I go to a lot of funerals. It is the nature of my work as a parish pastoral minister. Before the Mass begins at many of our funerals, a family member will give a eulogy about the one who has died.
Prepare for the coming of the Kingdom? I’m stressed out just preparing for my upcoming move to another state. After 27 years of living in Chicago, I’m moving to a very small town in rural Michigan. I’m in the thick of getting ready for it: packing boxes, calling movers, visiting with friends to say goodbye.
We should honor all those who give their lives to God's service, not just the “rabbis” or “masters.” But how we do that may change over time. On or near my mother’s birthday, I always visited the family plot at Mt. Carmel Cemetery by myself with a yellow rose, her favorite, to place on her grave.
I saw him from a block away, only to ignore him later. “Some change, please?” is all I heard. I was walking with a bag full of bread, and I just walked on by. He was just a boy, sitting in the cold, hungry. But with my bag full of bread, I didn’t even look at him. I just walked on by. A block later, I wanted to go back, to have another chance.
Not long ago I attended a funeral for a man who had served as a journalist for the diocesan paper for over 25 years. Kevin was all that one would hope and trust a journalist might be: inquisitive, persevering, intelligent and articulate. Usually disheveled, wearing a corduroy jacket with a camera slung over his shoulder,
“I really don’t want to go to this lunch,” Bill won’t mind will he?” That was the question one friend asked of another. Only problem was, Bill would mind.
A couple years ago, I decided to take up gardening. Tricky since I live in an apartment on the 11th floor of a high-rise in Uptown Chicago. There’s no green space in sight, but I have very sunny windowsills, so I began growing herbs and then moved on to tomatoes and lemons.
The season was winding down. One more win and our eighth-grade 16-inch baseball team would be in the championship game against archrival St. Sebastian. I played right field, which was considered the spot for the weakest fielder.
It was a hot summer day, and the family had spent the afternoon at the swimming pool and then made a quick trip to the grocery store. It was time to get home and prepare dinner. As the family walked to the car, Mom was figuring out how she was going to get home, unload the car, put away groceries, and get dinner made on time.