It was the first comment I saw on social media when the white smoke started billowing from the Vatican chimney.
As far as I was concerned, it hadn’t been quick at all. It had been 17 long days of waiting. Seventeen days marked with uncertainty. Seventeen days as an orphan.
It may sound strange to non-Catholics, but for this Catholic, those days were filled with a loneliness—a lack of direction or a life anchor in some ways. I missed the security of having a Holy Father.
To be fair, I didn’t always agree with Pope Francis, may he rest in peace. But there were things I admired. His simplicity and humility. His caring for the lowliest and the poorest. His worn black shoes.
Moreover though, I missed him as the head of the Roman Catholic Church and Successor to Saint Peter, to whom Jesus handed the keys to the Kingdom.
In those 17 days after his death, the keys were unclaimed, and in my mind, I was a ship without a rudder.
Needless to say, as the white smoke poured into the air, I was filled with a mixture of gratitude and praise, elation and relief. And yes, a few tears.
Because on the afternoon of May 8, God’s faithfulness was on display in a most magnificent way. On May 8, God spoke. He told us in no uncertain terms we had not been abandoned. He was with us. He’s always with us. And just as He promised, the keys of the Kingdom had been passed on and the See of Peter was once again occupied.
In those moments as the world rejoiced, we were all reminded that we serve a faithful God—a mighty and everlasting God who was in the beginning, is now, and will be forever.
Glory to God for His never-ending graces and mercies. And long live Pope Leo XIV.
Going to adoration as the Easter Triduum begins on Holy Thursday is an experience like no other in the Church.
It’s the night when Jesus institutes the Holy Eucharist, the source and summit of the Christian life. It’s the night when Judas betrays Jesus for 30 silver coins, then hands Him over to the enemy after identifying him with a kiss.
Thus marks the beginning of the end of the God Man’s life on earth.
As I contemplated the events that were about to unfold, I realized this visit to the Blessed Sacrament was unlike every other day of the year. Because in a matter of hours, that tall red candle that signifies Jesus’ true presence would be extinguished. And for the next 36 hours or so, Jesus would be gone from the tabernacle—because he was going to the tomb.
Of course he wouldn’t go to the tomb before dying a death thats brutality defies human comprehension. He wouldn’t go before breaking out in a blood sweat or before being denied three times by the man who would be our first pope. Nor would he go before being the victim of hatred and vitriol spewed at him by Jewish rulers. Surely their actions indicated they must’ve been overtaken by evil in those moments as they demanded His punishment be one reserved for the most hardened of criminals. And Jesus wouldn’t go to the tomb before being crushed under the weight of every sin that would ever be committed by the whole of mankind, past or present.
It was with that knowledge that I found it difficult to leave the sanctuary. I knew what was about to happen and I didn’t want to leave Jesus.
Or maybe I didn’t want him to leave me.
So I stayed an hour, then another. Oh how accustomed I’ve become to His presence—oh how I seek out the glow of the red candle that assures me of our Lord and Savior’s presence: body, blood, soul, and divinity.
And it was going away. Jesus was going away.
In those moments, I realized my own need to walk the way of the Cross. For there is no other way this side of Heaven. And sometimes a person just longs for it to be over, don’t they? To just skip the part with all the suffering and get straight to the good stuff—the resurrection. Heaven.
But as Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI said, we weren’t made for comfort, we were made for greatness.
With that in mind, I re-adjusted my thinking and promised Jesus I would walk with Him. That I’d see it through. By walking with Him, I can learn how to carry my own crosses.
And when the glory of Easter morning finally arrives, I can re-live the words of the angels at His tomb: He is not here, for he is risen. And I can rest in the reassurance that his passion wasn’t an end. It was only the beginning.
Oh my Jesus, forgive us our sins. Save us from the fires of hell and lead all souls to Heaven, especially those in most need of thy mercy.
