I’m having one of those days when it’s hard to look at my life and see anything worth writing about. Sure, I carried my 10-year-old on my back through downtown St. Louis, and my arms are sore. So what? What does my life matter, when the news in other parts of the world just seems so sad…tragic…horrible.
The fact that making up one’s own reality seems to be becoming the norm in politics, rather than an aberration.
And how difficult, how impossible even, it seems that we might find a way forward to a better future.
There’s just so much. Looking up those links underscores how little my in-depth news coverage out of NPR really covers.
I suppose it’s not a bad frame of mind with which to enter Triduum, the holiest weekend of the year. To recognize that the world is impossibly broken and to recognize the only hope for its healing has nothing to do with human beings at all.
This Friday, my boys and I will spend the quiet hours of Good Friday helping organize a warehouse full of donations destined to help refugees landing in my area. It seems like one small thing we can do, one small offering of self. Even if the attitude of at least one of the participants is less virtuous than I might hope. If our actions become our reality and eventually our character, then maybe what we do matters more than the attitude we hold while doing it.
See you after Easter.