Category: a real life

He is Risen, Alleluia!

Matthew 28 (Douay-Rheims Bible)

28:1. And in the end of the sabbath, when it began to dawn towards the first day of the week, came Mary Magdalen and the other Mary, to see the sepulchre.

28:2. And behold there was a great earthquake. For an angel of the Lord descended from heaven and coming rolled back the stone and sat upon it.

28:3. And his countenance was as lightning and his raiment as snow.

28:4. And for fear of him, the guards were struck with terror and became as dead men.

28:5. And the angel answering, said to the women: Fear not you: for I know that you seek Jesus who was crucified.

28:6. He is not here. For he is risen, as he said. Come, and see the place where the Lord was laid.

28:7. And going quickly, tell ye his disciples that he is risen. And behold he will go before you into Galilee. There you shall see him. Lo, I have foretold it to you.

28:8. And they went out quickly from the sepulchre with fear and great joy, running to tell his disciples.

28:9. And behold, Jesus met them, saying: All hail. But they came up and took hold of his feet and adored him.

28:10. Then Jesus said to them: Fear not. Go, tell my brethren that they go into Galilee. There they shall see me.

28:11. Who when they were departed, behold, some of the guards came into the city and told the chief priests all things that had been done.

28:12. And they being assembled together with the ancients, taking counsel, gave a great sum of money to the soldiers,

28:13. Saying: Say you, His disciples came by night and stole him away when we were asleep.

28:14. And if the governor shall hear of this, we will persuade him and secure you.

28:15. So they taking the money, did as they were taught: and this word was spread abroad among the Jews even unto this day.

28:16. And the eleven disciples went into Galilee, unto the mountain where Jesus had appointed them.

28:17. And seeing him they adored: but some doubted.

28:18. And Jesus coming, spoke to them, saying: All power is given to me in heaven and in earth.

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The Age of Performed Identity.

How much of our lives have we spent trying to be something—or someone—we’re not?  It is one thing to pursue growth, to refine our character, and to enrich our inner life, yet it is quite another to adopt a false identity for the sake of impressing others, whether for money, status, or the fleeting approval of strangers, family, and acquaintances.

Lately, it seems that the art of pretending has become a widespread habit, a kind of cultural contagion.  Over the past decade especially, I’ve watched this phenomenon snowball.  It has become easier and fiendishly tempting to put on a polished façade while abandoning genuineness, humility, and empathy.  Social media, with its curated illusions and endless opportunities for self‑promotion and keyboard commandos, has been the chief purveyor of these false faces.

And how easy it is.

In a world moving at swift speed, the pressure to perform seems to be ceaseless.  Some people feel compelled to reinvent themselves for every audience, to appear more educated, more virtuous, more high class, more enlightened than they truly are.  Some people, unfortunately, strain to become the moral authority in every conversation, to project wisdom they have not earned, and to cloak their insecurity in a thin veil of false humility.  Some people invent and re-invent their live story continuously.

It must be exhausting.  From my vantage point, watching someone puff himself up by preaching from an imaginary pulpit, presenting himself as all‑knowing while sprinkling in counterfeit modesty, or looking down their nose at others, is a disheartening sight.  There is nothing admirable in self‑inflation or pretend self-deflation.  It does not elevate a person; it exposes him.  False humility serves only the ego.  It leaves no room to serve God, despite all their claims of “thanking God everyday” for such-and-such.  It comes across Pharisee-like when you know their true history and that they are putting on a public show.

Putting on an act for selfish gain is, at its core, a fabrication of the truth.  Duplicity demands constant maintenance, and after a while, there is so much maintenance that fabrication becomes sloppier and sloppier.  One must remember every false detail with perfect precision just to keep the fiction intact, and that’s the hard labor one has to do for a hollow reward in the prison of their mind’s fantasy.

It is far better to remember that the one thing you can do better than anyone else is to be yourself.  Of course, one could make the argument that being phony for some people is “being themselves.  Yet there is less work and stress to admit one’s true self and not make up stories to impress an audience.  Or in one case, I have seen one person who has shared his childhood as first “middle class,” then defined it as “not quite middle class,” to the sad Dickensian tale of “being poor.”  Is that the “fake it until you make it” mantra at work, or the pretend “rags to riches” story?  I won’t bother to hazard a guess.  All I can say is I have little regard for counterfeits.

The world does not need more people parroting platitudes or mimicking the latest persona.  It needs more of the original, the sincere, the unvarnished.  Pretending to be someone else is not only dishonest because it is truly a quiet betrayal of your own dignity.