One of this week’s daily Mass readings was a familiar one found in Exodus 32. As the story unfolds, Moses is on the mountain chiseling out the 10 commandments, while the Israelites are down below, getting rather antsy.
Whenever I heard this story in the past, I suspected these people were taking advantage of Moses’ absence. While the cat’s away the mice will play, am I right?
The priest’s homily, however, turned that notion on its head and gave me a brand new perspective.
As he posited, far from being mischievous kids out looking for trouble, what if the idol—the golden calf—was not something they’d ever intentionally planned on? That, instead of yucking it up while Moses was away, they were mired with worry and fear, anxiety and uncertainty.
Perhaps they were riddled with thoughts like, Why isn’t Moses back yet? How long will he be gone? Will he ever come back? And if he doesn’t come back, then what?
As they waited around plagued with woe-are-we thinking, those fears and insecurities prompted the Israelites to look for some form of comfort, security, and certainty. They longed for something—anything to help them cope with their reality. Enter the golden calf.
And this is the part that brings the story out of Exodus and into the 21st Century world, reminding us that the Word of God is very much alive.
How often do we become anxious or fearful, scared or angry? How often do we look for a way to ease that pain, in whatever form it takes? And much like the Israelites, instead of turning to the Divine Physician, we turn to our own golden calves.
Maybe we doom-scroll or mindlessly waste time to avoid something we don’t want to do. Or we eat or drink in excess, searching for comfort in that second slice of cake. Maybe we throw ourselves into work or live at the gym. Perhaps we sleep the day away or binge-watch every season of The Office. Ah, and one of my go-tos: the I’ll-do-it-myself attitude of individualism, because God must not realize how important such-and-such is. The -ism words and -holic words could go on and on.
Such are our golden calves. And I’d dare say most of us never intentionally set out to create these calves, but alas here they are.
During this season of Lent, maybe God asks us not to burn our idols but rather look to the pain that we’d have those idols mask. To sit in silence with God and work through our human frailties—our pain—with him. To seek healing through the Divine Physician rather than masking our symptoms with distractions.
And as we walk through that fire, may our great God through which everything is possible melt our idols and transform them into offerings.
As we gathered for Mass on New Year’s Day, Fr. Shenoy Thomas spoke about the Blessed Virgin Mary and encouraged us to call on her more frequently as we walk into 2025. Just as Jesus gave her to John from the cross, he said, Jesus gave her to us. And she’s just as alive now as she was 2,000 years ago.
I felt as if he was speaking directly to me. Nudging me ever closer to Mom, challenging me to go deeper. To go further.
Flash forward to New Year’s afternoon, post-reuben sandwiches and black-eyed peas, to our annual Saint of the Year selection. We pull out a bag that contains dozens of strips of paper, each bearing the name of a saint or blessed. After asking the intercession of Blessed Mary and all the angels and saints, we select a slip of paper from the bag.
While the names of many well-known saints are tucked inside, there are others that aren’t exactly house-hold names. Take a couple of our past patrons, for example: Saint Seraphim and Blessed Miriam Teresa.
Whether they’re familiar or not, it really doesn’t matter, because we believe we aren’t so much choosing the saint as the saint is choosing us. Because of that, you’d think picking out a name wouldn’t be a big deal, but I don’t mind telling you it sure seems like a lot of pressure. In fact, I was hoping Dan would do the picking, but being the gentleman he is, I was tasked with said mission.
Our bag of patron saints
As the queen of overthinking, what could possibly go wrong other than me selecting the wrong slip of paper, am I right?
Nevertheless, our moment of reckoning was upon us, so I stuck my hand in the bag and tossed all the little pieces of paper around. After feeling around for just the right one, I held it between my fingers and hesitated.
Had I gotten the correct one? Or was our saint on the other piece of paper I’d moved to get to mine. Did I need to drop my paper and do some more digging? Back and forth the questioning went, until I realized that I’d indeed already chosen our saint—or rather our saint had chosen us. So I trusted the process, held onto my selection and pulled it out of the bag.
