Category: daily 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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A Ministry of Mayhem.

Parents who do not teach their children to respect and obey actually prepare them for a life out of step with God’s Word and in step with the devils.

You might assume that a man styling himself a pastor would have a household that at least vaguely exhibits the teachings of Jesus.  You know, the kind of pastor who should be an example to society, a spiritual guide, a moral compass, and a weekly dispenser of authentic wisdom on the stage of his Fellowship Congregation.  You might even imagine that he’d model basic manners and modesty.

A long time ago, when I lived in a certain condominium, one such person paraded bare-chested in the condominium hallways and public sidewalks.  You’d probably would think that this “pastor” would’ve covered himself up and not parade around in public bare-chested.  By doing that, he was teaching his son well to do the same, which eventually happened, too.  As time when on, his pre-teen daughter was wearing low cut tops and belly-button-showing jeans and beachwear.

This particular family let their children throw out the family garbage, not through the garbage chute, but leave it hidden in the janitor’s closet until the odors compelled other residents to investigate.  The kids squirted soda or some sort of drink on the carpet in the elevator (I saw them do that just as the elevator door opened.)  If the parents double-checked their kids’ chores and where they were, they could’ve corrected them and set them on the right path.  Maybe.

Their children, old enough to know better, ran through the halls at all hours: dawn, mid‑afternoon, nearly midnight.  The thundering footsteps were so intense I occasionally wondered if the building had been repurposed as a training facility for buffalo stampedes.

And again, these were not toddlers.  These were pre‑teens, fully capable of understanding rules, boundaries, and the concept of “other people exist,” so be thoughtful!

The “pastor’s” wife, too, contributed to her own public ministry: it was an evangelization of scent so potent it could’ve knocked a person out.  It was so strong and long-lasting, it made the neighbors think she most likely applied the body lotions and colognes uncontrollably from head to toe.  Her cologne didn’t merely enter the hallways or elevator; it conquered, planted a flag, and dared anyone to challenge its sovereignty.  Her neighborliness went as far as waving at you with her arm behind her head, but never turning to face you and say, “hello.”

Maybe I’m all wet here; however, my thoughts always were that when a husband/father is a pastor of some wort, he guides his family on the path of holiness according to Jesus’ teachings and they all become a positive example to the neighborhood and to the world.  Yet, in that case I wrote about, they weren’t all that friendly, the kids were wild, and they sure solidified the neighbors’ opinions that a “pastor’s” family can be a shining example of what not to do.

In the end, it’s sad: a “pastor” who cannot shepherd his own household, a family whose public displays consists of hallway chaos, elevator dirtying, public undress, and overall disrespect towards neighbors.

But beneath all that sits a quieter truth.  When parents refuse to teach respect, discipline, and consideration, the world instead becomes their children’s classroom, and the lessons are rarely kind.  A household without order doesn’t just scandalize and inconvenience its neighbors; it forms a generation unprepared for the responsibilities, reverence, and self‑control that a faithful and respectable life requires.

 

 

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Shhh… in a Modest Trattoria.

It was a genuine treat to go out for lunch recently, mostly because eating out is not a daily, nor even a weekly, occurrence for us.  I enjoy cooking at home, but every now and then it’s nice to let someone else do the sautéing while I simply sit there and enjoy the novelty of it all.

We chose a little local Italian place, the kind where the fat breadsticks arrive in generous baskets and the garlic in the air is present but polite.  We settled into our booth, ordered our meals, and chatted about this and that.

Somewhere between topics, a waitress passed by and began checking on the tables in her section.  I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but her voice carried just enough for me to catch her asking a couple nearby, “Pash‑ta Fa‑shool for you” and “Mini-shrone soup for you.”

I paused.  I blinked.  I nearly choked on my ice water with lemon slice.

I have heard many pronunciations of Italian dishes in my life, but this one was new— an unexpected hybrid of culinary enthusiasm and what sounded like an anchovy lodged squarely between her incisors, forcing every “s” into a prolonged “shhhh.”

“Pash‑ta Fa‑shool,” she repeated, as if auditioning for a role in a whispering contest.

I smiled into my linen napkin.  It was the kind of small, harmless moment that makes dining out worth the trouble: good food, good company, and the occasional linguistic adventure courtesy of a well‑meaning waitress and a menu she was determined to conquer—one shhh at a time.

