One summer I planned to be away for a stretch, so I arranged with a woman who worked in our condominium building to look after my place in my absence and especially to visit and feed the cats. When I returned, I learned she had turned the keys over to her teenage daughter.

My father, who most everyone knew as Big John—a name that said as much about his hearty personality as it did about his large frame—did not leave this world without a grand sendoff. “Epic” is how one of my father’s friends described his wake and funeral Mass.

Once upon a time, there was a servant who worked for a wealthy man who spent much of his time traveling, increasing his wealth day by day. The rich man didn’t do any work himself. He didn’t do the digging, the planting—all he harvested was the plenty.

When people walk into St. Gertrude Church for the first time they usually remark about the beauty that envelopes them—the soaring gothic space, the deep colors and intricate designs of the stained glass windows, the polished marble, the delicate statues and shrines, the carved wood, and so much more. Their eyes are drawn immediately to the altar, with its clean and uncluttered lines. I smile as they share their compliments and I invite them, if it their first time in the church, to make a wish and say a prayer. That’s what my mother told to me should be done.

I’m afraid of flying. I know that my fear is irrational. I know that air transportation is one of the safest forms of travel. So I try to conquer my anxiety by trying to understand why I’m afraid. I think it’s simply fear of the unknown.

My maternal grandmother was Native American. She belonged to the Lake Superior band of the Chippewa tribe and was born on the Bad River Reservation in Northern Wisconsin. Her people have occupied that land for thousands of years.

These days, “render unto Caesar” has got to be one of the most oft-quoted passages of the Bible, along with “an eye for an eye.” It is used by some to justify thoughtless agreement with government, even when government policies and actions are clearly contrary to faith, and mindless obedience to the law, even when the law prevents a Catholic from performing his or her Catholic duties.

A clever wedding invitation read, “Thank you for the pleasure of being your company,” an obvious play on the formal expression. In our culture of informality, such words sound stiff. But if you look closely they are intimate, tender, and warm. They suggest a profound beauty and respect: Your very presence at our celebration would make it complete. Please come.

When I was growing up, along the cyclone fence in our backyard were vines planted more for decoration and privacy than for the small, sour grapes they produced. It was a far cry from Napa Valley, the south of France, or the hills of Tuscany with their rows of pruned vines heavy with ripening grapes. 

There is a picture of me floating around in which I’m wearing a Chicago White Sox baseball cap. It was taken at the parish yard sale. How could this be? I am a lifelong Cubs fan.