2025 Column
One very expensive hotdog
October 2025 - Moultrie News
Lately, we are all concerned about consuming plastics. I never thought we’d have to fear steel. The night started out uneventfully. One of those blissful Saturday nights with no plans. We were watching TV and it was raining outside—actually it had been raining all weekend—and planned to make do with whatever was in the fridge. Heating some leftover brown rice, I added a can of black beans, an avocado and some salsa. Not wanting the dish I had prepared, my husband went off to search for his favorite fallback: pork. He went outside, rummaging through the shed refrigerator, and proudly returned 15 minutes later carrying a plate of freshly grilled hotdogs. But then, after his very first bite, he paused and clutched his throat. “Oh no!” he said. “Oh God, help me.” “What?!” I screeched, as he tried to expel what sounded like a small animal from his throat. I knew he wasn’t choking, but something was clearly wrong. Apparently, he told me, between hacks and gurgles, he had swallowed one of the steel bristles from a brush used for cleaning the grill. One must have come off, attached to a hotdog, and was now stuck in his throat! After about ten minutes of unsuccessfully trying to dislodge it himself, we got in the car and drove to the hospital. As we awaited the results of an X-ray, we sat huddled together in the small space. “Don’t!” he said, as I began to google: swallowed a bristle from grill brush. But—unfortunately for him—I had already scanned the headlines. So I switched gears, diving into my favorite fallback: the rosary. I prayed that this “bristle” would come out as quickly and uneventfully as possible. The X-ray results came back. Nothing showed up on film. “Are you sure you didn’t just swallow it?” I asked, imagining his intestines down the line slowly getting nicked. He moved his mouth around, swallowed. It was still there. Like “a toothpick lodged way back.” Next, the doctor prepared us for going downtown to MUSC where an ENT would be waiting. So we drove in the pouring rain, dodging the flooding as best we could. Now it was past 9 p.m.—which meant things would really start heating up in the ER. Needless to say, my anxiety was starting to peak when I saw a man walk inside carrying part of his finger in a plastic container filled with ice. My husband—calm as could be—was scrolling through Gamecock stats on his phone. How could he be like this? I wondered. But he said, (painstakingly, as it was hard for him to speak) that the train had already left the station. And though he didn’t want to be on it, he was. There was nothing else he could do but pray…and leave it in the doctor’s hands. We were called back. The doctors—God bless them—were so kind, and capable…and surprisingly young. The first one prepared us for a CAT scan, saying it would give them a clear view of exactly where the steel bristle was lodged. Then they would probably do a quick surgery to remove it. We were left to wait. CAT scan? Anesthesia? Surgery? I did not want any of this for my husband. Also, my mind couldn’t help but flash to the future. As the clock ticked closer to midnight, I imagined—God willing, if all went well—finding my way back to the parking garage after the surgery, trying to dodge both the flooding and the people walking into the emergency room with missing limbs. But my husband reminded me to stay in the moment, that we would cross that bridge when we got there. Before the CAT scan, another doctor came in, saying she was going to see if she could locate the offender by going up his nose, and down to his throat with a long, thin probe. And she saw it! It was lodged in the soft tissue far back in his tongue by his tonsils. Where these bristles “usually get caught.” (!) After more consultations, it was decided that they were going to “attempt” to dislodge it without surgery. Hooray! So now there were three doctors in the room. One wrapping his tongue in gauze and stretching it as far as it could possibly go, one heading down his throat with something that resembled a boomerang, and a third who…well, at this point I had closed my eyes (and ears), so I am not sure if he was there simply for moral support or to hold my husband in a headlock. On the third attempt, I heard those three beautiful words: “WE GOT IT!” So in the end, there was no CAT scan, no surgery, and we made it safely home just past 1 a.m., full of gratitude. I also witnessed something beautiful: my husband’s calm trust in our prayers—and his courage. For he had been a trooper. Back at the house, quietly cleaning up the remains of what would turn out to be some very expensive hotdogs, I saw him longingly and wistfully look into the fridge at the remaining bag of uncooked dogs. Apparently, not even this incident was going to put a dent into his passion for pork, and right then I knew what he was thinking: tomorrow is another day. But not before we throw away the steel brush and buy something else to clean the grill with. At least I won’t have to worry about it being plastic.