I unfolded the paper and read it to myself.
“Well?!” Dan asked. “Who is it?”
Instead of blurting out our saint, I read him the words that appeared under the name:
“Am I not here who am your Mother? Is there anything else that you need?”
Pray for greater dependence on the maternal love of Mary.
I could barely believe my eyes. Our Lady of Guadalupe had chosen us. She’d picked us, of all people to walk with through the Jubilee year. I don’t mind telling you it brought tears to my eyes.
Since then, we’ve noticed Our Lady of Guadalupe in myriad ways, from her image on one of the rosaries I use each day to a window cling that hangs in our kitchen window.
Even back in December, She’d been a subject of conversation between Father and I. And as fate would have it, Archbishop Salvatore Cordileon just announced a new initiative encouraging devotion to Our Lady of Guadalupe, which includes a home enthronement.
Thinking back on that New Year’s Day homily, I realized Fr. Shenoy had indeed been talking to me, whether he knew it or not. And I imagine our Lady was right there looking on, smiling with great delight in the knowledge of what was to come.
Our Lady of Guadalupe, pray for us!
Ready to find your saint for 2025? Click here for access to a list of patron saint names. Or go here to have a saint selected for you.
“From the east came the Magi to Bethlehem to adore the Lord; and opening their treasures they offered precious gifts: gold for the great King, incense for the true God, and myrrh in symbol of his burial.”
Today is the Feast of the Epiphany, or manifestation of Jesus. We did the annual blessing of our home with blessed chalk, writing 20+C+M+B+25. The letters are the first initials for the tradtional names of the three Magi: Caspar, Melchior, and Balthasar. They also represent the Latin blessing “Christus mansionem benedicat,” meaning “May Christ bless this house.”
Years ago, those few weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas represented weeks of disordered pressure in my life. Many a day was spent agonizing over the perfect Christmas gifts for everyone on my shopping list, stressing over whether the garland would look perfect, or questioning if the tree was tall enough.
But after converting to Catholicism a number of years ago, I rediscovered the season of Advent. And the beauty of this season forever changed the way I approach the month of December.
Unlike the chaos of America’s commercial Christmases and the hurry-up, do-more, buy-more attitude, Advent calls on us to slow down. To wait. To prepare our hearts for the coming of the King. To offer penance or sacrifice. Such is my focus.
Tomorrow, the day before Advent 2024 begins, I’ll make a trip to the florist and pick out the greenery for the Advent wreath, which becomes the central focus of our family room and kitchen. It’s light reminds us of God’s light breaking into the world.
We’ll also begin the Saint Andrew Christmas Novena tomorrow. Said 15 times a day beginning on Nov. 30, it’s a great devotion to add as an Advent sacrifice, and the graces that flow from this short prayer never fail to fill our lives.
As the days progress, the Christmas tree doesn’t go up until at least the 10th—usually much later. In fact, I wouldn’t mind doing it on the 23rd or 24th as it used to be way back in the day, but my husband, kids, and grands insist otherwise. OK, so I’ll give them that. On the other hand, that tree doesn’t come down until the 12 Days of Christmas have come and gone.
Each day of Advent, music suitable for reflection and preparation fill our home. So while I do listen to Advent music, I don’t turn on secular Christmas music until a week or two before the big feast day. And then it’s usually under duress. I’ve found that the music of Advent fills our home with a calm, peaceful grace of sorts. It reminds us to wait as the Blessed Virgin did. To wait on the Lord. To rightly order our days in prayer, trusting that all is well.
I truly believe that in participating in this season, we can slow down the mad pace of the modern world. Re-order the focus of the holiday season, and prepare our hearts for the greatest Gift ever bestowed on the world. In turn, may we reflect Christ’s light. O come, O come, Immanuel.
Below are some other Advent rituals we participate in. Check them out for yourself, and pick one—or all!—as Advent begins this Sunday.
