As a newly ordained deacon, I arrived on July 1 for my internship at an inner-city parish with a sprawling rectory housing three priests, a beautiful gothic church, and a 1950s window and steel school building.

A lot of people report having dreams where they show up at a high school or college class for the first time all semester only to find out it’s time for their final exam.

One of modern American life’s rites of passage is the moment when a teenager is issued a driver’s license. For the teen it becomes the ultimate symbol of freedom, of having grown up, of independence from the family.

I am a city boy, born and raised. I profess very little knowledge about animals of any kind—wild, domesticated, or farm. I do like dogs and cats. Beyond that my experience has been pretty limited.

Baseball legend Yogi Berra, who died at the age of 90 after a long and storied career, was revered for his wisdom-filled malapropisms as much as his baseball prowess. Among his more memorable observations: “If you don’t know where you’re going, you might wind up someplace else.”

I had a friend whose father worked a lot of evenings and also traveled a lot for his job. He once told me, "I was always relieved when I heard Dad's footstep on the stairs coming up to our apartment.

Working in my dad's grocery store as a teen, I was taught that the customer is always right and to smile at them no matter what.

After decades of regular Mass attendance, I usually know what to expect. Sure, some things change from week to week in terms of songs, readings, prayers, and decorations.

At an adventure camp for teens, the campers were divided into teams to test their camping skills. When the earnest instructor tried to demonstrate safety practices, one group of guys mimicked him and spent their time laughing and joking.

It was a bad day. Sixth grade—the one without a Sister of Mercy teaching—with Miss Daley, a teacher for at least 100 years. I wasn’t listening to her.