Faith

WHAT AMERICAN IS, WHEN WE REMEMBER (Super Bowl XL – Bad Bunny)

America is not a gate.
It is a field—
wide enough for sugarcane to grow
where yard lines once pretended to be borders.
It is a song that refuses translation
because it does not ask permission to exist.
A mother tongue lifted into floodlights,
each syllable a hand reaching forward
instead of a fist held tight.
America is a child
looking up at someone who looks like him,
not because fame matters,
but because possibility does.
Because belief still survives
in the small, unguarded places.
It is a blessing spoken outward,
never hoarded.
A roll call of neighbors,
names said slowly, lovingly,
as if geography itself were a family album
creased by use,
kept close to the heart.
America is flags moving together,
cloth breathing in unison,
not competing for air.
It is color without apology.
It is history that did not arrive quietly
and never will.
America is the courage to stand joyful
while someone else calls joy a threat.
It is love so visible
that hate reveals its true size—
small, brittle, afraid of music.
It is not purity.
It is not silence.
It is not fear dressed up as tradition.
It is not the narrowing of the world
to fit a frightened man’s vocabulary.
America is a place where language becomes rhythm,
where culture is shared like food,
passed hand to hand,
where no one asks you to erase yourself
to be welcomed.
It is the understanding that belonging
is not something you win
by excluding others,
but something you deepen
by making room.
America is a homeland that says,
We are still here,
not as defiance,
but as devotion.
And when the world is watching,
America—at its best—
chooses to answer cruelty
with celebration,
division with invitation,
and hate
with a love so expansive
it cannot be shouted down.
This is the America worth handing to our children—
not wrapped,
not polished,
but alive,
singing in every language it has ever known,
standing together in the open,
unafraid of itself.

WHEN SEEING BECOMES AN ACT OF DEFIANCE

Of Angels, Miracles and Open Hearts – 12/15/25

This Christmas season has found me standing still in gratitude. As I continue to heal from open-heart surgery, I cannot help but look back in awe at the generosity, compassion, and steadfast love that carried me through. I was humbled—truly overwhelmed—by the outpouring of care I received. It reminded me, powerfully and tenderly, of the goodness that lives in people: the quiet kindness of family, the unwavering presence of friends, the grace of those who showed up without being asked.
Charles Dickens captured this truth so beautifully in A Christmas Carol: “But I have always thought of Christmas as a kind, charitable time. The only time when men open their shut-up hearts and think of all people as fellow travelers to the grave and not some other race of creatures bound on other journeys.” In my own way, I have seen this to be true. I have learned that angels are everywhere, if only we care to look for them—appearing in ordinary moments, in small mercies, in the simple but profound kindness of others. Miracles, too, live quietly among us, woven into everyday acts of love.
It is easy to lose sight of this truth amid the relentless noise of an often unkind media, which so frequently paints our world as cruel, fractured, and devoid of hope. Yet I still believe in the magic of this season. I believe in its light, and I long to learn how to carry it with me throughout the year, long after the decorations are packed away.
This year, above all else, I am thankful simply to be alive. And as the new year approaches, I will endeavor—imperfectly, and with humility—to be a better sister, a better friend, a better aunt, a better cousin, a better version of myself. I know I will stumble. I know I will fail at times. But I will keep trying.
My hope for you is this: that you find the wonder and joy that still exist in this world, you hold them close, and you keep your inner light shining—even when the world feels dark. May this season be filled with peace, love, and quiet miracles.
A very blessed Christmas to all—“God bless us, every one.”

Threads of a Human Heart

As I prepare for open-heart surgery, I find myself both sobered and profoundly grateful. Reviewing my end-of-life papers has a way of bringing life into sharp focus—each choice, each joy, each person who has walked beside me. What I see, looking back, is not fear or regret, but an extraordinary abundance of blessings.

A beautiful daughter and two wonderful grandsons who fill my life with pride and laughter. Six beloved sisters—ages 72 to 84—still vibrant, still here. In all our years together, we have never allowed a quarrel to wound the bond we share. Ours is a family stitched together with old Italian traditions, music flowing through every gathering, song and laughter rising like prayer.

I have been lifted and sustained by a big, loving, extended family who have stood beside me through every chapter—including the dark ones, when cancer came close but did not claim me.

My life has been shaped and defined by the performing arts. Theater and music are not simply what I do—they are who I am. The thrill of collaboration, the quiet exchange between performer and audience, the alchemy of directing, producing, and coaching—it has all been sacred work.

And beyond the stage, I have found joy and purpose in service: in my church, in my neighborhood, in my art communities, and through years of volunteering—from AIDS Action Committee (1981–1995) to AIDS Worcester, and later at the pediatric oncology hospice with my beloved therapy dog, Ella, for ten precious years.

