My Nagging Mother

I love my mom. I always have. But when she quit dyeing her hair while I was in high school, letting it grow out to gray, I was mortified. Selfishly, I couldn't see why she would give up dyeing her hair other than to embarrass me. Mom had other reasons, of course, but I thought she existed solely to ruin my life. Throughout my high school years, she drove me to school in a large white delivery-type van, unashamedly conversed with cute boys my age without consulting me, wore hideous frameless glasses and ankle-length skirts, and sang opera-style at church. I used to hide and blush and cry "Mooooom!" at her embarrassing antics. 

All Who Are Weak

As I rushed from the library to my dorm, I remembered I still had an unfinished Rosary hanging over my head. Still, I galloped past the chapel, mentally turning over the half-dozen tasks I needed to complete. Later, I told myself, stifling my desire to pray with a reminder of the long to-do list awaiting me. But then I slowed my pace. 

A Series of Thank-Yous: To the Women

To my beautiful sisters in Christ, thank you for being you. 

Me to you.

A Series of Thank-Yous: To the Men

To the men who showed me what it means to be a woman of God by their example, calling me on to do His work, thank you. 

To the men who saw their sister in Christ struggling to realize her identity as a daughter of God, thank you for listening and loving me through those difficult times. 

To the men who walked me back to the door of my dorm at night, come hell or high water, I cannot thank you enough. (And if you trudged through the snow to do so, you probably knocked a few years off Purgatory. I'm sanctifying you.)