As we step into another day, we should do so with sober eyes and clear hearts.  Remember who you really are beneath the noise and the pressure, and do not compromise that reality.  Be honest, be considerate, and be grounded in your principles.  Respect yourself and extend that respect to others.

 

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Losing It with Quiet Discipline.

I have long known that the most reliable way to lose weight is also the least glamorous: change the way I eat, and do it without powders, liquids, pills, or any of the other gimmicks that promise transformation without effort.  They don’t work.  Real change comes from willpower, ordinary food, and an honest attitude.  These matter more than any trend.

This year, my efforts began even before Lent arrived.  A goal of losing eight pounds is losing eight pounds for more energy and just feeling better overall.  As January unfolded, I found myself preparing not only my interior life but also my habits.  I started cutting down on unnecessary snacking that crept in after supper.  Sure, I still indulged in a snack here and there, but it wasn’t gorging myself.  I continued my quiet campaign against corn syrup and the sugary additives that hide in so many foods.  And I returned to simpler cooking—meals that didn’t need to resemble anything from a fancy restaurant menu.  I proved to myself that I can cook anything well, so why do it every day?  That should be saved for special occasions.  Then I returned to meals that I grew up on that nourished rather than entertained.  There was a certain relief in that simplicity.

By the time Ash Wednesday arrived in mid‑February, I wasn’t scrambling to begin anything new.  I was simply continuing what had already taken root and ramping it up a bit.  The weight began to come off, slowly and steadily, and it still does.  But more importantly, the discipline of eating differently began to shape the discipline of living differently.

Attitude is half the work.  I stopped letting the noise of the secular world dictate my mood or my focus.  I ignored the foolishness that swirl around in headlines and conversations.  Instead, I turned my attention toward things that actually strengthen the soul: spiritual reading that lifts and edifies the mind and praying the Rosary with attentive meditation rather than mindless haste.  These practices didn’t just support my physical goals—they steadied my interior life.

There is a quiet joy in sacrifice when it is chosen freely and offered with purpose.  Lent simply gave me the structure to continue what had already begun: a return to simplicity, a clearer mind, and a heart more anchored in God than in the world’s distractions.

In the end, this has reminded me that caring for the body and caring for the soul are not competing tasks but parallel ones.  The more I simplified my meals, the more I found myself craving a simpler interior life as well — one less cluttered by noise, distraction, and the endless commentary of the world.  Lent simply gave shape to what I already sensed: that discipline is not a burden but a quiet form of freedom, and that small, steady acts of intention at the table and in prayer can reshape a life from the inside out.

 

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Time Blindness.

Once upon a time, my spouse was the President of our condominium association.  He was the designated point‑man for every vendor, handyman, contractor, and the property manager.  And without fail, something out there seemed to decide that the exact moment we sit down to eat was the perfect time for someone to call him.

It didn’t matter when we ate:

11:00 AM?  Phone rings.

12:15 PM?  Phone rings.

4:45 PM?  Phone rings.

7:30 AM?  Phone rings, because apparently breakfast is also fair game, too.

It was as if people had a sixth sense for when a fork was about to touch a plate.

Even the other board and committee members who should have known better seemed to be compelled to call precisely when we were eating, and not all of these calls were emergencies, either.

Appointments were no better.  If someone was scheduled to arrive at 9:00 AM, they absolutely, without hesitation, called at 8:15 AM to announce:

“I’m here.”

Not “I’m on my way.”  Not “I’ll be there soon.”  No.  They were already standing outside like a time‑traveling courier from the future.

And as if the mealtime ambushes weren’t enough, his phone also believed in a 24‑hour discipline of interruption.  Text messages arrived at 5:55 AM, before the sun, before coffee, before a bagel, and texts continued rolling in as late as 10:30 PM when we were just about to drift off to Sleepyland.  Ostensibly, the entire world has silently agreed that he was available at all hours, like a one‑man emergency hotline for condo‑related existential and non-crises.  I was convinced the only time his phone doesn’t buzz is when nothing in particular is going on in our home.  Oh.  It doesn’t ring or buzz when we are at Mass; our phones are turned off completely then.

It got to a point that I was convinced our condo was either:

  • bugged;
  • under surveillance by a secret intelligence agency; or
  • being monitored by people with remote‑viewing abilities who can see the moment we sit down with plates of food.

