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I have 1,262 pictures of Montana. And that is not the whole of Montana. Just the northwest quarter of this vast state with Havre, Glacier National Park, Missoula, and Helena standing in as my corners. What may sound especially strange is that I have 497 pictures of a town called Big Sandy in the middle of this square—a town that (according to the last census) only has 10 more residents than I have pictures.

Who here gets disturbed by the story of the rich young man? It was the Gospel reading this past Monday again and I’ve found myself thinking about it for a week now—both before and since. The man wants to know what to do to gain eternal life, but it turns how he doesn’t need to add anything more to his task list. Rather, Jesus tells him to get rid of some things... like all his possessions and give his resources to the poor. Then he can come and follow as a disciple.

It is a surprise to me and to all my siblings to find the next generation in our family so engaged in the science and art of food preparation. When the eight of us were growing up, we ate largely for the sake of survival rather than pleasure. Given our family size, meals tended to be noisy and chaotic and involve things like canned asparagus, spaghetti, and, on occasion, something my dad called “Valentine burgers,” which meant that the Weber kettle had burnt the outside of the hamburger black while the inside was still red.

Here we are in the peak of summer heat when Jeremiah often chooses to visit the lectionary and then linger longer than you hope he will stay around because he is whiny and dour and always comes bearing bad news. Who really wants him as a spiritual houseguest?

Yesterday, I glued my fingertips together with Krazy Glue and I am going to blame it on Fr. Greg Boyle, SJ. I have heard Fr. Greg speak at a couple of conferences now. Read a couple of his books. And was delighted recently to be given one of his quotes:

“I always talk about ‘cherishing’ because the word ‘love’ sort of gets lost. Cherishing is love with its sleeves rolled up.”

This past Sunday featured one of my favorite Gospel readings: the parable of the Sower and the Seed. It didn’t used to be one of my favorite readings. For a long time, I found it a bit boring. I mean, how many times can one hear the same passage year after year and find something new in it? There is some seed, a path, birds, gravel, thorns. Finally good soil. Be good soil. What more is there to say?

For my 7th birthday, thousands of people gathered on the National Mall in D.C. and Johnny Cash led a parade in my honor. Queen Elizabeth II stopped by with her husband Prince Philip to wish me well and the Fords paused their daily goings on to set off fireworks for a full 30 minutes. The U.S. Archivist Dr. James B. Rhoads cut into a giant white cake covered in red and blue stars and stripes. I had a matching sundress. It was fabulous and it was all about me. My parents and grandparents told me so. The people at Sunday Mass told me so. Neighbors told me so. And I believed them.

I have long been a fan of realism in the realm of art. In high school, I once saw the portrait of a girl in the St. Louis Art Museum that I could have sworn was a photograph until I came within a foot of the piece and realized it was a painting. Wow. How could the artist pull off such a feat? To reproduce with a paint brush what I would have mistaken as the work of a camera lens. Filled with awe and wonder, I knew I could never aspire to such a thing. I felt more at home in the room dedicated to Picasso’s work.

The Bible opens with the story of the Garden of Eden. A story about the beauty of the natural world that God created for us to romp around within to discover our own calling as humans. Given the harshness of daily life as adults, the Garden often feels like something of a far distant past. Perhaps something that has never existed at all… only a figment of our imagination. But then there will come these moments that open windows to the Garden and remind us of the kind of life God has dreamed for us from the very beginning. Last week was such a window opening for me.

It’s been so long ago now I can’t quite remember when, but on a plane I watched the Romcom movie 50 First Dates where Adam Sandler falls in love with Drew Barrymore in a sweet Hawaiian beach town. They hit it off. Love at first site. But then the next morning when he runs into her again, she has no memory of who he is and is alarmed by his friendly advances. How do you build a relationship with someone who can’t remember who you are? It was a fun movie. Can’t say that if I were you, I’d rush to go see it necessarily.