I don’t always say it out loud, but I think it every once in a while. “Why me? What did I do to deserve __________ ?” You can fill in the blank with your own particular burden. Funny thing: even though it looks like a question, it’s not really a question. It’s a lament, an existential moan. I don’t expect an answer. What I want is sympathy; someone to wallow with me in my gushing well of self-pity.

Imagine my shock, then, when shortly after I’d muttered these words one day, a total stranger looks me in the eye and says, “Seriously? Get over yourself, Alicia.” More here...

After my mind-blowing encounter with Palestinians and Israelis on a 2010 trip to the Holy Land, I have kept abreast of news from the region. Never has it been so painful as it is now. Sparked by the brutal murders of one Palestinian teen and three Israeli teens, the conflict seems to intensify every hour. 

I study photographs of the boys—Mohammed, Naftali, Gilad, and Eyal—all gangly growth and goofy smiles, smooth cheeks and pimply foreheads, then fix my gaze on their beautiful, blameless eyes. I want to scream. Why, God? Why? More here...

Sometimes, you know what you have to do before you know why you should do it, before you have thoughts or words. For several months, I’ve been thinking about how to relate to my 38-year-old former pastor. He was sentenced to three years in federal prison this year, after admitting that he had child pornography on his computer and cellphone. Before he was arrested, I had a warm relationship with my pastor. He had done much good for the parish. We were on the school board together. We chatted after Mass. He has sent me letters from prison, but I have not responded; not yet. I don’t know what to say. More here...

Jim Olson, a pediatric oncologist, was interviewed on National Public Radio earlier this year. The program was about science, not religion, which only makes his story more striking.

Dr. Olsen explained on the program, “A child who is going to die from their cancer isn't mourning the high school prom that they're not going to get to go to. They're not mourning the fact that they won't drive their first car. For a child, it's about, Am I happy? Are my parents happy? Is a cute dog going to come in and visit me at 2 o'clock in the afternoon? It's all about that moment, that day.” More here...

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about Mary. This is surprising, because I’ve never been “into” Mary. Or rather, I’m just not into traditional Marian piety. The Marian virtues hailed throughout my childhood annoyed me, and she looks so weak and pasty in most of those old holy cards. Even the celebrated paintings of Mary, weeping and fainting at the foot of the cross, fail to move me. I feel sorry for Mary, yes; but I never cottoned to her like I did to Jesus.
Then, last week, I read a passage in Fr. Ron Rolheiser’s new book, Sacred Fire, that forced me to revise my image of Mary. Rolheiser tells us that many great artists got the crucifixion scene wrong. The gospel writers clearly tell us that Mary “stood” close to the cross, indicating a position of strength and power. They never describe Mary as prostrate or keening. More here...