Although not as well-known today as his famous friend G.K. Chesterton, Hilaire Belloc was an equally prolific Catholic writer and satirist in early twentieth century England. His poetry was especially witty. One of his most popular collections, Cautionary Tales For Children, details the dreadful demises of misbehaving children in hilarious prose. My favorite is about “George, who ran away from his nurse and was eaten by a lion.”

Every morning I ride a cable car from my apartment on Roosevelt Island to my job in Manhattan, and am often tormented by children who think the tram is an amusement park ride. Inspired by Belloc, I decided to compose a Cautionary Tale of my own.

Roger, Who Jumped Around Inside the Tram and
Fell Out

Roger was an active boy,
he hardly needed any toys.
So many ways he could keep busy
like spinning ‘round and getting dizzy.

One day his parents asked the child,
“Should we see the Roosevelt Isle?”
With joy he waved his arms and hands—
he knew that they would ride the tram!

So high above the river and streets,
the tram had not a single seat.
Instead the spacious car allowed
folks to see and move about.

The view of Manhattan was so exquisite
that Roger, he began to fidget.
And though his father warned, “Be still,”
the boy could not contain his will.

He jumped and swooped just like a bird.
The people (who were quite disturbed)
whispered “What a naughty youth,
parents these days are so uncouth!”

With untamed bliss he lept with faith,
but he who thought his antics safe
just crashed right through a windowpane
and tumbled out, yelling in vain.

His mother wailed, his father shouted.
To think that someone could be outed
from a moving cable car
and fall down, oh so very far!

Straight down he plunged into the river.
I do remember (with a shiver)
how horrified the people watched
as Roger vanished, on the spot.

So let this be a lesson learned
for children who decide to spurn
their parents’ wishes to behave—
obedience will keep you safe!

And that is just with regular turbulence.

I was now flying through a snowstorm in the middle of the night over a tempestuous Atlantic Ocean, in what was quickly becoming my most terrifying travel experience ever.

Believe it or not I’d actually looked forward to this flight. Three weeks ago I’d carefully crafted what I thought would be the easiest way to get to Grenada from New York: after working an exhausting deadline at the newspaper, I would be tired enough to fall asleep on an overnight flight that would arrive just as the beautiful tropical dawn would arise.

But everything looks good on paper.

I did not anticipate the Nor’easter snowstorm that would hit, an almost-bankrupt Caribbean airline that probably cared little about the comfort of its passengers, and six hours of such exhausting panic that I actually passed out from fear during two of them.

When I awoke it was 5:45 a.m., Grenada time, because the only encouragement I’d had was setting my watch ahead an hour while praying for 7 o’clock. I had the row to myself and had buried myself under a pile of blankets, sweaters and a coat in an attempt to mentally escape my environment. When I finally emerged, I squinted out my window to see a bright orange glow over a sparkling blue sea, and nearly cried from the realization that I’d survived. I filled out the customs forms with a slow shaking hand, and we at last landed on solid ground.

As the stairway was wheeled over to our plane in no great hurry, I blinked against the bright sun to observe the familiar surroundings. We sat on a small speck of concrete next to the little structure that was the airport. Palm trees waved gently in the breeze, and tall, slim Grenadians stood around talking and laughing, oblivious to the terror we’d just endured to get here. When the doors were opened I felt the humid, salty air flood into every inch of the plane, and my near-death experience was quickly forgotten.

This is the magic of the islands. I was here to join my boyfriend Tony (or, as the Grenadians affectionately call him, “Ahn-tony”) during his once-a-year stint as a visiting cardiologist. He had gone to medical school at St. George’s, and because the country’s healthcare resources are limited, we are given a plane ticket and place to stay in exchange for Tony’s two weeks of work. So while he toils in the trenches for his beloved adopted country, I live in the confines of the resort with other visiting families, far away from my stressful life in the cold New York winter.

Once my passport was stamped I collected my belongings and went out on the sidewalk to wait for him. Taxi drivers lounged on the benches, calling their soft “Psst” to catch my attention for a fare. A few med students had braved the Reggae buses to meet family members at the flight, one of only two per day.

I could hear some of the buses’ music in the distance, a gentle Caribbean serenade that blended with the palm trees rustling and the ocean waves crashing. There were these sounds, and yet it felt silent, under the soft, warm sun of a faraway island.

Tony was there in a moment, and even he looked different after just one week. His skin had begun to darken and his brow glistened in the humidity. His hair didn’t have any gel on it, and the top buttons of his polo shirt were undone. I got into the opposite-side car with my belongings, and we just smiled at each other without saying anything. There was nothing to say. We were in Grenada.

Excerpt from the short story, “First Day on the Island.”

One of the benefits of working in the religious press is that I have learned, over time and experience, how to properly talk about religion. We’ve all been advised, of course, to “never discuss religion and politics in polite company,” and most of the time that serves us well in avoiding a wicked argument or boring discourse. But religion, like most complicated subjects, can be discussed in an objective, intellectual manner that makes for fascinating and enlightening conversations—as long as its speakers know enough about it to make it worthwhile, that is.

