Five years ago, I had cancer. We caught it early and had it removed. The margins were clean so we sighed with relief and went on with living, knowing it might come back.
When I was returning to the Church in my late 20s, I worked as a singer. Frequently, after I finished work very late, I would visit an adoration chapel open all night. I was often the only person there, except for Jesus.
A young man comes to me for spiritual direction. He is exceptionally bright, a recent university graduate now applying to medical school. His MCAT score was nearly perfect — a rare feat. He feels called to neurosurgery.
This month, I want to dedicate my column to all children, especially the little ones among us who suffer from protracted and painful illnesses. This one is just for you.
After nearly 10 years of solid sobriety from drugs and alcohol, she relapsed, during which time, and in some part due to her drug-induced negligence, her teenage daughter was kidnapped and trafficked.
When I was an undergraduate, I studied with a very fine professor in our jazz department. One year, he gave us a wonderful assignment called “Adopt a Player.” We would choose one artist, in my case, a vocalist, and in that semester, we would study them exclusively, listen to their work exclusively. He said, “By the end of the semester, I want you walkin’ like’m, talkin’ like’m, and dressin’ like’m!” No pop radio blasting in the car or the dorm room was allowed. We would focus all our listening energy on one artist only. I chose Ella Fitzgerald.
You know you’ve reached a new level of fatigue when you’ve been standing in the running shower for a good three minutes before, as your eyes fog over, you realize you’re still wearing your glasses.