Category: ROMAN CATHOLIC

Ciao, Baby.

The family of one of our more pungently aromatic residents has officially left the building.  The U‑Haul is sealed and locked, the cars are idling, and with them, their smells are preparing to embark on a cross‑country tour.  I imagine the exhaust fumes themselves are already begging for mercy.

Yes, one of the most infamous contributors to our high‑rise’s atmospheric instability has departed: Adonis and his clan, whom I privately (and accurately) referred to as The Stankles.  They are now barreling down the highway toward Pennsylvania, where they will no doubt introduce the Poconos to a whole new category of air quality alerts.  Adonis will be taking a new position onstage every Sunday and Wednesday, and Mrs. Stankle will continue her lifelong mission of single‑handedly keeping Bath & Body Works in business.  The kids will probably continue their behind-the-scenes vandalism and hijinx, because that’s what they do.  Their daughter is someone I would like to know where her life will go, since at the now-tender age of 12, she also walked the hallways every summer nearly naked in her bikini.  I suppose her father, Adonis, doesn’t preach modesty on stage every Sunday and Wednesday.  sigh

As you may recall, if scent could take physical form, this family would have traveled through life inside a permanent soft green fog, something between a cartoon stink cloud and a Department of War desert field experiment.  Each member of the household believed cologne was not something one applied, but something one soaked in and marinated.  Not spritz.  Not dab.  Full immersion, and ideally overnight.

I will not miss the unmistakable aroma of Adonis returning from the neighborhood gym, sweat cascading off him in rivulets that perfumed the hallways with a scent best described as “ancient locker unearthed from a peat bog.”  It was bad enough watching him attempt to walk normally.  Around the building and along the sidewalks, we neighbors would see his bare torso and biceps so inflated he could no longer lower his arms straight down.  He moved like a man permanently prepared to carry two large Thanksgiving tom turkeys.

Whenever that throat‑tightening, eye‑watering haze slapped me across the face, I knew exactly what it meant: the Stankles had either departed for work and school or had triumphantly returned.  They lived on the opposite end of the hallway from me, which made the reach of their fumes all the more impressive.  For the stench to drift all the way to my wing, it must have clung to them like a second skin and through all seven layers.  Frankly, I suspect the fumes had their own lease agreement.

And now they are off to their new life, ready to add a fresh bouquet to the Poconos Mountains.  I wish the region and their new neighborhood luck.  They’ll need it.

Ciao!

 

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Number 7G – The Conclusion

One early morning, as Varina Pembroke-Sinclair stepped out of her condominium and into the hallway, an odd odor caught her nose.  She couldn’t quite identify it, for it was the most unusual and jarring odor she ever smelled in the hallway, and that was saying something at Cypress Row!  Sure, Miss Varina had a talent that proved she could pinpoint any of her neighbor’s aromas that emanated from their condominiums, but this stench in the hallway was something else altogether.

Varina shrugged her shoulders, put the key in her lock, secured it, and headed down the hall to the elevator.

The dank funk became a distinctive fusty skunk-like stench as she approached the elevator.  She turned her nose up into the air and gave a deep sniff.  It came from Number 7G, the closest condominium around the corner from the elevator.  The pungent odor clung to the air like an unwelcomed visitor.  The elevator bell chimed twice and the doors slid open.

Varina entered the elevator car.  She thought about 7G.  Not many people really knew the people who lived in 7G, and no one seemed to care enough to try, including Varina.  Yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to the family than their infamous habits.  Rumors had swirled among the neighbors, whispers of strange visitors at odd hours, packages left at the door that were never retrieved, and the eerie glow of a flickering light that seemed to pulse through the windows late at night.    She shrugged her shoulders, took a deep breath, and rode the elevator down in silence.

As she exited the elevator on the ground floor, Varina welcomed the fresh, cool air with no smells, other than the Lysol used by the cleaning lady the evening before.

As Varina walked the long five blocks to work, she resolved to uncover the truth.  She wasn’t one for gossip, but something about 7G gnawed at her curiosity.  Besides, her curiosity seemed to always take precedent.

Over the next few weeks, the smell from 7G only grew worse.  It wasn’t just the musty, skunk-like odor anymore.  It now had an acrid edge, as if something was rotting.  Varina couldn’t stand it, yet no one else on the floor seemed to smell it.  Her curiosity turned into unease, then fear, as the stench began to invade her own condominium.

One night, unable to sleep, Varina decided to talk face-to-face with the family in 7G.  She steeled herself, grabbed her keys, and knocked on their door.  The sound echoed through the silent hallway, but there was no answer.  She knocked again, harder this time, the smell making her gag.

The door creaked open.

The apartment was dark.  A dim light bulb on a table flickered in the corner, casting weird shadows on the walls.  Varina stepped inside, calling out tentatively.  The air was oppressive, heavy with the sickly odor, and the silence was deafening.

As she moved further into the apartment, her foot caught on something.  She looked down and gasped.  Strewn across the floor were piles of ashes, remnants of burned paper, clothes, and belongings.  The flickering light came from a makeshift altar, surrounded by melted candles and strange symbols etched into the walls.