Who could ask for a more rewarding 40-year career in high tech—traveling the world, experiencing new cultures, learning new languages. Realizing, with every encounter, that our humanness is what binds us. How small this world truly is, and how deep the yearning runs to save each other—and this earth that continues to love us, even when we do not love her back.

So, as I face this next step, I am not afraid. My heart—literally and figuratively—has been full to overflowing. I have lived richly, loved deeply, and been loved in return. For all that I have, and all that I have done, I am profoundly grateful.

Minnesota: Where Prayers Could Not Save Them

Minnesota: Where Prayers Could Not Save Them

There were prayers still hanging in the air
when the sound broke through the hymn—
metal splitting silence,
bodies folding like fragile paper
in a place meant to hold them safe.

Another church.
Another town whose name
we will remember
only because of the blood on its floor.

Somewhere,
in the dim rooms of Washington,
they sit with folded hands,
offering thoughts,
sending prayers
like flowers tossed into a river
while the current drags us under.

The children are gone.
The mothers,
the fathers,
the soft elders who built these walls
now lie in the quiet the gunman left behind.

And still,
nothing.

Nothing
but the sound of lobbyists
counting their victories,
nothing but the rustle of checks
signed in back rooms,
nothing but the silence of a government
that looks away
because power has its price
and our dead
cannot afford the bid.

We were promised sanctuary.
Instead,
we have built an altar
to the weapon,
kneeling before it
while our children are buried beneath it.

How many more?
How many hymns must end mid-breath
before the halls of power
hear the echoes
screaming through the pews?

The candles still burn tonight.
The names will be read tomorrow.
And somewhere,
someone is already
loading the next round.

When Silence Screams: The Hubris and Apathy of a Broken Leadership

In the aftermath of the tragic shootings that claimed the lives of members of the Hortman and Hoffman families, what should have been a solemn moment of collective grief and unity was instead met with a telling void—no statement, no gesture, no condolences from the White House. Not even the minimal decency of recognizing innocent lives lost. In place of empathy, there was deflection. From the GOP, we witnessed what has become a familiar routine: politicized finger-pointing and bad-faith rhetoric that serve only to deepen divides and avoid responsibility.

This absence of compassion, this gross indifference, is not just morally staggering—it’s emblematic of the rot that has metastasized in our political leadership. Under Donald Trump’s influence, cruelty has not only become policy—it has become performance. Hubris has eclipsed humility, and political gain has all but extinguished our national conscience. The failure to even pretend to care speaks volumes about how desensitized and broken this administration is, and how far we’ve drifted from any recognizable moral compass.

We are watching, in real time, the normalization of violence—not merely as a societal ill, but as a partisan tool. When the lives of American citizens are reduced to narrative pawns in a culture war, when leaders refuse to grieve with their people because it doesn’t serve their agenda, we lose more than just lives. We lose a piece of our shared humanity. And when silence is all that comes from the top, it becomes deafeningly clear: the message is that some lives are unworthy of acknowledgment, depending on whose grief is politically convenient.

What kind of country have we become when our government cannot deliver even the most basic human response—sympathy? How is it possible that in the face of senseless violence, our leaders offer not unity, but opportunism? It is grossly, dangerously unacceptable.

This isn’t just a failure of leadership. It is a deliberate choice—a choice to divide, to deflect, and to harden the national heart. That choice diminishes us all.

I am deeply saddened—though no longer surprised—that this country has once again reached an all-time low. Under this administration, “lowest” has become a consistent signature, an evolving standard by which tragedy is not mourned but manipulated. We must not accept this as normal. We must not allow apathy to replace accountability, or arrogance to replace empathy. Because if we do, the silence will only grow louder, and the violence more routine.

We are better than this. We must demand better than this.

A Farewell to Francis: by an Ex-Roman Catholic, Still Listening for Grace

I left the Church years ago—quietly, without ceremony. Not out of hatred, but weariness. The weight of doctrine, the fractures of scandal, the silence where I needed words. Still, when I heard that Pope Francis had passed, something stirred in me. Not guilt, not obligation. Something else. A sort of reverent grief.

Francis was not perfect—no pope is. But in a world roaring with division, he dared to whisper mercy. He reached for the hands others recoiled from. He spoke not just to the faithful, but to the wounded, the doubting, the wandering. People like me.

He washed the feet of prisoners. He kissed the faces of the disfigured. He reminded us—daily, stubbornly—that love does not ask for permission before it embraces. That compassion, real compassion, has no border.

I never went back to the Church, not in the formal sense. But I listened. I watched. And when he spoke—about climate, about poverty, about the sacredness of every single soul—I found myself leaning in.

Now he’s gone, and somehow, I feel it. Like the dimming of a soft but steady lamp in a long corridor. He may not have lit my path home, but he lit something in me that still burns.

Maybe sainthood is measured not in miracles, but in how much gentler the world becomes in your presence.

Pope Francis made the world gentler.

And for that, even from afar, I say: thank you. Go in peace, Holy Father. You were light.