Choices
September 2025 - Moultrie News
“I need your best discernment advice,” my friend said during the first couple of minutes of our phone call. “What’s going on?” I asked. She sighed. “The girls want to go to school.” Ah yes. We’d been through this before. It first started when her oldest—whom she homeschooled since he was five—wanted to go to begin ninth grade at their local Tennessee parochial school. After discussing it, she and her husband agreed. Next, her daughter, who was six years younger, started hinting that she, too, wanted to go to school. So they let her go as well, when she reached ninth grade. But my friend certainly wasn’t expecting it when her youngest two girls—one about to enter fifth grade, the other second grade—started the battle cry. “And the thing is,” she continued, “I called the school, just in case there was a slim chance they had an opening….and they did. They actually had one spot in fifth grade, and a couple more left in second, so if we do it, we need to decide quickly. Do you think that was a sign?” she asked. I didn’t know if it was a sign or not. Nor did I want to sway her in one direction or another. My job was to ask a few more probing questions, and be a good listener. She told me that for the past year her youngest two girls had been fighting more. (“Mom, we’re always TOGETHER!” the older of the two shrieked.) “It’s becoming a struggle to get them to do their work,” she continued. “And to be honest, I’m tired, and starting to get worn down.” I understood how my friend could be getting tired despite her love of homeschooling. But it had been a great fit for her family. She was part of a co-op where the kids went to school one day a week with other children. They were also involved in multiple sports and were always playing with neighborhood kids when their work was completed, so I knew the “always together” part was a bit of an exaggeration. “With the older two kids, you were younger, and there were only two of them. Now your family has grown.” “Yes.” she said. Then came a shakiness to her voice as she unleashed the emotional part—how it would be a big change for her as well, having to say goodbye to a sweet chapter of almost two decades. “But I can think of about a million things I’d like to do with an extra seven hours a day. I’m even considering renewing my nursing license,” she added. Still, she was torn. When she had asked her son—a rising college senior—his opinion, he said, “Mom, I really liked homeschooling. I think it made us really close. I also really liked going to high school. Either way I think I’d still be the same person.” This made sense to me. She and her husband were good parents and they were raising well-rounded kids. When we ended our conversation, I told my friend I’d check back soon, with a strong feeling she might be out shopping for uniforms the next time I called. But when I spoke with her the following week, she told me that after becoming quiet and reflecting, they had chosen to continue home schooling with a calm, centered perseverance. “I remember with my older two we had similar struggles, but I am glad we stuck it out. We’re going to put more structure in place, and I plan to get up earlier so I can have some alone time each day,” she added. “I always have more to give when I make that a priority.” “How do the little ones feel about the decision?” I asked. “They’re fine. My older daughter reminded them that she never knew how good she had it until she couldn’t just go to Dollywood on a random Tuesday. That helped,” she said. So in the end, she discerned the right thing to do not by rushing, acting in fear, or throwing up her hands in defeat, but by taking quiet time for thought and reflection. Instead of relying only on outward signs, she went inwards and upwards, praying about what was right for each child—with her husband—at this point in time. Always with the end goal in mind: to give her children a classical education while living out their faith in a way that was the best fit for her family.
Praying about the small things
August 2025 - Moultrie News
Ever since my son began sleeping through the night when he was about a year old, he always slept like a rock. He can be in a tent on sloped ground, or in a hotel room next to a rock concert, but he rarely wakes up unless he is, perhaps, sick. “How’d you sleep?” I often asked each morning. “Great! You?” “Eh, not so much,” I answered back one day. My back was sore. It was time for a new mattress. Our current one was nearly 15 years old, and as much as I dreaded finding a new one, we were overdue. So one day during the summer, when my son was about twelve years old, we went off searching. I once heard a statistic: the time between when someone starts looking for a mattress to when they actually make a purchase is something like 300 days. Unbelievable! I certainly did not want to be included in that number. My back couldn’t wait. Ironically, not even an hour after shopping, I believed I had found the perfect mattress. And my son, realizing he would not be getting the top-of-the-line, adjustable/massaging mattress, decided on a suitable one for himself fairly quickly, too. I told the saleswoman we were pretty set in our decisions, but would ‘sleep on it.’ Then I’d bring my husband back for final approval and make the purchase. Oh thank you God, I silently prayed as I left the store. That went so smoothly! Too smoothly in fact, because later that day, every trigger point on the left side of my body flared up. So I resumed my search, doing research and visiting different mattress stores. At one place, after testing out different beds and hearing about the current sale, I was pretty much sold. By this point my husband said he only cared that the mattress was firm, so he left the decision to me. So there I was, all set to make the purchase, when I overheard the salesperson talking to another couple who had walked inside. They were asking about the warranty. After only two years with this particular mattress their backs were hurting! And though they were speaking softly, I heard the woman say something about her husband having to sleep on the couch! Needless to say, I left without buying the mattress. The three hundred-day-statistic was becoming more believable. God, I later prayed, I really want to be done with this purchase, but I keep hitting these roadblocks. I had always been taught that God cares about ALL the details of our lives, no matter how small. And how we can call on him for anything, even something as “simple” as a mattress purchase. He wants a relationship with us, and just like with friends, the relationship blooms when we spend time together. So I prayed about the mattress, and then did my best to be patient and trust. A couple of weeks later, when I was visiting my parents up north, on a day where my left hip felt especially stiff, I brought up the mattress again. God, I know there are a LOT of things way more important than a mattress, but I need your help. Later that day, a mattress store I had seen when I first arrived home popped into my mind. Hmmm, but I was already there back in Charleston, I thought. Still, I figured, what did I have to lose? It was worth checking out. So I went there and tested out some mattresses that hadn’t been in the South Carolina store. One felt great. Not too hard, not too soft… But the price was higher than my budget. Was this another roadblock? Then the saleswoman told me that if I found this mattress cheaper online, they would do a price match, plus take off an additional ten percent. Quickly I began my internet digging, determined to find a cheaper price—which I did. What a deal! That was just the confirmation I needed that this was the bed for me. I confidently made the purchase, which could be delivered to South Carolina with no extra charge—and have been happy with the mattress ever since. “How’d you sleep last night, Mom?” my son asked when we were back in Charleston, and the mattress was assembled. “Great,” I answered with a big smile on my face. “And you?” “Great!” he replied. He had a new mattress, too. Purchased—of all places—straight off the internet, untested. Like I said, he always sleeps like a rock.
Lessons from my grandfather's hand
July 2025 - Moultrie News
When my sister and I were little we were fascinated with my grandpa’s hand. Or rather I should say his lack of a hand. He only had a stump. I clearly remember him sitting in a chair as we would poke and prod in awe of this curiosity. No wrist, no fingers, just an oddly shaped blob. He would answer all our questions patiently and then we would make him retell the story of how it happened. It went like this. He had been working at a factory when he was in his early twenties. One day his hand got caught in a machine. It couldn’t be saved. Just like that it was gone. He no longer had a left hand. What we found just as fascinating was what happened afterward. My grandmother would usually tell us this part. At the time, she and my grandfather had been engaged to be married. After the accident, her parents warned her not to marry him. “What good will a man be without his hand?” they asked. They did not think he would be able to be a good provider, but her commitment never wavered. She knew she had quite a prize in my grandfather. He was a good and humble man—even considering becoming a priest before they were married. As it turns out they would have five children together. He was a loving husband, father, and contributor to his community—even becoming the president of his local Rotary club. His motto was “others,” and he was a beautiful witness of what this looked like. As my sister and I got older we would often go visit my grandparents in Florida. One of his favorite things to do was offer us his recliner to sit in when we were watching TV. My grandfather had a bad back, and he slept in that chair most nights, but when we visited, it was always the first thing he offered us. When it came to chores, there was no division of labor between my grandparents. When the garbage needed to be thrown, the first one who saw it was full, took it outside. When the bathroom needed to be cleaned, they cleaned it together. I even witnessed my grandfather on his knees scrubbing the floor with his one hand. There were some things he needed help with—such as having his meat cut from someone at the table when he was having lunch or dinner. He bought clip-on ties. He wore loafers and sneakers with Velcro straps. He didn’t even let his lack of a left hand stop him from playing golf. Concerned about holding others up, he mainly played with my father. But the irony was his shot was straight, so he would usually be “on the green” first. I never heard my grandfather complain. I did, however, often see him rubbing the stump at the end of his arm. Perhaps it was phantom limb pain. One of the most powerful things he taught me—that remains with me to this day—was how reverent he was on Good Friday. I can recall sitting in the back seat of the car on that somber day one year. As I watched my grandpa’s right hand and left forearm guide the steering wheel, my sister leaned over to turn on the radio. He gently reminded her that it was a day of abstinence—from the TV, from the radio, from food. We should instead be quiet and reflective, focusing on how Christ died for us. I wasn’t living in the States when my grandfather, at age 80, fell ill and was close to death. I was halfway across the world when I got the call from my parents. They had just been to Hospice, as it was close to midnight their time, and my grandpa only had a few hours remaining. There was no way I would be able to make it back in time to say goodbye. Since it was still daytime where I was living, my father asked me to go and pray for him. As I left the church that late afternoon, and was driving home, the most amazing colors appeared in the sunset—a beautiful array of pinks, purples, and oranges. I couldn’t help but feel maybe my grandfather had just died and all of Heaven was rejoicing. For he had run the race well. He was a man who never dwelt on what he didn’t have, but all he DID have. And now he was whole again.
