it got broken it wouldn’t bother me as much as one of my usual ones, all of which are special to me for different reasons. And I made sure to wear my Our Lady of Guadalupe socks. Plus I brought bubbles. I really wanted some rose petals but by the time I took care of what my dogs cats and chickens would need for the day, and my girl wrote down all of our numbers we might need in case of arrest or losing our phones, we were pressed for time.

We dropped off my granddaughter at her godmothers’ and headed out. We both felt more nervous than we usually do for these things. There were a lot of reasons for this. Namely the president is doing dictator stuff regarding protests as if they are illegal which they’re not. Secondly two Democratic lawmakers and their spouses had been shot that morning, one of them and her husband had died. The president was having a dictatorship type military parade that day on his birthday. Protestors in L.A. were being overshadowed by a federalized national guard against the will of the governor of California, and so many other signs of text book authoritarianism, including ignoring court orders, were cropping up as if out of a fascist playbook. Today y’all know all this. But someday we might forget so I want to write down some context. It felt like this day could be a sea change, either in a good way or a bad way, as “No Kings” protests took place all over the county. I still don’t know, at this writing, what that sea change will be. We alternated listening to social justice themed songs and more calming songs in the car. We played a lot of Kendrick Lamar (love him) and I pulled out some 80″s hardcore punk with anti fascist themes. (I was a little punk rocker in my teens. In some ways I haven’t changed much.) My daughter didn’t like it so well . But it was my turn.

A friend let us park at his house in Austin and use it as a home base while he was out of town. So we met another friend there we were going with and called an uber. Our friend looked adorable. He had a back pack on with a bouquet of colorful roses sticking out of it, with a small American flag. Otherwise, we all dressed as plainly and comfortably as possible.

A friend from home was coming too, with her husband. We never did find them. There were 20,000 people there so this is no surprise. We texted each other but still gave up after a while.

People were excited and happy to see each other. It felt good to do something about the scary situation in our country while we still could. I’m not exaggerating here as some may think. Not being able to protest anymore is a distinct possibility. Our governor had called out the national guard of Texas too. I don’t think I saw any National Guard people though. Police and State Troopers were everywhere however.

Oh it was hot. We couldn’t really see anything up front. There was speaker after speaker on the Capital steps but we couldn’t see; a drag queen and activist called Bridget Bandit was first. Apparently the number performed after the speech was pretty good but I could only see the top of a big yellow wig. Loved the music. Then there were veterans, immigrants, immigration lawyers and Democratic state legislators, young people whose parents had been taken away by ICE, various activists. I was surprised that Dan Rather spoke.

I didn’t like that we had to stand around in the heat for three hours listening to people talk and we weren’t marching. Marching is the fun part to me. It really feels like community and shared purpose. It’s a powerful experience, walking with others. There were a lot of great signs though. People get so creative and artistic with their signs sometimes. And it was Austin so of course. There was a lot of color – people with clown make up on, Cowboy hats of course, with flags draped over shoulders or worn as capes. Plenty of baseball caps and the ocasional sombrero. One person was carrying a watermelon (a symbol of Palestine) or wearing the traditional Palestinian scarf of black and white checks and fringed ends. There was plenty of colorful hair as well. I enjoyed the variety.

I saw a sign or two with pictures of Elvis thst said something to the effect of, “The only King in America.” This just seemed typically Austin to me somehow. There were lots of flags; American flags, Mexican flags, the Texas flag, even a few Palestinian flags. There was an inflatable Elon Musk that was pretty creepy.

Lots of people were blowing bubbles. Who could be un-cheered by bubbles? So I remembered mine were in my pocket and joined in.

We lost our friend for a while. When he found us I said dang when are we going to march? He said he didn’t think we were going to because we were absolutely surrounded by law enforcement. I was mad. How annoying. I thought about leaving. But we didn’t. I was feeling dizzy but thankfully there was free cold water and even popsicles. People are great.