And then she saw them.

The family sat on chairs in a circle, motionless.  Their eyes were wide open, staring at nothing, their bodies slumped as if drained of life.  Varina’s scream stuck in her throat as she realized they weren’t breathing.  Whatever had happened in 7G was far beyond anything she could comprehend.

She stumbled backward, fleeing the apartment, and called the police.  When they arrived, the family was gone along with every trace of the altar.  The room was empty, except for a lingering smell and the faint hum of an unseen presence.  Varina thought she lost her mind.  So did the police, and they left, laughing hysterically.

For weeks afterward, Varina couldn’t sleep.  The police dismissed her story as nonsense, chalking it up to old-fashioned hysteria.  But she knew better.  Something unnatural had taken root in 7G, and she feared it hadn’t left.

In time, the building returned to its routines, and the neighbors forgot the brief commotion around 7G.  Yet Varina knew the quiet was only a disguise.  Some nights, long after midnight, a thin ribbon of that same fetid odor would snake beneath her door, as if reminding her that what she witnessed had not ended; only shifted.  The door to 7G remained shut, its crooked numbers unchanged, yet she sometimes heard a soft rustling inside, like chairs being moved or someone rising slowly from a long, unnatural sleep.  And though she told no one, Varina felt certain the family had never truly left.  Something had been awakened in that condominium, something patient, something watchful, and it was only a matter of time before it sought her out and her sanity again.

The months passed in a strange, uneasy blur for Varina Pembroke‑Sinclair.  Though she tried to resume her routines with her morning walks, her evening chamomile tea, her habit of identifying neighbors by scent, something in her had shifted, and yet the building would not let her forget.

Then it subtly reemerged, that faint skunk‑rot odor drifting through the vents at dawn, a soft scratching behind her bedroom wall, a flicker of light beneath her door at 3:17 AM.

Varina told herself it was her imagination, or trauma, or even stress.  She told herself anything but the truth, but the truth had a way of insisting on its position.

One evening, as she returned home from work, she found a small envelope taped to her door.  No stamp nor handwriting.  Just a greasy smudge across the front.  She opened the envelope flap.  Inside was a single scrap of paper, torn from a notebook, with a message scrawled in pencil:

“YOU LEFT US.”

Varina’s breath caught, and she dropped the note as if it burned her fingers.  She forced herself to look down the hallway.  It was empty and silent.  She paused and sniffed the air.  The stench was there again, stronger than ever, curling around her like smoke.

She reported the strange note to the building superintendent, who chuckled and suggested teenagers were playing pranks.  But Varina knew better because teenagers didn’t smell like death.  So that night, she slept with the lights on.

The next morning, at 5:30 AM she woke to the sound of the elevator chiming on her floor.  She froze.  No one used the elevator this early.  She peeked out from her door and looked down the hallway.  A mist drifted around, thick and gray, carrying that unmistakable stink.  Varina backed away, heart pounding as the mist curled toward her, tendrils reaching, searching.

Then she saw four silhouettes in the hallway.  It was the family from 7G.  Their eyes glowed like dying embers.  Their mouths hung open, as if mid‑breath, mid‑scream, mid‑ritual.  They did not move nor blink.

Varina stumbled backward, tripping over her own feet back into her condo and slammed the door shut.  Her hands shook as she locked the deadbolt, then the chain.  The air was deathly silent.  Then came a knock on her door, soft, rhythmic, and patient.

Varina pressed her ear to the door.  A whisper seeped through the wood, thin and cold: “We never left.”

She screamed as the smell flooded under the door.

Varina eventually convinced herself to investigate 7G again, but this time with the building superintendent.  When they opened the door to 7G, the apartment was spotless, with fresh paint, new carpeting, and no symbols, ashes, or smells.  The superintendent excused himself to take a call on his cell phone and moved into another room.

A handyman appeared behind Varina and asked, “Oh, you’re the new tenant?”

Varina spun around and blinked.  “New tenant?  Huh?”

He nodded.  “Someone moved in last night.”

Varina’s stomach dropped.  She stepped into the apartment, scanning every corner, but it was empty.  Then she noticed the bedroom door was closed.  “Is someone in there?” she whispered.

The handyman shrugged. “Eh.  Probably the new guy.”

Varina reached for the knob, and the handyman grabbed her wrist hard.

“You shouldn’t open that,” he warned.  His voice had changed to a rougher and lower quality.

Varina looked up.  His eyes were wrong.  They were too dark and too deep.  Then that smell hit her again, that skunk‑rot, thick and suffocating with a hint of mildew.

The handyman leaned in close.  “We’ve been waiting for you,” he growled.  Behind him, the bedroom door creaked open and some thing stepped out.  The lights flickered.

From behind Varina, a voice whispered:  “Welcome home, Varina.  Welcome home, baby.”