Discomfort for spiritual growth
June 2025 - Moultrie News
A couple of months ago, as Lent began, I still hadn’t decided what I was going to give up. By the way I was shoveling trail mix in my mouth, I had already blown the common fallback of chocolate. As a hypochondriac, trying to give up Google lasted about two days. So I went with the tried and true—giving up a bunch of little comforts, like driving in silence instead of listening to music or talk radio in the car. Forgoing the morning pleasure of a milky cup of tea. Not attempting to “switch” when my husband had the couch, while I sat stiffly on a chair beside him. Those little sacrifices had to hurt, but oh how I like comfort. That milky cup of morning tea—did I mention that I like to have it in bed? Sometimes I think the love of comfort may just be the biggest obstacle in the pursuit of trying to become more holy. Which brings me to fasting. Of the three pillars of Lent—prayer, almsgiving, and fasting—I have always found fasting to be the most difficult. But cutting back on food for limited periods, especially when coupled with prayer for others, is a powerful spiritual discipline that aids in repentance and conversion. Of all the sermons I have ever heard, one of the most profound showed a link between comfort and fasting. The priest spoke about how important this spiritual practice was in his life. He didn’t just fast during Lent, but a few days a week throughout the year. He did this for one simple reason: to remember all the people in the world who go without food, who feel the ache in their stomach on a daily basis. The act of fasting helped him to be united with them in spirit. It reminded him to pray for them more, or support them more in their needs. When life went along smoothly, when he was too comfortable, it was easy to forget about all the poor souls who were suffering. I was thinking about this homily recently when I was experiencing some physical pain that wasn’t letting up. During this time, when I would tell my parents or close friends what was going on, the most comforting thing they said was simply, “I will pray for you.” Knowing they were taking time out of their day to offer up a prayer—so I might feel some relief—felt like Chapstick on raw lips. I could concretely feel those prayers and was so grateful. That experience made me realize, in a deeper way, that so many people are hurting physically on a level that is far, far greater than what I had been dealing with. The experience showed me I needed to be praying for them more—a lot more—for I had seen firsthand how the prayers of others had helped me get through a tough time. I am not sure if it’s just me, but I have been hearing so many stories recently of people who are truly suffering. It might not come in the form of an empty stomach, but in hearts that feel empty. Maybe someone has lost a child, and while the world has moved on, they have remained stuck in their grief. Maybe someone is old and lonely with no one to visit them. Maybe they have a disease and are in a great deal of relentless, physical pain. They may feel utterly hopeless. So while I like my comforts—my milky tea, my snacks in between meals, resting on the couch—when I am feeling comfortable, I may go about my day without much thought of the suffering of others. But when I am experiencing discomfort and/or pain, I am much more apt to pray for all those who are feeling pain too. A reminder that occasional fasting from the things we enjoy isn’t just a Lenten practice, but a spiritual discipline that can benefit both the giver and receiver all the year through.
