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Last fall my family started a book club for the young women of the clan. I know what you are thinking: Ann, you are not exactly young. That is true. But I was the one who organized it, so I get to attend… along with my school librarian sister (because not only am I not young, I also know nothing about young adult novels and someone needs to pick the books.)

My first memory of Lole is of the night she bit me. I realize that is not the typical memory most women have of their mothers-in-law, but you need to understand that Lole was not the typical mother-in-law. The first time I went to meet her, she told me that a traditional village doctor had mentioned that in a former life she’d been a dog. I was brand new to Guam. What did I know of the local culture and belief systems? So, I said, “Okay.”

“You want to know how the doctor knew?” she asked.

“How?” I asked.

Aspiring to introduce social media into our children’s life in a healthy and limited way, a couple of years ago my sisters and I got onto Be Real. If you are not familiar with this app, let me just say it is 90% great. At a different time each day, you receive an alert that it is “Time to Be Real” and then you have two minutes to take a picture of exactly what you are doing at that moment. The app takes a picture in both directions at the same time—i.e.

The celebration of Corpus Christi each June always brings back for me fond memories of the liturgical theology courses I took as a grad student. I remember the brilliant and witty Fr. Frank Quinn, OP, who finally explained transubstantiation to me in a way that I could understand. In our course on Eucharist, he tracked the long history of Catholic inquiry concerning when in the Mass the bread and wine starts being the Body and Blood of Christ.

Before explaining why I was standing outside with 200 people in a pair of pajamas labeled “Trophy Wife,” it probably would be a good idea to explain why I own such a pair of pajamas in the first place.

The coming week is a big one for me. I’ll be flying to Chicago tomorrow to meet with leaders serving in Claretian-sponsored ministries and to shoot some video with Liturgy Training Publications on women who helped shaped the Liturgical Movement that led up to Vatican II. I’ll then be going to Washington, DC to talk with a group of pastors from the National Association of Evangelicals followed by a gathering of executive directors of Catholic ministry organizations.

I don’t remember much about my high school English literature classes. Not that I didn’t have great teachers. I did. It’s just that it was forty years ago now. I have vague memories of trying to read Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales.

I want to thank all of you who wrote to me after I posted my Good Friday thoughts. It was by the far the largest number of responses I’ve ever received to a posting. I want you to know that it does not make me happy to know that you also feel speechless before our current state of affairs in the U.S. I was rather hoping you would have the words that I find myself lacking! But, at the same time, I appreciate knowing I’m not the only one feeling robbed of language to engage constructively at present.

This Good Friday--Atlanta Friday traffic being Atlanta Friday traffic—I participated in services at another parish than I usually attend. Gosh, we gave it a good effort as a diverse community and truly it was beautiful in many ways. A struggle in others. For better or worse, the presider’s detailed and substantive homily on St. Anselm’s 11th century theology of atonement gave me more time than one might usually anticipate to close my eyes and meditate on what it would have been like to be standing as one of the women at the foot of the cross today. What would the women be talking about?

I’m writing to you today from Chicago, which is not where I expected to be right now. I was supposed to be just outside D.C. today looking at cherry blossoms and gathering with a group of catechists for a Lenten day of reflection. Instead, I am looking at a magnolia tree. Similar color. Also beautiful. But an indication that Spring is not as far along here as in the South.