Finally people started leaving. I thought we were all going home but actually it turned out to be the march. It really was fun in spite of the ubiquitous police and state trooper presence. People came out of buildings along the way and cheered us on. Others rolled down their car windows to yell some of the chants. There was lots of honking. I saw a line of police in which one of them seemed to be trying to read my sign so I walked over and showed them all both sides. One of them said, “Wait it didn’t finish reading the other side,” so I flipped it over again. We smiled at each other. We should always be kind, I think. They’re just people doing their jobs. One of them said, “Watch your back!” There was a car coming up way to close behind me. They told me to move aside and I said “What about you?” I mean we didn’t know whether it was a friendly car or not. I moved on of course.

Somebody gave me a bouquet of white roses. I loved that. I held them as long as I could but it ended up being kind of a pain. I handed them to somebody who had just joined us and didn’t have anything to carry. She was happy.

Our friend we were marching with started a couple of the chants. “FREE FREE PALESTINE!” Hey this was about everything. We chanted that for a while. There was a young woman there in our part of the marchers who had a megaphone and she started some chants. Some were in Spanish and they meant, “The people united will never be defeated.” and then we would say it in English for a while. There were chants about ICE. The one most familiar to me from all the other protests I had been to was, “No fear, no hate, no fascist USA.’ I told my daughter and her friend about my first big protest. I was a teenager then. That protest was about trying to get Texas A&M to divest from South Africa over Apartheid. I had been to Brazos Valley Peace Action protests before (this was during the Cold War and the concern about nuclear weapons build up). But in this town those were fifteen people or so getting ignored on the side of the road. The anti-Apartheid was actually a pretty big protest. I carried a very big metal sign that said “FREE South Africa.” It was exhilarating for me. It felt so good to DO something about stuff that was out of my control and to do so with people who were as concerned as I was.

Along our way yesterday I kept giggling about the funnier signs and nudging the kids. One just said, “BRUH.” Some of them would qualify as great folk art. That would be a cool exhibit I think. Protest signs through the ages.

Mine was certainly not the only sign with Bible verses. I saw some with Psalm 107 about “may his days be few and someone else take his office.” I thought that one was kind of mean. Several people had the verse about “You shall love the immigrant and treat them as one of your own.” (LV. 19:34) Of course “Love your neighbor” showed up a lot. A girl marching in front of me had a sign that said, “Jesus is my only King.” I had thought saying that on mine too. I was pleased to have met other Catholics too. They saw my brown scapular and said, “Hey we’re from St. Austins’ what’s your parish?”

When we passed the Cathedral of St. Mary’s, I waved up at the statue of Our Lady over the church doors. I told the kids, “Yay, I knew she would be here!”

Eventually it was 8:30 and getting dark. In my experience if anything crazy is going to happen it was going to be after dark. And anyway I had started to feel sick. And we had to get home to our animals and pick up my granddaughter. We had my other daughter go and pick her up from her godmothers because we realized we would never get there on time.

The protest was supposed to end at 8 but I read online that it was still going at 10pm. I thought that was great. So we took an Uber back to our home base. We walked down the street to eat Indian food and talk over the day with hoarse voices. We were proud of our friend for starting some of the chants. He is usually pretty quiet. Who knew he had it in him? We complained about the heat. I remarked about how though there were jubilant parts of the day, this protest had seemed different to me. It seemed more somber than ones we had been to before. I think the overwhelming police presence put a bit of a damper on things of course. But I also think it was those shootings that morning and the clear signs of authoritarianism we are seeing in our country, like people being “disappeared” off the streets by masked men, put it unmarked vans and detained without warrants or due process. And a real grief along with the worry- grief yes, for what we were already losing- the whole idea of our country; its identity and what we have always thought we stood for, the freedom and human rights we were founded on, things we had taken for granted.

I am hoping there is still time to turn the tide and that’s it’s not too late. All three of us felt like this was an historic moment. I’m glad we were a part of it.

June 15, 2025 2

The Rocky Road to Dublin : hanging out with Sean

Sean and I are in the car eating cherry slushies with spoons. He is in the back seat and I am sitting sideways in the front so I can see him. “Are you happy?” I ask him. He smiles very big, and says, “YES!” “Me too,” I say. “I’m pretty happy too.”

When I pick him up at the end of his day there are a variety of things he might say as he is handed into the car by his teacher. One of my favorites is, “Hello boys and girls.” That one cracks me up. He is a funny kid.