In my profession I have had many such conversations with a variety of people. I have discussed doctrine with cannon lawyers, scripture with theologians, and sociology with missionaries, and all of these have served to valuably enhance my view of the physical earth and celestial universe.

Now living in New York, I am also privy to a very different type of religious discourse: the strange and unusual characters who feel it their mission to speak the Word of God on the subway during rush hour, usually in a loud erratic voice accompanied by horrible body odor.

It would be very easy to dismiss these self-made preachers as schizophrenics who have lost the wherewithal to continue medication. Most people do. But each time I encounter one I am intrigued by their motives, and in listening to their messages I often find traces of a deeper truth that make me think these people have a special place reserved for them in the next life. The broken bodies we live in now are, after all, only temporary.

One thin, grungy homeless man I listened to on the E train had a message to this effect, and zealously reminded his fellow passengers about the eventual return of Christ and the imminent coming of Judgment Day:

“You all are sitting here, coming home from work, thinking you be doin’ right by yourself,” he proclaimed, stopping here and there to consult an imaginary friend, the ‘s’ whistling between his broken teeth. “But you all are not doin’ right! We are all hypocrites. Hypocrites of the worst kind! Do you think Jesus would come back to a world like this? Where we live blind to the troubles of those around us? Why, in just a few minutes, you’ll walk into your front door, say hello to your pet bird, and then start cookin’ chicken RIGHT NEXT TO HIM!”

This punch line did elicit smiles from the tired commuters. But doesn’t it echo a well-known proverb by our great Catholic philosopher, G.K. Chesterton? The modern city is ugly not because it is a city but because it is not enough of a city, because it is a jungle confused and anarchic, and surging with selfish and materialistic energies.

Anyone who has spent time in New York would agree it is a seat of gluttony. And perhaps in this completely man-made environment we have forgotten even the most fundamental instincts about living and eating. Doctors know that the human body was designed to be an herbivore, and yet arbitrary cultural establishments have put priority of one species over another in a food chain based solely on taste and enjoyment. Not to mention the “love of all creatures” virtue being completely out the window when it comes to mass food production. I had to wonder for a moment, what would Jesus have to say about all that?

A few weeks before the bird man, I had encountered a clean, plainly-dressed woman who, as soon as the R train doors had closed and assured our captivity, began preaching about the friendship of Jesus in a litany of sentences. What was most unusual was the way she drew out the word ‘Jesus’ at the end of each line, which created an almost soothing, comforting rhythm:

“If you do not know what to do, turn to Jeeee-sus. If you have done something wrong, turn to Jeeee-sus. If you are addicted to evil, turn to Jeeee-sus. If you have hurt someone badly, turn to Jeeee-sus…”

She really did have a lovely voice, and it seemed like a gentle hypnosis was falling over the train after a few minutes of this plea to repentance. She was certainly speaking to the heart of a troubled society—in an age when accountability is unpopular (and spiritual confession even less so), there is a great desire to point out the wrongs of others while ignoring the sins of oneself. Men do not differ much about what things they will call evils, wrote Chesterton. But they differ enormously about what evils they will call excusable. Many of us will spend our young lives striving to excuse our actions, rather than changing for the better.

And so at the end of the day, even though I’ve already spent my day exposed to the works of great religious writers and thinkers, I can still find more to learn from the most unlikely sources. After all, Christians are called to be evangelists in their own way by using their own unique gifts. We can all learn something from one another. And if Chesterton were sitting next to me on the commute, listening to these misfit evangelists who capture the train for a few brief moments, he would probably remind me that religion makes the ordinary man feel extraordinary, and the extraordinary man feel ordinary.

I attended J.F. Kennedy High School a few miles away from Columbine, and I was a junior in 1999. Our schools defined the county line between Denver and Littleton, so we students were very familiar with each other. We attended the same primary schools and, now in high school, shared the same common streets, restaurants and hangouts. Having missed the shootings by such a small degree haunts me to this day.

This tragedy was an entirely new phenomenon at the time, and afterward we all struggled to understand it. But none had it so hard as the parents of the victims, who handled their grief in various ways. Some never entered the public eye, while others headed efforts to rebuild the school, create a memorial or prosecute the unprepared police team. It became a state-wide mobilization because no one knew how to do the most necessary thing of all: heal.

There were funerals and tributes. Every item owned by the victims became a memorial—flowers were strewn over their cars, and books were published of their diaries. But these actions were only a temporary distraction. A futile, human way to attempt to understand an event that was beyond human understanding.

I never forget an anniversary. I remember all their names, I see all their faces. And each year I feel a terrible, aching hurt because the faces look younger and younger. I grow older every year, having aged by time, knowledge and experience. But those 12 students never aged. They were never 19, 21 or 30. They didn’t see their friends anymore. They never went to school again.