This site has a good breakdown of the candles, what each color means, as well as five Advent wreath Ideas to spark your creativity: How to make an Advent Wreath
I stared at the steep and rocky landscape before me as my husband Dan and I stood at the bottom of Cross Mountain in Medjugorje in Bosnia-Herzegovina. It didn’t take long for me to size up the situation and announce my intentions.
“I can’t do this.”
Dan looked a little startled at first—maybe because there was no wavering in my statement. No room for talking me out of my decision. And we both knew it.
In that moment, I was filled with both loathing and self-pity—loathing because I’d quit before I’d even started, self-pity for my arthritic bone-on-bone knees that no longer bend well, often give out when I least expect it, and hurt like the dickens 90 percent of the time. After all, I reminded myself, only a couple of days prior I’d struggled to make it up Apparition Hill. Most of that trek was spent clinging to Dan for dear life. But this was no hill. It was a mountain. One that made the Hill look like child’s play. Though we never spoke the words, I think we both understood there was no way I’d make it 10 minutes, much less all the way to the top.
“Go on, honey,” I insisted. “I’ll be fine—I’ll be right here when you get back.”
After some hesitation, he agreed and took off up the mountain jumping from rock to rock to catch up with other friends who were making the hike.
I watched the relative ease and speed with which he made up for lost time.
On the other hand, the snail-like pace with which I’d surely have made the climb would’ve been a complete hindrance to him, not to mention the other members of our small group. I knew I’d made the right decision, even if it hurt.
The round-trip hike was likely going to take him about two hours, so with time on my hands and a journal in my backpack, I searched for a large boulder at the base of the mountain and scribbled down some thoughts, glancing up from time to time to take in all of the pilgrims who were heading to see the 10-ton cross at the top. Young parents carried their infants. Teenagers walked with friends. groups of pilgrims from around the world followed their guides. Older couples in their twilight years—plenty of whom were in their 80s and 90s—were carving their paths to the top, too. Some were carried up on stretchers while others made the journey on bare feet.
And then there was me. Poor. Pitiful. Me.
In my distress, I put away the journal and stood to make the very short walk to the bottom. But after spying the first Station of the Cross, The path to reach it was almost flat and
The views were spectacular, but the climb was trecherous.
free of rocks to be dodged, so lacking a valid excuse, I had an unexpected change of heart and headed in its direction.
A few prayers later, I looked at the path that stood ahead of me, and debated with myself as to whether or not I should venture a little further. Trust me when I say even I was surprised by my decision to keep venturing. Who cared how far I went or how long it took me? There was no one waiting on me, no one to keep up with. Just me, myself and I—and some prayers to keep me going.
I stopped to rest on numerous occasions, which really means I stopped to consider just how crazy I was and just how far I intended to hike. Each time I stopped though, something spurred me on. That, coupled with the thought of Dan and I meeting up with each other as he came back down added a little excitement, regardless if I only made it to the second or third Station.
“I’ll just go a little bit further,” I thought.
I’d made it all the way to the fourth Station with my negotiations with God began in earnest. If I was going to make it any further, I’d need a cane, which of course I didn’t have.
Until a stranger changed that only moments later.
“Here,” she said handing off her cane to me. “I don’t need it any more.”
After thanking her, I looked up at the sky and muttered to God.
“I suppose this is your way of saying, ‘keep going’.”
So I did. Little by little, Hail Mary by Hail Mary, I took my sweet time, making it onward and upward. The only thing I could be sure of was that Our Blessed Mother and more than a few saints were keeping me company. Otherwise, I’d never have made it on my own.
It didn’t take me long to come up with a plan by which I could navigate the rocks. Every step was intentional, and often made in trepidation, hoping my knees wouldn’t give out as my foot made contact with the earth. Every few yards, I surveyed my surroundings, sometimes watching others for ideas for maneuvering among the rocks and vegetation. I made use of branches within my reach and used them to pull myself up, and searched for the path of least resistance, which didn’t always exist.
And every few minutes, I’d find a rock to rest on.
