Sometimes when I wake in the dawning morning and hear the lonely call of a bird through the window, my heart is carried away to another corner of the world. In this humble place, I cannot hear the hum of a fridge or the clinking of a radiator; I hear only the black bird hidden among an oak’s branches, my husband’s breathing, my baby’s occasional grunt. Continue reading→

As I held Rosé in my arms, studying her sleeping face, I was seized with reverence for her. No matter how crystalline her purity may be, I am incapable of penetrating to her very core. Even now, when she is most dependent on me, she is her own person, perfectly complete with or without me. And whether or not she is aware, I am not enough for her. Like me, like her earthly father, she too must make her own journey to her heavenly Father. She is my daughter, but also my sister, born into this world only to return to the place from which we came.Continue reading→

As Saint Patrick’s Day was unfolding with milky morning light, I pushed a little girl into the world. My baby now has a name—Rosé Zélie Pierlot—and a face, the sweet face of a rosebud. Continue reading→

Baby, sweet someone, I believe you will reveal God to me as I’ve never known Him before. Yes, I think that may be why He has led me into the desert during these months prior to your coming, allowing me to suffer the dryness as my mind searches for answers and my heart aches for deeper union with Him. Continue reading→

Why do I find myself believing pain is more real than peace?

Why do I often feel that my strengths are artificial—illusion, deception—and my weaknesses authentic? On a good day, I am certain Christ is buoying me above the waves; on a bad day, I am certain He is beyond arm’s reach. Desolation penetrates me more deeply than does consolation. Objective truths—I am loved, my true self is truly good—suddenly seem to be subjective hogwash, the intoxicating smoke of a shaman’s pipe hovering over reality. Continue reading→

As a child, I confess I slightly dreaded Lent. I suppose many children likely do, knowing they must choose something to give up for forty days (probably their favorite candy). But with every year that flies by, more and more do I come to understand and appreciate that Lent is not so much about giving up as it a gift to receive.Continue reading→

The baby nestles its face in its mother’s bosom. The world outside is cold, brutal, unforgiving, whistling with ice-laced snow, but the baby is aware of nothing but her mother’s warmth. Continue reading→

The morning is thick, soft, quiet with woolen fog. We are parting the dove-gray smoke as we drive past rickety farmhouses nestled among sleeping fields. The island is tranquil, taking a breath before the next winter storm. And then suddenly the shroud dissipates into a luminous horizon before us, gold diffusing upward into a pale blue sky. Continue reading→

This is my body, given up for you. 

I’ve reflected much on Christ’s words throughout my pregnancy. I do not recognize this rotund belly, cute perhaps but often in the way, which has rejected my once-comfortable jeans. I have no say over what position my child takes in my womb, whether that be jabbing an elbow into my belly button or otherwise. What nutrients may be lacking in my diet—but are required for this little growing person’s development—are drawn from my own body’s reserves.Continue reading→

In carrying a child in my womb, I think I myself am, in a beautifully ironic way, slowly becoming a child again.Continue reading→