 

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A Lesson in the Checkout Line.

A couple of weeks ago, we were in the checkout line at the grocery store, the kind of slow‑moving line that gives you time to observe more than you intended.  In front of us stood an elderly woman with a cart full of groceries and a look of growing concern.  Something was clearly wrong, though I couldn’t hear the details—because the man behind us had just answered his cell phone and immediately launched into a booming, play‑by‑play commentary of the situation.

He was delighted to narrate.  Absolutely delighted.  According to him, the woman had “decided not to pay for everything,” and the cashier was now forced to “re‑ring the whole cart,” and on and on he went, blah, blah, blah, embellishing freely, as if auditioning for the role of Town Crier of Checkout Line Four.

Meanwhile, the elderly woman stood quietly at the register, her shoulders slightly hunched, her hands folded around her wallet.  She wasn’t dramatic, nor causing a scene.  She was simply trying to sort out whatever the problem was.

It wasn’t until later, after we’d checked out and were walking to the car, that my best friend, who had actually heard the real exchange, told me what had happened.  The woman’s EBT card hadn’t covered all her items, and she had tried to pay the remainder with a personal check, but the cashier couldn’t accept it for some unknown reason.  That was the entire “scandal.”  No theatrics.  No attempted grocery heist.  Just a woman trying to buy food and running into the quiet humiliations that come with limited means.

The man behind us, however, had been proudly broadcasting a story about her of his own invention, complete with moral judgments and imaginary plot twists.  He had turned her sad difficulty into laughable entertainment.

I thought about that on my ride home; the ease with which some people narrate other people’s struggles, the confidence with which they fill in the blanks, the laughs, the casual cruelty of assuming the worst when the truth is usually simpler, quieter, and far more human.

A checkout line can reveal more about character than we expect. Sometimes it’s not the person in trouble who tells the story; it’s the person who can’t resist telling the wrong one and laugh at a person’s misfortune.

 

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Leaving the Secular Carousel.

A Reflection on the Gradual Reordering of My Life

Over these many, many years as I have been becoming more and more serious about my Catholic faith, I have noticed a remarkable change in myself—one that has unfolded slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, but unmistakably over the last fifteen years or so.  In this article, I write about how the secular world has been shrinking in my life, not out of disdain for the people in it, but because its offerings no longer nourish me.  I have been moving away from many secular things, both by deliberate choice and by the quiet providence of circumstance.  What once occupied my time, my attention, even my imagination, now feels strangely distant, as though it belonged to someone else’s life.

In my youth, I wasn’t a fan of modern music, particularly rock and roll.  But in my sophomore year, one morning while getting ready for school, I tuned into the local rock radio station to find out what the current music fad was all about.  My friends were into that music, and I didn’t want to be left out of conversations.  It felt harmless enough—just a way to fit in, to understand what everyone else seemed to enjoy.

Over the years, my taste in music expanded to that genre, though it never went into grunge or the harsher styles that followed.  But now, even that earlier music has become distasteful to me. The beat and melody might still be attractive, but the lyrics—so often vulgar, suggestive, or simply empty—are sickening.  That’s what gets people hooked: catchy rhythms and memorable musical notes.  The lyrics are an afterthought, or worse, a poison pill wrapped in sugar. I find myself wondering why I ever tolerated it, let alone enjoyed it.

The same goes for television programs.  I didn’t grow up in a house where the television was constantly on.  Until age sixteen or so, television was rare—a special thing to watch, almost an event.  But then something shifted, and before long meaningless programs like Happy Days, Laverne and Shirley, Three’s Company, WKRP, and various variety shows were playing regularly in our home.  Looking back, I am appalled that I allowed myself to waste time on such trivia: scantily clad people, taking God’s name in vain, sexual innuendo, name-calling, yelling, and cheap, vulgar laughs.  I don’t even find those programs funny or edifying now.  The detective and cop shows might have been tolerable—good guys catching bad guys—but even those were repetitive, predictable, and shallow.  And for what?  To kill time in the evening?  Why did I watch that garbage when I could have been reading good books, learning something worthwhile, or helping around the house?