During one break, I struck up a conversation with a man, his wife and sister who sat down next to me. They’d been in Medjugorje a couple of weeks and still had a couple more weeks ahead of them, and were no strangers to Cross Mountain. On this day, they planned to picnic at the top. Our conversation made me feel not-so-terribly alone, and I was comforted by the fact that they were on the mountain, too.
“Hey when you get there, if you see my husband,” I said showing them a photo of him, “tell him to look for me on his way down!”
He does have to come down this way, I thought. Doesnt he?
I pushed the thought out of my mind, and instead focused on how wonderful it would be to see his face when we ran into each other.
Stopping to pray the Stations of the Cross offered a momentary rest on the way to the top.
Except that we never did. The closer I got to the top, the more I questioned what the odds were that there was an
other way down—and he’d taken it. I tried to remain hopeful as I approached the 14th Station of the Cross, leaning on the possibility that he was still at the top, soaking in the wonder of this mountain and its 90-year-old cross. And I held onto that hope like a frightened child might cling to his mother.
When I finally made it to the cross some 3 hours later, there was no sign of Dan anywhere. I tried to take in the splendor of the moment and the holiness that enveloped me. After all, I was standing in a place known for astounding conversions like those of Fr. Dan Reehill, Fr. Mark Beard, and Fr. Leon.
Yet all I could pray was, “Why God? Why did you bring me up here.”
The view from the top of Cross Mountain
I walked around the perimeter several times and checked out every face I saw, hoping to see someone I knew. As my hope ran dry, I noticed what I’d been fearing all along. All the pilgrims were heading down the mountain on a different path.
For the first time since my journey began, I felt a massive pit in my stomach, realizing Dan had gone down a different way, too. Now I had to make my own way back. I was exhausted, hot and thirsty—and the water and snacks were with Dan. But that paled in comparison to the reality that we’d chosen not to get international calling on our phones: they only worked when we had WiFi.
I had no way of letting him know where I was.
It was already 11:30 a.m. when I glanced at my watch. He’d likely returned to the bottom at least an hour prior—and at this point, he’d be worried sick. The pit in my stomach grew even deeper. As I’d later learn, that was exactly what was happening. Fearful that I’d been kidnapped or killed—or only God-knew-what had happened to me, he canvassed the area over and over searching for his wife, who’d promised she’d be right there waiting for him at the bottom of the mountain. Yet she was no where to be found. So he did the only thing he could do. He kept looking. And he prayed.
Meanwhile on the mountain, another reality stared me in the face: it’s always more difficult to go down than up. Hiking down a mountain is no exception, which was a notion that paired poorly with my panic to get down as fast as possible. The terrain hampered my speed so much that there were times I expected the snails to pass me. The truth was, I wanted to give up. I wanted to sit down and cry and resume the pity party that had begun hours ago at the foot of the mountain, even if I knew deep down that quitting wasn’t an option.
My conversations with God and the Blessed Mother remained questions: Why did you bring me up here if I wasn’t going to find Dan? What was the purpose of this whole hike? Why do I suddenly feel so alone? Can you send me a sign? Something? Anything? Can you at least have my Guardian Angel assure Dan I’m okay?
It was in that moment—the moment when I felt most hopeless—that the family I’d met earlier caught up with me as they made their way down. They asked about Dan and I explained what must’ve happened. Clearly worried, the woman and her sister volunteered to go ahead of us and look for Dan, and her husband offered to stay back and assist me. To this day, I wonder if they were Guardian Angels, as there were many spots on the way down that would have been challenging for me to traverse on my own. And it was nice to have company—to have someone to spill my guts to about how awful I felt about the worry I’d unwittingly caused my dear husband.
“Maybe this is something you had to do on your own,” my walking companion said.
I agreed, even if I wondered why.
It was 1:20 p.m. when we made it back to the foot of the mountain and spotted his wife and sister. But there was no sign of Dan.