One anniversary in particular, the ninth a few years ago, was significant for me in the struggle for healing. April 20 was a Sunday, and I was preparing to attend the afternoon Mass at Yankee Stadium celebrated by Pope Benedict during his United States Visit. As part of the Catholic Press I had worked around the clock that week covering the historic trip, but Sunday was my day to experience it as a faithful person. That morning, alone in my apartment, I watched live on television the Pope’s visit to Ground Zero.

I was struck by the coincidence that the Pope should visit the Trade Center site on that day, where another terrible instance of evil had taken place. During his prayer service there, I was thinking mostly of the Columbine students. When he had finished, a few family members of 9-11 victims were selected to greet the Pope, and during those meetings I witnessed an extraordinary thing.

As the first family member knelt down at the Pope’s feet to kiss his hand, she was overwhelmed with emotion. She couldn't stand back up. So the Pope reached down, held her arms, and pulled her to her feet. Tears sprung to my eyes. She smiled a weak smile, and the Pope said a few unheard words to her. He repeated this action as each family member approached him.

This moved me beyond belief. It was as though Christ himself had picked up the wounded people from their knees, and whispered a few words that only they could hear and understand. It was at that moment when I realized that we as humans, struggling to live through the terrible evils of the world, cannot heal alone. We are not strong enough. Only someone like the Pope, acting on behalf of God and his angels, can help us to overcome such grief. Only then is our despair turned into hope.

Since that anniversary I have felt differently about the memory of Columbine. The fearful, lost feeling that accompanies untimely death is gone. I have reached a certain peace that is comforting in its non-human strength. Perhaps this is the mercy we all pray for: a peace that, although it is sad, is without pain.

Meeting him was the best thing to happen to me—from the first night we met he swept me into his wonderful city life that could only belong to a native. The part of me that has become a true New Yorker can be attributed to his affectionate efforts.

To keep my own two feet on the ground, I might compose a short song or poem befitting to an occasion, some of which can be found on this site. In his long career of a multitude of musical styles, it is easy to find the perfect Porter tune for every occasion. What New Yorker is not familiar with “There’s Nothing to Do But Work”? Or what woman wouldn’t enjoy a laugh over “My Mother Would Love You”? Perhaps maybe more so, “I Hate You, Darling.” And many mornings buying my coffee off the street I have pondered “Americans All Drink Coffee”…

Cole Porter remains forever my inspiration in these private moments.

Here is a selection of my favorite New York lifestyle tunes:

Take Me Back To Manhattan
Anything Goes
You’re a Bad Influence on Me
What A Swell Party This Is
I Get A Kick Out of You
I’m So Tired of Living All Alone
(You’d Be So) Easy To Love
I Happen to Like New York
Ev’ry Time We Say Goodbye

The Russian Orthodox Church is known for its beautiful icons. Icons themselves date to the Byzantium Empire, but Orthodoxy was not fully adopted by the Russian culture until later, when Prince Vladimir of Kiev (Ukraine) chose Christian Orthodoxy as the official religion for his people. Prince Vladimir had such great admiration for the beauty and reverence of the Greek Orthodox services that much of Russian culture is borrowed from them. (In fact, the Cyrillic alphabet of the Russian language was created by St. Cyril, modifying the Greek alphabet to linguistically match Russian. Studies of Russian often draw on its Greek roots.)

The creation of icons themselves is a careful, sacred process, which was specifically defined by the famous council of Nicea in 787: “Icons are not the creation of painters but an accepted institution and tradition of the faith. Only the art belongs to the painter, whereas the form without doubt comes from the fathers who founded the Church.”

I particularly love the angelic icons, my favorites being the various depictions of St. Michael the Archangel. In iconography's celestial hierarchy, Archangels rank closely under Christ. “The lightness of the angels’ wings symbolizes the freedom from all worldly attraction, pure and unimpeded, lifting toward the heights.” The Archangel Michael, “he who is like God,” is the symbol of victory of good over evil, and has four distinct roles within Christianity: he is the supreme enemy of Satan and will achieve victory at the hour of the final battle; he is the angel of death, giving each soul the chance to redeem itself; he weighs souls in his perfectly-balanced scales on Judgment Day; and he is the guardian of the Church.

In this icon of the Archangel Michael, we see the sword carried in one hand, his symbol of a warrior, and in the other a shield with the Slavonic letters spelling Christ, representing the Eternal Kingdom in Michael’s care. The letters at the top right spell out ‘Mikhail.’ He is wearing red, the iconographic color that celebrates eternal life and the blood shed for it.

Other icons of the Archangel Michael depict him standing on a serpent or dragon (Satan) who is trying to grasp at a scale (instead of a shield) held by Michael, in an attempt to tip the scale in Satan’s favor. Michael may also be represented holding a child (symbolizing the humans soul) being fairly judged without Satan’s interference.