Surrendering to God's will
April 2025 - Moultrie News
Her face was angelic. I saw her randomly, only a handful of times in the past few years. Her mother was always pushing her in a special stroller. She was now five years old, but looked much younger. This precious child “appeared” in town every several months. A regular at the children’s hospital, I would see her at the cathedral downtown. She was always having one surgery after the other. Her mother looked tired and weary. I walked up to her to say hello. “How are you?” I asked, giving her a hug. “We head back home tomorrow,” she said. She did not unleash good news for me as I had hoped. Instead she was quiet, reflective. “How can I pray for you?” I asked. “I don’t pray anymore that she is healed,” she said. “I pray for God’s will to be done. She is an angel and I know how much God loves her. For God’s will,” she said slowly. “For God’s will.” I had just been thinking that morning how my prayers can often be so “wordy.” Telling God exactly what I want and how I want things to be done, like I am the one giving instructions instead of the other way around. But in this woman’s trustful surrender she reminded me once again that God is the potter and we are the clay. “This whole experience has brought me so much closer to God,” she continued. She was calm, in no great rush as we stood in back of the now almost empty cathedral. “It has taught me about suffering. I think about the Virgin Mary. About the pain she must have been in watching Jesus be crucified. It has brought me closer to Mary, to Jesus.” Her daughter sat patiently in her stroller. Every so often I could coax a small smile. “Is she in a lot of pain?” I asked. Her mother sighed. “It’s hard to tell. Often, when they roll her out of surgery, she is smiling.” Tears pricked my eyes as I thought of how children handle illness in such a unique way. They seem so much more accepting, so much less afraid. “She’s an angel,” her mother said again. “But you’re an angel too!” I replied. She looked at me blankly, not realizing how much her light was shining. But oh how it was! I thought of all she had to endure—the long, five-hour drive to an unfamiliar city that she had to learn to navigate on her own. Sleeping away from home for days and weeks at a time without familiar comforts and support systems. And the worst part—having to watch her child endure test after test, surgery after surgery. Her husband was an angel, too. Back at home he was taking care of their two other children, working long, hard days to pay the bills. As we left the church together that day, I realized I may not ever know this sweet child’s fate. But I knew I would continue to pray for her healing. I would also pray that her mother had the strength to continue to carry this heavy cross. She was doing this so beautifully, with so much grace. Handing her will over to God’s will—imitating Jesus. And she was right. God loved this child. And when I kneeled down to say goodbye to her, the smile on her face reflected this truth.
Little Acts of love
March 2025 - Moultrie News
If we have a spouse or roommate, there are often things they probably do that grate on our nerves. For instance, I get aggravated when my husband doesn’t take his shoes off when he comes inside the house. He gets irritated when I forget to write a shopping list. Or actually go food shopping. Another thing that bothers me is when he tosses a spoon in the sink that has just been used for almond butter. The almond butter scenario goes something like this. About an hour after the kitchen has been cleaned from dinner, my husband will no doubt wander back in and begin to root through the pantry. Which I admit has been pretty bare bones since my son left for college. But when I see him begin to lug out the blender, with all its various parts and pieces, I know it is game over. Because he then proceeds to take out frozen berries, an over ripe banana, some sort of green powder, cinnamon (which inevitably leaves a thin brown mist all over the counter) and then the dreaded final thing: the scoop of almond butter which goes into the blender. Sometimes he will wash the blender immediately and sometimes it will sit in the sink filled with water until I see it the next morning. But that darn spoon will either disappear down the drain—where the garbage disposal tries its best to obliterate it—or it will end up in the dishwasher without me noticing that it is still covered with a thick film of almond butter. The next day, or whenever the dishwasher is unloaded, that spoon will now have baked on almond butter which is nearly impossible to get clean. I usually have to end up scraping it off with my nails. “But hey,” you might be saying in his defense. “it all evens out because you probably forgot the eggs/paper towels/and the almond butter this week, right? I mean seriously, have you even been to the grocery store this week?” Last year during Lent, my husband and I attended a series of talks based on St. Therese’s way of doing “little things with great love.” For instance, doing someone’s chores anonymously. We were presented with a challenge: what was one concrete way we could practice the “little way of love” that week? I wrote down almond butter and underlined it three times. Because how often do I complain about the almond butter, instead of just washing the spoon and putting it back in the drawer quietly, as a little offering of love? Actually, there are so many ways I can “die to self” and do more for my husband, without him even knowing what I am doing. Over twenty years ago, when we were preparing for marriage, I will never forget a story a priest told us. For six weeks we had met with him to take Pre-Cana classes, discussing different topics related to marriage. I don’t remember much about those sessions, but I do remember the evening we spoke about the ins and outs of living together as a married couple, including how we would tackle household chores. Apparently, during the first five years of marriage, that is what most couples fight about. I thought it might have been over money. Like how much almond butter costs. The story he told us was about an older priest he lived with who liked to make himself peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at night before bed. Often, he would leave the knife in the sink filled with peanut butter. I think of all the stories he told us during those six weeks, that was the one I was meant to hear, because it has stuck with me all this time. The priest then went on to tell us that instead of saying anything, he would just clean that knife each night and put it back in the drawer. A little offering of love. So the next time my husband does one of those things that irritate me, I will try my best to bite my tongue and remain quiet. Instead I will offer it up as a little act of love as St. Therese so often did. Then I will sit down and write a shopping list. Right after I mop the floor.
