I begin this essay by stating some things fittingly paradoxical: sainthood, if and when it comes for G. K. Chesterton, will diminish him. It will martyr his broadly-based reputation for the sake of transient, Catholic parochial needs. He will be unfairly rebranded as a mere Catholic clotheshorse. His sainthood will invite longstanding suspicions and skepticism
We called her Sister Magpie, inspired by the black and white of her nun’s habit, her nimble movements, and those glinting eyes ever alert for that bubble gum we smuggled into her library. The comic books she confiscated from beneath the world atlas where we feigned an interest in Madagascar were invariably returned at the
My memories of Joe Hoehn come from so long ago they seem to be from another world—a world without television—with old toilet outhouses and chicken coops in backyards, cow pastures, and skies filled with blackbirds. Entertainment was listening to a radio during nights dotted with countless stars and distant farmyard lights and wondering why a
Graham Greene had a troubled and chaotic relationship with the Catholic faith to which he converted the year before his marriage, so much so that his motives for conversion have even been questioned. At the same time, more than any writer of his day, he wrote novels rich in Catholic themes seeming to reflect his
My first memories of my father are of his absence. World War Two was raging. He was a soldier somewhere in France, or Luxembourg, or maybe Germany. At times, nobody knew for certain until a letter arrived from the war front. Written three weeks ago, the letter could only tell us where he had been.