I’m kidding, and honestly, who knows?  But if someone knocked on the door the next time we even thought about lunch . . . I would’ve d just laughed.  I continued to laugh it off.

The most important part of this hilarity is that my spouse and the rest of the board at the time were doing an outstanding job getting the formerly poorly self-managed association back on the right track.  They were righting the ship . . .

 

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When the Day Grows Weightless.

Evening had only just begun to gather when we stepped out of the house, leaving behind the familiar busyness of the day.  The sky was already settling into that muted greyish‑blue that feels less like a color and more like a threshold of an in‑between hour when the world loosens its grip and invites you to breathe unworriedly.

We drove to the historic part of town, where old brick and weathered wood seem to remember more than they reveal, and where the streets narrow as if encouraging you to slow down.

We parked near the waterfront at Twilight Bay.  I gathered my sweater around me and took a deep breath; the salty air and the freshness of the evening made me forget the world.  We wandered toward a small bench built for two, its placement so perfect it felt almost intentional, as though someone long ago had known that people would come here seeking a moment of quiet.  The lazy breezes carried a crisp coolness, brushing away the last warmth of the day.  As we settled into the bench, the sun began its slow, deliberate descent; that an unhurried surrender that painted the bay in streaks of rose, amber, and fading gold.

Above us, pelicans glided in near‑silence, their wings steady and sure.  They usually lingered on the lawns or sidewalks nearby, waiting for a passerby to drop a morsel, but tonight they moved with a different kind of intention.  Their silhouettes drifted toward the boats anchored in the harbor, as though they sensed a more certain feast waiting among the sailors.  Watching them, it was hard not to feel that even the birds understood something about seeking what truly nourishes rather than what merely distracts.

A stout gull perched on the railing before us, facing the sunset with a composure that felt almost ceremonial.  Its white feathers caught the last light, turning the bird into a soft, luminous creature.  We admired its quiet splendor as I took out my camera.  And wouldn’t you know it?  Just as I lifted the camera and clicked the shutter, the sea gull opened its wings in a single, fluid motion and rose into the air.  The moment felt like a small benediction; unplanned, unearned, yet somehow perfectly timed.

Far out in the bay, a solitary sailboat rocked gently, its silhouette dark against the shimmering water.  It drifted without urgency, as though content simply to exist in the cradle of the evening.  There was something instructive in its stillness: a reminder that not every movement must be purposeful, not every moment must be filled willy-nilly.

Sitting there, it became clear that serenity is not something we manufacture; it is something we allow.  The bay freely offered its calmness, asking only that we pause long enough to receive and embrace it.  In a world that often demands speed, noise, and constant reaction, this quiet corner felt like a small act of resistance, a place where the soul could unclench, relax, and accept a bit of freedom.

The twilight deepened, and with it came a sense of interior spaciousness, the kind that arrives only when the world grows quiet enough for the heart to hear itself again.  A quiet truth settled over us, reminding us that stillness is its own kind of blessing.

 

 

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Unexpected Kindness (2).

About four years ago, we headed out for an early lunch before we ran our errands.  We ended up at a little grille tucked between a seedy-looking thrift store and a storefront mission, an unassuming spot that somehow serves some of the best home‑cooked meals in town.  We’ve never had a bad meal there.

The lunch crowd was thinning, and we slipped into a corner booth.  My spouse ordered steak and eggs; I chose a half tuna sandwich with cream of broccoli soup.  We talked about this and that, the kind of easy conversation that comes from years of companionship, and before long our plates were empty and we were ready to settle the bill.

At the counter, I noticed a woman—late forties, maybe early fifties—finishing her payment.  By the time we reached the register, she had already disappeared out the door.

Best Friend pulled out his debit card.

“It’s paid for,” the cashier said with a smile.

He blinked. “I’m sorry—what was that?”

“Your bill is paid for,” she repeated.  “The lady who was just here took care of it.  You owe nothing.”

We stood there, bemused into silence.  It’s one thing to read about this sort of thing in the newspaper; it’s another to find yourself on the receiving end of it.  All we could manage was a breathless, “Wow.  That was nice!”

The cashier smiled, and we left her a large tip—she had been our waitress, too, after all—before heading out into the afternoon.

Kindness like that stay with you.  They interrupt the ordinary rhythm of a day and remind you that goodness still moves quietly through the world.  You don’t always see it, and you can’t predict it, but every now and then it steps forward, taps you on the shoulder, and says, I’m still here.

 

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