For a 13 year old he is pretty quiet most of the time. He has several voices though. Most often he speaks either in a bright staccato reminiscent of a character in an old cartoon, or in a soft, quiet voice he usually uses when he has more to say. When he speaks low I think it is because he is a little nervous about saying more so he talks really fast. “I’dliketolistentorockyroadtodublinplease.” This he says many times each day because The Rocky Road to Dublin is his favorite song. (He especially likes the version by the High Kings). Gaelic music is his jam. It’s all we listen to when we are together. It’s a good thing I like Irish music too.

He doesn’t particularly like me playing with his toys- which is a bummer because he has a lot of fun toys. His parents make sure he has exactly the right things that are fun and also good for him- lots of learning and sensory toys. He likes me to be with him when he plays but not for me to touch anything. Sometimes I sneak a piece of that cool slime putty but I give it back as soon as he notices. Eventually he lets me play too. I’m also a fan of his extensive rubber ducky collection. He spends a lot of time with those guys. Which means I do too of course. It’s a regular rubber ducky party sometimes.

Don’t be fooled by the wide, dreamy blue eyed gaze, the sweet, soft face and fuzzy head of this boy, all of which give him a hazy angelic look as if he is in another world. He can seem that he is thinking of something else or as if he isn’t aware of his surroundings. However, Sean is taking in everything.

His mom is a singer and she has been working on a new song lately. She is singing it in the kitchen and she pauses while she looks for something. In the pause Sean supplies the next phrase. She sings the next one. He sings the next one after that. He knows the whole song! We’re impressed. He has certainly been listening when his mom was practicing.

Sean is pretty calm and quiet most of the time- until he isn’t. His feelings are apparently pretty intense at times. To those of us on the outside the intensity appears sudden. He makes a heart rending announcement. “Oh no! Oh no! SAD! SAD!” We tell him we are sorry he is sad and ask him to take a deep breath. He is very good about this. He always does it when we ask him to and it always helps. I have loved seeing how understanding and compassionate his parents are when this happens. They are very good at encouraging, guiding and bringing out the best out in him.

Once he and I were at a playground and a little boy asked, “Why can’t he talk?” I said that he can, he just doesn’t most of the time. Then the boy asked, “Why do you follow him around like that?” Sean took off running right then. I said , “Because he does that!” And I took off after him. I found him hiding behind a column looking upset. “Are you upset?” “Yes.” “Is it because of what that little boy asked?” “Yes.” “Sean there is nothing wrong with you at all. You’re perfect just the way you are, OK?” “OK.”

On the way home I played him “The Rocky Road to Dublin,” as many times as he wanted.

Sean is loving and affectionate. He can be very cuddly especially when he is in the mood which is usually later in the day when he’s tired. He likes to get in his dad’s lap or in his arm chair with him, hug him and rub cheeks with him. They’re very adorable.

He likes to lay in my lap or embrace me and say, “Friends!” Which I love. He likes to stand in the kitchen with his mom touching foreheads and talking with her.

Sean seems really secure and to know he is valued. He seems to understand his special place in his family. He is lucky to have his grandparents nearby. He loves them and asks about them all the time. He has a lot of support. Families like this are great to see and an honor to work with.

Sean laughs a lot. Sometimes it’s the kind of laugh that makes him go running through the house like a madman, as if he can’t contain his joy and enthusiasm. Whatever is going on in his mind, it’s hilarious to him.

He has his little jokes with us. He might say, in his idiosyncratic sing- song, “seventy has five letters.” I say, “ nuh uh!” His mom says “how many is it really?” After a while he admits it has seven letters. Which he knows very well. He is quite amused by this. As for me I had to count the letters on my fingers to make sure.

Sometimes we are playing quietly or watching something and he says,” tickle me.” He may or may not laugh when I do but I have told him if I am going to go to the trouble I expect laughter. He obliges dramatically with satisfying shrieks.

Another common request from Sean is “high five.” Or he may say “H-5!” Sometimes he does want to high five. Other times what he really wants is to hold hands. So we do.

“Repeat after me,” I say, and he does, a word at a time. “I. AM. A. CUTIE PIE!”