Calling on emergency prayers
February 2025 - The State
I was almost out of gas. My dad always taught me not to go below a quarter of a tank, but I never listened. The dash board said I still had eight miles of fuel remaining and luckily the gas station was less than two miles away. So I shut off the air conditioning, rolled down the window, and continued along my merry way. Until I looked at the dashboard again. Instead of going from eight to seven miles, all the sudden it read zero. ZERO! The traffic was heavy and we were all doing about 40 miles per hour. Was my car just going to quit right there in the middle of the road? With all the other cars crashing in behind me? Was there really that secret reserve in my tank that would hold me over? I didn’t know. But I immediately knew what I had to do—pull out the big guns. I had to recite the ‘emergency’ prayer. I came to know the Memorare, a beautiful prayer to the Virgin Mary, when my son was in first grade. I was having a migraine one day when he walked over to me, laid his hands upon my head and recited this prayer word for word. “When did you learn this?” I asked in amazement. He said they had been memorizing it in school. Over the next few days I learned more about this particular prayer—and committed it to memory myself. It was also known as the emergency prayer for when you’re, well, in an emergency. (Though I admit I use it much more frequently). The first time I used it in this way, I was driving in the rain and it suddenly became very heavy. I’m talking torrential. The kind of rain that is completely and utterly blinding and relentless. And I just so happened to be on the Cooper River Bridge, so I couldn’t necessarily pull over and wait for it to let up. I could hardly see a thing and just focused on the car in front of me. The light from their hazards was offering just a small bit of visibility. But even that was fading as the rain beat down and the clouds became thicker the higher up the bridge I went. I prayed this new prayer I had learned, out loud, over and over, the entire time I was crossing the bridge. Just as I began to make the descent, and knew the end was almost in sight, the clouds began to part and the rain eased up. I had made it safely to the other side, praise God. It felt like a miracle at the time. In my many years of driving I think that experience ranks up there as being one of the scariest. But back to my gas story. I continued to pray the Memorare while I drove, stopping at the many red lights that seemed to take forever to change to green. Then finally the gas station appeared and I was able to squeak in. (Okay, not really. I drove in normally, despite my car telling me I had zero miles left of gas.) But once again, just like on the bridge, I felt like Mary had helped me in the last stretch. So, next time I will try to remember to heed my father’s advice and fill up once I see my tank reach the quarter mark. But I will still continue to call upon Mary, whether in an emergency or not. Because like any good mother, she just wants to love, guide and protect us—by always pointing us to Jesus, and making sure we arrive safely “home.” Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection, implored thy help, or sought thy intercession, was left unaided. Inspired by this confidence I fly unto thee, O Virgin of virgins, my Mother. To thee do I come, before thee I stand, sinful and sorrowful. O Mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not my petitions, but in thy mercy hear and answer me. Amen
Why I pray for South Carolina's death row prisoners
January 2025 - The State
I was somber the entire drive. We were going to visit our son at college, but my thoughts were elsewhere. I was thinking about the prisoner who was going to be put to death later that September day. “Why so quiet?” my husband asked. I told him I was praying for the prisoner who was to be executed. I did not know all the details. I had only skimmed the headline before we left that morning, and it made me feel powerless. “How about praying for the victim, and for their family?” he responded. “Yes, that too,” I said. I had always felt a call to pray for prisoners. I figured they must have been so very troubled to commit such heinous crimes—lack of a stable family life, lack of means, lack of love. It made me think of the variety of circumstances that each person is born into, or faces in life. There but for the grace of God go I is such a humbling phrase. I’ve never been an advocate of the death penalty. Was it really that much of a deterrent? Wouldn’t an able body be better used working in prison for the duration of their life? Perhaps, as many say, it is the only way for the families of the victims to feel any sense of justice and to get closure. Still, it troubles me. As we continued driving, I wondered what time the prisoner was set to be executed. (It was set for 6 p.m.) I wondered if there was going to be a last-minute pardon. (There would not.) I wondered how incredibly nerve-racking that must be for everyone involved. “I would like to make our first stop church,” I said to my husband. “To pray. Is that okay?” He nodded. We arrived at the church shortly before 3 p.m. It was empty save for a few people scattered about who were quietly