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After several weeks on the road, I was eager to get back to Atlanta and sleep in my own bed… but my husband had other plans. “I think you should go to St. Louis for Easter,” he said. “It’s been years now since you were able to be at the whole Triduum celebration at College Church. Years since you got to dye eggs and hunt them down on Easter morn. Years since you got ham and party potatoes and jelly beans.” All this was true. When there are just two adults in the household, you are not so likely to go on Easter egg hunts and buy candy for yourself. Now, mind you, sending me off to St.

Palm Sunday Mass this year at my parish had it all going on. Technical glitches so that you could only hear two of the three Passion readers. To my left, a duo of five year olds using their palm fronds to sword fight. To my right, a wailing infant. Me in the middle improvising the congregational responses within the Gospel as I had neglected to pick up the worship aid once I realized that Mass had started at 10:15, not 10:30. Oh, and did I mention that this was all taking place outside?

Those of you who know me well know that I avoid the cold as much as possible. But of late, I’ve not been particularly successful in keeping the chill from my bones. Good morning from Contoocook, New Hampshire where it is about 5 degrees. Okay, I may be exaggerating, but not by much. The picture above is from Park City, Utah where I was earlier this month. The wind off Lake Michigan in Chicago mid-month was also pretty bitter. And next week I’ll be in London, Ontario.

This past Sunday, we read (as we always do the Second Sunday of Lent) the perplexing story of the Transfiguration where Jesus and three of his friends ascend an unnamed mountain and find themselves immersed in divine cloud. It’s such a mysterious episode that each time it pops up in the lectionary I find myself wondering: What really is trying to be communicated here? What are we supposed to take from this? There are, of course, thousands of commentaries on this story.

People sometimes are curious how as a Catholic woman I ended up in the field of preaching. That’s an interesting question. I started preaching….

This past Wednesday, February 16th, marked what would have been my mom’s 77th birthday. Since she slipped the bonds of time four years ago, I imagine she no longer counts the years in the same way. “A thousand years are but one day with God,” 2nd Peter claims. But we still count them! And each year in her memory, my family has been celebrating her birthday by baking pumpkin bread.

Growing up, I did not know much about King Solomon, but I did know that when he was anointed king of Israel, God invited him to ask for anything that he wanted and it would be granted to him. Sort of like a biblical version of the genie emerging from the lamp. I can picture my elementary school religion teacher in the front of the room laying out all the options: He could have asked for treasure chests full of gold or all the candy you could eat or a summer full of trips to the amusement park.

Have you ever received the gift of a word that you were looking for without ever really knowing that you were looking for it? That happened to me last week.

“In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that the whole world should be enrolled….so all went to be enrolled, each to his own town.”

Earlier this year, Mike and I stumbled upon a tiny shop in Helen, GA where they had an array of hand-painted Russian nesting dolls. Beyond the common Matryoshka variety, they had one that began with the Nativity scene. Of course I needed to see what was inside. Wouldn’t you?