Sometimes I ask, “Who’s a cutie pie?” He says, “SEAN!” “That’s right.” And he really is.

Sometimes he sits in the hammock and I sit in the swing and we listen to Irish music and are content. These are some of the nicest moments in my day- he and I swinging, listening to music and smiling at each other.

We are playing with a bunch of rubbery letters of the alphabet and Sean suddenly disappears. I’m surprised. I look down at the counter and he has spelled out a message in colorful plastic: BYE.

June 4, 2025 1

My new book I finished writing this summer

This summer I finished my manuscript for a new book. The working title is Pray Like Teresa; how to pray the Prayer of Recollection of St. Teresa of Avila. The publisher will decide the official title. I agonized a lot writing it but that seems to be part of my creative process unfortunately. It was also my solace during a stressful summer as it turned out to be.

When I have a project on I continually “write” in my head until it’s finished. Then it’s hard for me to stop messing with it and to stop thinking about it all the time. I enjoyed St. Teresa’s accompaniment during the months of working on this little book for her. I hope she is happy with it.

The book is short, only 15,000 words, about half the length of my first one, Come to Mary’s House; spending time with Our Blessed Mother. It is also more instructional than Come to Mary’s House. I would describe the general vibe of the book as St. Teresa with a Shawn twist. I tried to stay absolutely true to Tersa’s teachings and to work in my own Teresian spirituality and experience as well.

An important goal I had for this book was to help everyday Catholics and others to get to know Teresa’s teachings in a friendly way. I included St. Teresa’s struggles and sense of humor along with her teachings on the Prayer of Recollection and her basic foundational teachings that underpin it. I hope for the reader to see that contemplative prayer is for everyone and that this method of prayer is one anyone can do.

I also wanted to show why contemplative prayer is desirable, not only for the growth of the person who prays but for the good of the Church and the whole world. In this way I believe deepening inner prayer and contact with God, friendship with Jesus, and the practice of a life of prayer are urgent necessities in our world today and for the renewal of the Church.

A lot of people may be intimidated by Teresa of Avila because of her profound mystical experiences, because she is the “Doctor of Prayer,” and such a great figure of Catholic spirituality. Maybe they had not thought of reading her works before because they were written about 500 years ago and they assume she is inaccessible and too Medieval to be understandable or applicable to their lives.

I hope the reader will find that St. Teresa was also very human, witty, funny, practical and grounded. Her wisdom is relevant to anyone wanting to live the spiritual life, to grow in prayer, to this day. I hope I have provided a simple way to take up this prayer that Teresa said the Lord himself taught her, to anyone who picks this book up.

I think it would be a perfect book to take to Adoration with you, enriching your prayer in that hour with Jesus, or to keep by the place you like to sit when you pray daily. One could easily read a section each day and try the part of the prayer that section suggests.

I intend to encourage everyone who reads this book to try the prayer, to stick with it, along with giving practical ideas to help them be consistent.

I arranged it as an introduction to Teresa herself, and then I played out reflectively her basic discoveries about prayer such as friendship with Jesus, his Sacred Humanity, and God being experienced as within us.

Then I wrote a section about each step of the prayer and how to do it, each one headed by a quote from Teresa or from Scripture.

I allowed myself the pleasure of writing about the effects of the prayer as well and let myself get poetic about those but not overly so I hope. I wanted to communicate the beauty and joy of intimate love of God.

I am hoping this book will appeal to the everyday Catholic who may be being called by God to cast their nets into the deep or at least the deeper or even a little bit deeper. Whether the reader takes up everything in the book as part of their daily prayer life or not I hope reading it will improve their prayer life and their relationship with the Lord at least a little. I think it will.

My parish is primarily young people in college. They are remarkably devout, however. I can imagine some of them being interested in this book. I thought of them while I was writing, but also of people my own age or so (I’m 56) who at this time of life may be more interested in contemplation and want to give it daily time. I want it to speak to anyone who looks through it.

I turned in my manuscript to Our Sunday Visitor on Assumption Day, a few days early. But I thought it was a good way to honor Our Lady and St. Teresa, whose habit (the Carmelite habit) she wore.

Look for the new book August 25th, 2025