They made sure I was safely in the back seat of a cab and headed back to Two Heart Hotel before parting ways. As I exited the cab and walked in to the dining room, news of my return was already making the rounds.
Meanwhile, Dan was nowhere to be found. He’d walked to The Castle to ask Nancy and Patrick if they’d seen me. and it was there that he learned of my return.
“She’s safe! She’s at the hotel!” Nancy yelled to him.
As long as my hike up Cross Mountain had taken, it paled in comparison to the wait that faced me while Dan made his way back. Now with WiFi, my phone was filled with texts from him, making it clear that he was as distraught as I was. And I’m not sure we’ve ever had a reunion quite like the one we had when he walked into the hotel. It’s hard to describe that type of relief and joy.
Suffice it to say we never left each others sides for the rest of the trip. And many a conversation recounted my hike up that Mountain.
Months later, the effects of that day linger in my mind. And I suspect they always will. I still wonder what will unfold as its graces continue to fall on me, though I’m still not sure why I hiked up that mountain. I only know that I was called to do so. In responding to that call, the power of the Holy Spirit and the intercession of the Blessed Mother and more than a few saints, accompanied me on every step of the journey. And much like the countless stories of others who’ve visited Medjugorje, I’ll never be the same.
Have you ever wondered what the shortest books of the Bible are? That’s precisely where I found myself this morning as I flipped over to the Letter of Jude in honor of his feast day today. (Side note: he shares this day
with Simon the Zealot!)
The sole chapter of the Letter of Jude contains 25 verses. (Spoiler alert: it’s the fifth shortest of the Bible.) Though his 491 words are few, they pack a punch.
In fact, they’re equally as significant in 2024 as they were 2,000 years ago, as he writes of licentiousness and unnatural vice, of godlessness and wordliness.
“Woe to them!” he says, speaking of their fate.
Clearly his words are a warning, lest we too go down the path of the evil one.
But his letter goes a step further. He doesn’t just strand us there with the bad seeds. but rather tells of how to respond—how to maneuver times of great turmoil:
“But you, beloved, build yourselves up in your most holy faith; pray in the holy Spirit.
Keep yourselves in the love of God and wait for the mercy of our Lord Jesus Christ that leads to eternal life.
On those who waver, have mercy; save others by snatching them out of the fire; on others have mercy with fear,*abhorring even the outer garment stained by the flesh.”
He gave us marching orders. A battle cry, if you will. When the going gets tough, the tough, as they say, get going.
Our calling? To stay in God, to lift up others, to save those we can save. To daily strengthen and stand strong in our faith.
And to remember that nothing is impossible with God.
A recent daily Mass reading told the story of Job, who though an innocent, God-fearing man was pursued by evil. After losing everything and everyone except his wife in a matter of moments, he continued to praise God.
I remember in my younger days how unfair I thought his losses were. They’re still hard to comprehend in the grand scheme of things. But the truth is, there is no fairness on earth.
Which brings me to the first part of the reading. The part just before Job loses everything. Here are verses 6 and 7:
One day, when the angels of God came to present themselves before the LORD, the satan also came among them. The LORD said to the satan, “Where have you been?” Then the satan answered the LORD and said, “Roaming the earth and patrolling it.”
Did you catch that? Roaming the earth and patrolling it. Sobering as it may be though, we tend to think he’s roaming another part of the earth. Certainly not our part of the earth. Right?
But what if, as Fr. O’Doherty pointed out, we were to imagine him roaming down State Route 200 in Ocala? Or St Lucie Blvd in Stuart? Or insert-the-name-of-the-street-you-live-on?
If you look, you can find him—at least his influence—in hatred and vitriol that consume the internet. You can find him in vile lyrics of popular songs. His fingerprints are on human traffickers and in the abortion clinics. Wherever evil exists, so too does the satan.
Is it fair? To the human mind, no. But we do live in the valley of tears, after all.
