I shoveled a path to the church doors this morning with a wind chill of -16. I felt alive...

The morning drive to my mission church is treacherous. The snow-packed road points a narrow path up a steep hill. I chide myself for not cancelling Mass. Nevertheless, my truck crunches ice beneath its wheels like a dog gnawing a bone...

As a priest, celibacy is nothing less than a lifelong Search and Rescue mission. With no family at home, there is nothing to hold me back. So, I give my all...

I gas up my truck on weekends. That’s because I carry a Toot-N-Totum card that awards ten cents off a gallon on Sundays, which is twice the weekday discount. Filling up on the Lord’s Day also re-enforces the fact that truck stops are holy places, at least according to St. Catherine of Siena...

“It’s a rental, but that don’t matter. Kate likes the location and I’m good at fixing things up.” His name is Josh, but I call him Joe. He works construction, takes pride in pulling his weight and goes the extra mile for his friends...

A Reflection on Being Alone at Christmas

During my first year of priesthood, I would keep the livestream of St. Francis' tomb pulled-up on my desktop. (you can find it on the webpage of the Basilica in Assisi). The live video of his real grave all the way in Assisi would be full screen whenever I left the office: pixelated vigil candles flickering in the dark. Waiting...

The jag in the road once had a name: Claremont. A few houses, a gas station, a wood-frame church. Thirty miles west, a once-upon-time Northfield boasted a high school, storefronts and a cotton gin. Today, straight-line winds yell cheers across the rotted floor of the Northfield gym. At Claremont, bull snakes coil like rubber hoses in the service bay of the old Texaco...

Winter came on fast this year, flattening electric poles and toppling cell phone towers. I was on retreat in a remote cabin with no heat or electricity...