Varina froze, every instinct screaming to run, yet her legs rooted to the floor as the shadows thickened around her.  The air pulsed slow and deliberate like the house itself was breathing.  And in that breathing, she understood, with a clarity that hollowed her out, that whatever waited here had not found her by accident.  It had called her back.  Every sin she committed passed before her eyes.

The lights went out, and she didn’t finish her scream before the darkness swallowed it.  Something demonic tore through her body, ripping away everything that made her her, until only an empty shriveled shell remained where her moist, plump, and life-filled body had been.

And in the darkness, the building exhaled, as demons wont.

 

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The Age of Adonis (Part 1)

Part 1 of 3:  Reflections on Vanity, Virtue, and the Modern Parade

He was the sort of man who made a living preaching The Word while somehow managing to sidestep most of its demands.  You could see it in the way he carried himself; earnest on the surface, but with a hollowness underneath, like a sermon missing its last page.

When I first met him, he was almost aggressively unremarkable: small, soft around the middle, a crew cut that looked like it had been administered by someone in a hurry, and some type of cologne that would gag a maggot.  He told me he had left the Church and was now preaching at a non‑denominational fellowship down the road.  He quoted Scripture with the enthusiasm of someone who had just discovered the footnotes and wanted everyone to know and be impressed.  Truthfully, it felt less like devotion and more like a performance of mental gymnastics meant to impress.  They didn’t.

In our brief conversations, he mentioned he was a former drug user, now clean, and that he was “still learning” and had “a long way to go” in understanding The Word.  That part, at least, I believed.

But then something shifted.

Slowly, his upper body began to expand.  It was first subtly, then alarmingly.  I would see him at the neighborhood gym, or returning from it, sweat pouring off him in rivulets that perfumed the condominium hallways with a scent that could only be described as fusty.  Other days, I’d spot him leaving Atomic Health Club in town, towels slung over his shoulder, his wet T‑shirt clinging to him like a second skin.  He would leap into his sports car with the flourish of a man starring in his own music video and drive off like a bolt out of the blue.

By summer, the transformation seemed complete.  One afternoon, he and his family walked down the hallway on their way to the swimming pool. “Walked” is generous—he lumbered, unable to lower his arms fully because his torso had grown to mythic proportions.  He wore only baggy shorts (I cannot call them trunks), his thick thighs rubbing together and his calves looking like chicken legs.  It looked like it hurt him to move his legs, and for that moment I felt sorry for him.  His pre‑tween daughter wore a bikini so revealing it made me blink twice in embarrassment.  His wife and son, ironically, were dressed modestly befitting a church picnic.

His upper body had become enormous, his thighs still pronounced, his calves still comically thin.  He reminded me of a Greek statue carved by an artist who ran out of marble halfway through.  It was unsettling, the kind of physique that makes you instinctively step aside in case it topples or explodes.

He strutted through the building with the air of a man fishing for admiration, or perhaps for something more.  Someone once told me that people who leave one addiction often find another to replace the high.  Maybe this was that; maybe it wasn’t.  I’m not his confessor; I can only pray for him.

What I do know is this: the greater his muscles grew, the quieter his preaching rang.  There was a disconnect between the man he proclaimed himself to be and the man he was becoming, between the humility of the Gospel and the vanity of the mirror.

And perhaps that is the real caution of the Age of Adonis: when the body becomes the altar, the soul is left without a place to kneel and worship the one true God.

Part 2 will be published on April 16, 2026.

 

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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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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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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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The Profit That Destroys.

The question, “For what shall it profit a man, if he gain the whole world and suffer the loss of his soul?” cuts to the heart of a tension that every era rediscovers: the difference between a life that looks impressive and a life that is actually worth living.  We are surrounded by metrics — influence, fame, money, reputation, achievement, status — that promise satisfaction but often deliver only more insatiable hunger.  The question forces us to confront a truth we instinctively know: a person can win by every external measure and still feel hollow inside, a dried-up husk of a person.

Modern culture is skilled at rewarding the wrong things.  It celebrates accumulation, visibility, and speed.  It teaches us to optimize our schedules, polish our image, and chase the next milestone.  None of these pursuits are inherently harmful, but they become dangerous when they eclipse the quieter, more essential work of becoming a whole human being.  A person can spend decades climbing a ladder only to discover it was leaning against the wrong wall.

Losing oneself rarely happens in a dramatic collapse. More often, it happens gradually, when convenience replaces integrity, when ambition overrides relationships, when the greedy pursuit of More! More! More! crowds out the pursuit of meaning.  The world applauds these compromises; our inner life does not.  The cost is subtle but real: a thinning of character, a shrinking of joy, a sense that life is happening faster than we can live it.

To gain the world is easy.  It requires only that we follow the current cultural expectation.  To keep oneself intact is harder.  It demands reflection, boundaries, and the courage to choose depth over display, but only one of these paths leads to a life that feels like one’s own.

In the end, the question remains a challenge to every generation: what good is success if it costs you the very person you were meant to become?  The world offers many rewards, but none of them are worth the loss of yourself and your eternal spirit.

 

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