praying in front of the Blessed Sacrament. I prayed The Divine Mercy Chaplet for the prisoner—that his heart would be repentant and open to God’s great love. I prayed for the soul of the victim. And I prayed that the victim’s family would have peace—a peace that surpassed all understanding. Outside the college town was so alive. People were everywhere, shopping, eating and drinking, and getting ready for the football game the next day. But not too far away someone was getting ready to be put to death. Getting ready to meet their Maker. My heart felt heavy, burdened. There was so much sadness in the world, so much killing. But as I continued praying, a gentle peace washed over me. The hushed quiet of the church calmed my anxiety. The sun shone through the windows, illuminating the stained glass with rays of light, reminding me of all the beauty and goodness in the world. Hymns rose inside me. The execution on September 20 was the first of several to be scheduled in South Carolina after a 13-year hiatus. Just six weeks later, as I was going up to visit my son for his birthday weekend, I repeated the same routine for another prisoner. Despite our family’s joyous occasions, the state’s scheduled ending of a life kept creeping into my thoughts. When saying the rosary, each decade ends with “Lead all souls to heaven…especially those in most need of thy mercy.” This reminds me that each and every soul is precious to God. For there is no sin greater than God’s mercy. And though I am powerless over the fate of the prisoners on death row—including the one scheduled to be put to death this Friday—I still have the power to pray.
Never walk alone
January 2025 - Moultrie News
“Do you believe in miracles?” she asked. “Of course,” I answered. “Do you have time to hear one?” “Sure.” Her story went like this: she had just returned from being a facilitator on a youth retreat weekend in the beautiful mountains of Flat Rock, North Carolina. She was responsible for giving the final encouraging talk on the last day, but she hadn’t fully planned out what she was going to say. On the last morning of the retreat, still waiting for inspiration, she and a couple of other of the leaders awoke early and went on a walk. The first thing that caught their attention was the beautiful way the moon was shining on the lake. The second thing they noticed was a fish jumping straight out of the water, as if to greet them. Even an eagle soared directly over their heads. It landed across the way where it spread out its massive, majestic wings for them to admire. They were glad they had gotten up before everyone else. They loved being out in nature and reveling in all of its beauty on that early morning walk. But then the time came for them to head back. When they returned, they were eagerly greeted by one of the young men on the retreat. “We just saw a buck,” he said. “Right outside our cabin!” “Nothing really unusual about that,” she proceeded to tell me. “We were in the mountains, after all.” But for some reason all of those sightings combined in that one morning caught her attention and made her think. At this point in our conversation she paused and pulled out her phone. I thought she was going to scroll through some pictures for me to see—of the moon, or the eagle—but I was wrong. “This is my husband’s gravestone,” she said. “He loved nothing more than being outdoors, in the beauty of Wisconsin.” As my eyes zeroed in, I saw what looked like an ordinary square headstone. But as it came into focus, I noticed an engraved picture. It was a lake. With a moon shining overhead. A fish was jumping out of the water, an eagle was soaring above, and lo and behold, off to the right was a buck standing in all its glory. My mouth dropped open. “Your husband was with you,” I said. “Perhaps he wanted to give you encouragement that you are on the right track. That you are not alone.” “Yes, but it was so much more than that,” she said. Her husband had passed away from an accident when he was in his forties. It happened over 15 years ago and she hadn’t remarried. But she had always felt her husband’s presence, always trusted that the hand of God was guiding all the events in her life—even the most tragic ones. “As amazing as this coincidence was, I didn’t feel it was solely meant for me,” she said. “It was the youth that needed that sign. They are the ones that needed to see the miracle. Because I already know in my soul that God is real. I don’t need physical evidence or signs of his presence. But this was a way to visibly show others a miracle. Because the kids need to know—more than anything—that they are loved, that they are known, that they are seen. And that good can come from even the worst of events.” I was so glad she shared her story, because in a world where God often feels far away, I need reminders that he is always close, knows the most intimate details of my life, and wants the best for me. Just like the sun on a cloudy day, he is always there, even when I can’t see. So in the end, she may not have known what she was going to speak about during the closing talk, but God knew. He had given her both the story that needed to be heard, and the hearts that needed to hear it. A beautiful reminder that we are loved, and we never walk alone.