Unfortunately, I was in a marriage once many moons ago where the television dominated the household the moment he walked through the door.  It stayed on until bedtime, a constant drone that filled every corner of the evening.  And even then, the bedroom television (yes, the senseless bedroom television) often blared until 11:30 PM.  That kind of environment was never for me.  I complained, he questioned why I wouldn’t watch because I’d have to have something to talk about at work in the morning with my co-workers.  I replied that I talked to my co-workers about work, not some stupid television program; that’s what I was paid for— work!  I tried to carve out pockets of quiet, busying myself with anything that felt less corrosive, but the noise was relentless, and the contrast between what I longed for and what surrounded me grew sharper with time.

Now that I have been away from television entirely for a good eighteen years, I don’t miss any part of it.  I couldn’t tell you what the latest shows are, or even if there are any worthwhile.  Yes, I still own a television, and I’ve used it to stream old movies from time to time, but even that has gone by the wayside for Lent this year, and I may not return to it afterward.  I don’t miss it.  I don’t crave it.  Its absence feels like fresh air.

And then there is social media—another thorn I am trying to remove.  It is astonishing how easily it lures, distracts, and scatters the mind. Even when I think I am using it “responsibly,” it has a way of pulling me into trivialities, arguments, or endless scrolling.  It promises connection but often delivers agitation.  It promises information but often makes noise.  It promises community but often fosters comparison and restlessness. I am working slowly but steadily, to loosen its grip.

Over time, these renunciations—vapid music, insipid television, thieving social media—have revealed something deeper than mere preference.  They dull the mind, yes, but more importantly, they crowd the soul.  By tossing them aside, I have begun to see the shape of my interior life gradually reclaimed.  What once felt “normal” now feels foreign, and what once seemed harmless now appears hollow.  I find that the less I cling to the secular world, the more interior freedom I gain.  This is not withdrawal but refinement: a quiet choosing of what leads me toward God and a holy life and away from the emptiness and noise that once filled my days.  In that choice, I am discovering a steadier, simpler, more meaningful, and far happier way to live. I write more, I pray more, I read more, I use my life better.

 

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Smoke, Scrape, Yell, Repeat.

After writing “The Sheriff of Decibels,” regarding the whole “your TV is too loud” saga with the neighbor who heard phantom sound waves, I thought I had earned a brief intermission in the neighborhood drama, but then it reminded me of one of the downstairs neighbors I had once, and those thoughts led to me think of a whole different angle.  Life in a condominium is basically a rotating cast of social challenges, and the next act began downstairs.

I lived in a condominium where one of my downstairs neighbors used her balcony like it was her personal broadcasting studio.  Whenever she had company, the visitors were always on the sidewalk below.  Their conversations rose straight up.  I didn’t even have to try to overhear; the dialogue arrived fully formed, projected upward with the confidence of someone who believed the entire building was her audience.  If she ever decided to start a podcast, she wouldn’t need equipment.  She already had the lungs for it.

Then there’s the patio furniture.  Every time she shifted a chair, it sounded like she’s dragged a cast-iron park bench across a stone floor.  I’ve heard less noise from actual construction sites.

And of course, there was the cigarette smoke from a cheap brand she probably bought by the truckload.  It drifted upward in slow, dramatic spirals, and somehow it slipped into my condo like it had a key.  One moment I’m enjoying fresh air; the next, my living room and/or kitchen smelled like a casino buffet circa 1960.  It wasn’t ideal, but I learned to adapt since the odor didn’t last more than a half hour or so.

But here’s the important part: I didn’t complain.  Not ever.  Not a text, not a note, not even a pointed throat-clear over the balcony railing.  Why?  Because this was life in a building full of people.  They talked loudly.  They scraped furniture.  They smoked.  They lived.  And unless someone was hosting a demolition derby in their living room, I tolerated the occasional disturbances.

Besides, after the Sheriff of Decibels dealings, I’ve developed a new appreciation for not becoming That Neighbor.  If I ever feel tempted to pick up the phone and lodge a complaint, I remember how it feels to be scolded for noises that may or may not exist, and definitely weren’t from me.  It’s an excellent deterrent.

So, I let the balcony monologues rise, let the furniture screech across the concrete, let the cigarette smoke drift out and upward like a weather pattern.  I breathed, I adjusted, I moved on.  Because in the grand, chaotic symphony of condo living, sometimes the most intelligent thing you can do is simply not add your own instrument to the noise.

I just laugh it all off.

 

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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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