Which isn’t to say we should live in fear. Not at all. God is the authority over all, including the satan. We should, however, know our one true enemy. We should all be on guard and cognizant of the fact that we’re in a daily spiritual battle between good and evil. And that battle is always taking place whether we acknowledge it or not.
So while the ultimate victory belongs to Christ who has already defeated, though not yet destroyed all the powers of hell, the prince of darkness is also the temporary prince of earth. As his time gets shorter and shorter, evil will continue to ratchet up. It will become easier and easier to see. And the satan will continue to roam and patrol the earth.
It was a giant rooster, no doubt about it, standing in all its glory on the grounds of Queen of Peace Catholic Church. Not something one typically comes upon every day. Yet there it was. about six feet in stature if I had to guess. I was so enthralled that I asked Dan to drive by it so I could snap a photo.
Where had it come from? How long had it been there? How on earth had I never noticed it before?
“Come to think of it, there are other roosters here too,” Dan said.
“Hmm… You’re right!” I said. “One that sits on a shelf to the right of the altar.”
“There’s at least one more, too,” he said, describing a black rooster in the courtyard.”
I was stumped. Roosters. Three of ’em. But why?
The obvious answer would be a reminder of Peter’s three-time denial of Jesus. As both Matthew and Luke tell us, upon hearing the cock crow, Peter wept bitterly. Perhaps the roosters are reminders of repentance.
But that seemed way too obvious. Surely there was more to it. Especially in light of the fact that some scholars believe the cock-crowing Jesus referred to wasn’t a rooster at all, but a trumpet that was blown to signify the changing of the Roman guard.
Not to mention that the Sanhedrin didn’t allow poultry in the city of Jerusalem. And sure, the roosters’ crows could’ve traveled, but let’s stay on track, shall we?
Anyway, back to the roosters. Were there more of them, hidden throughout the grounds or slipped into the beautiful artwork and stained glass that adorn our church? Was this rooster hunt Fr. O’Doherty’s Catholic version of Where’s Waldo?
I wondered.
Knowing an answer to my question wasn’t coming immediately roosters, I pulled out my best research tools and searched for further connections between roosters and Christendom. (OK, so I Googled it.)
Throughout the centuries, roosters have symbolized a number of things. The early morning crows represent the dawning of a new day—an awakening. It’s a symbol of change and hope and a reminder of Christ’s unending mercy.
Pope Nicolas I ordered all Catholic churches to install a rooster weathervane on the steeple. Another pope, Gregory I, believed the rooster should be the official insignia for all of Christianity.
And while that was all well
and good, I wasn’t going to be satisfied until I discovered the rooster’s significance at my church.
So I met with the man himself, Fr. O’Doherty, and asked him to set the record straight. Was it a reminder of repentance that’s always available? A symbol of hope? Something more?
Turns out, none of my speculations had been accurate. Because it was not the affinity for said poultry that came first. It was the rooster itself—moreover it was the large rooster mentioned in the first paragraph. It’s actually about five feet tall and was a gift from a parishioner. And that one gift opened the proverbial chicken coop if you will, to a host of other cock-a-doodle-doos.
To date, I’ve uncovered several more roosters in and around Queen of Peace—most with Fr. O’Doherty’s help—bringing my total count to about eight or nine. He believes that’s about the extent of them.
At the end of the day, it’ll be up to the parishioners to interpret the roosters as they see fit. If nothing else, it leaves the door open for further speculation and stories—all of them true in their own way, of course. And as Father is fond of saying, “some of them actually happened.”
tion as the Easter Triduum begins on Holy Thursday is an experience like no other in the Church.
Have you ever wondered what the shortest books of the Bible are? That’s precisely where I found myself this morning as I flipped over to the Letter of Jude in honor of his feast day today. (Side note: he shares this day
Anyway, back to the roosters. Were there more of them, hidden throughout the grounds or slipped into the beautiful artwork and stained glass that adorn our church? Was this rooster hunt Fr. O’Doherty’s Catholic version of Where’s Waldo?
