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 worth attempting, 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 enhance my knowledge and view of the physical earth (and celestial universe) in invaluable ways.

Now living in New York, I am also privy to a very different type of religious discourse: the many 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 likely 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 often find traces of deeper truth that make me think these people might 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 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 his 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 some 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 wholeheartedly it is the 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 inability to escape, 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 searching for excuses for our actions, instead of reasons to change 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 thinkers and writers, I can still find more to learn from the most unlikely sources. All Christians are, after all, 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, having 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.

This tragedy was an entirely new phenomenon at the time, and in the aftermath we all struggled to understand it. 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 then books were published of their diaries. But these actions were only a temporary distraction. A futile, human way at understanding the meaning of death which is beyond human understanding.

Each year I remember all their names. I see all their faces. I feel a terrible, aching hurt reliving every moment of that long, agonizing day. And each year is more painful because the faces look younger and younger. I am older every year, having aged by years, knowledge and experience. But those 12 students never aged. They were never 19, 20 or 25. They didn’t see their friends anymore. They never went to school again.

Last year’s anniversary, the ninth, 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 Apostolic 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 over good had taken place. I thought mostly of the Columbine students during his prayer service. At the end of the service, 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 at the Pope’s feet to kiss his hand, she was overwhelmed with emotion. The Pope reached down, held her arms, and pulled her up close to her feet. Tears sprung to my eyes. She smiled a weak smile, and the Pope said a few words to her. He repeated this action as each family member approached him. It moved me beyond belief. It was as though Christ himself had picked up the wounded people from their knees.

I learned at that moment that as humans, struggling to live through the terrible evils of the world, we cannot heal alone. We are not strong enough. Only someone like the Pope, acting on behalf of God and the angels, can help us to heal. 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 kind of calm 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 a calm without hurt.

My sister Emily lived with me during the Summer of 2008, while she interned (and was known as Emily The Intern) on the Sirius satellite radio show “The Catholic Guy with Lino Rulli.” Lino’s intelligent and off-beat commentary has since become part of my daily routine at work, I faithfully listen in late afternoons at my desk.

Those who are familiar with Lino and his crew will enjoy this humorous limerick I wrote in honor of the show’s two-year anniversary, read on the air that day.

Now Lino is here with the show
Poor Ryan, he's frantic to know
How to sort all his plans
And satisfy fans
And Lou he chimes in with ‘hey-oh’

But Christine! Let us just mention this
Her sweet voice of reason - a kiss
Next to romantic slaughter
And phone calls and water
The crew keeps dear Lino from crisis

So Ryan, we should tell you this
as fans we enjoy all your lists
And Lou with your sounds
(Tiny Ron plays around)
Oh Lino... you’re hard to resist

Your Emmys and Penance and Wisdom
And insight to Heavenly Kingdoms
Has humor and glee
It reminds us to see
All thankfulness (solemn and random)

“The Mass has ended. Go in peace.”

Finally those words were uttered by the priest after an agonizing hour in Our Lady of Pompeii. In the span of only 60 minutes, May had gone from having a light sore throat to feeling a wave of misery washed over her entire body. Her head throbbed, her bones ached and her skin was so sensitive her clothes hurt.

She was sick.

This was likely to happen, as the recent weeks had been filled with activity. The fall is always busy and exciting, and certainly the most fun time of year. The air is fresh, the leaves are beautiful colors, and it’s as if all of New York has woken up after a steamy, sleepy summer. New York is meant to be lived in the fall. But just like when she was a girl in school, May would easily wear down and inevitably get sick shortly after her birthday.

She walked in a daze out of church and down Bleeker Street toward the No. 1 train. She felt feeling terribly weak and a little pitiful. But during the three long, lonely years in the tough town that is New York she had more than learned to handle crisis on her own, and had managed to take care of herself no matter how dreadful the situation. There was never any other option.

After what felt like an eternity on the subway and a marathon-distance walk to the apartment, she was home. May stumbled through door and immediately changed into her softest clothes, falling tired onto the couch with a blanket—this already felt an improvement. She glanced longingly at the refrigerator, just five feet away, and wished she had a glass of juice. But after careful consideration she decided the effort was too great, and would attempt the juice after a nap. She faintly remembered to send Roger a quick message that he would have to enjoy the sun for both of them today (they had talked about seeing each other in the afternoon, what would have been their fourth date) and then fell into a strange half-sleep while watching Roman Holiday.

A half hour later, around the part when Audrey Hepburn gets her hair cut at the barbershop, the phone’s pleasant twinkling sound awoke May from her rest. Roger had sent a message back, “Posso portarti la zuppa?”

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.

A short story based on our date depicted in the photo ‘Sanctuary,’ may be found here

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

While I was growing up in my parents’ house, it took such little effort to feel at ease. The feelings of comfort and belonging in one’s own home happen so easily, I’ve learned, that it often goes unnoticed just what a home is and how it is made. It is simply there, all the time and unchanging… I say unchanging because only upon leaving does it seem to have changed. I returned home at times feeling disappointed that it was not the same as I remembered, but really it was me who had changed, away from the place that had always been a partner and friend.

Many people refer to home as the most beautiful place in the world, but certainly it is an invisible beauty that is felt more than seen. While growing up in Colorado I rarely noticed the clean, cool air falling from the towering Rocky Mountains. I didn’t consider the friendly, hardworking people as anything special, and I certainly wasn’t conscious of the simple, delicious foods like beets and potatoes as part of every meal because they grew there. I became aware of all of these things after I didn’t have them anymore.

So while establishing my new home in Manhattan I found even the smallest of tasks a challenge, and my first years were spent learning, practicing and then mastering each aspect of daily city life. I struggled with everything, but eventually I grew to love everything, building a very different concept of comfort and sense of self. And soon what was initially my new home became known as simply ‘home.’

“In the old world he found himself hungry for the new.”

Willa Cather’s Death Comes for the Archbishop is a novel based on the lives of two French missionaries who travel through New Mexico and establish one of the first Catholic dioceses in the west. In the mid-19th century the travel was long and difficult, and their struggles are often life-threatening as they seek to befriend the Native Americans and convert the Mexicans to true Catholicism from a devout yet superstitious Christianity.

Father Jean Marie Latour, who would become the first Archbishop of New Mexico, along with his vicar Father Joseph Vaillant, are patient, devoted priests who handle each challenge with grace and understanding. Far from their beautiful native land, they spend their lives learning to love this new desert home, growing and changing with its every hill and village. During his last years, Father Latour spends his only resources building a modest cathedral. He dies at an old age, not among his family in France, but there in New Mexico with the “beautiful desert and its yellow people who were dearest to him.” Cather eloquently explains Father Latour’s longing for his ‘new world’ during one of his last visits to the old:

“It was a feeling he could not explain; a feeling that old age did not weigh so heavily upon a man in New Mexico as in the Puy-de-Dom…in New Mexico he always awoke a young man.

“Beautiful surroundings, the society of learned men, the charm of noble women, the graces of art, could not make up to him for the loss of those light-hearted mornings of the desert…it was where he had come as a young man, and where he had done his work.”

As Father Latour often noted, a child merely lives but an adult works, and it is through this work one learns about his surroundings and becomes a part of them. Although at the time it seemed an eternity to me, it was really not long until I too had created a wonderful new life exactly catered to myself—the new self I had hoped to become. In opening myself to a new world full of challenges and rewards, I soon found the city to be a friend as we joined together to learn and grow. By overcoming challenges, I became my true self “where I had come as a young woman.”

“Gold under Pike’s Peak”

Reckoning one’s new self with the old is, however, a lifelong process. It’s an eternal debate that places every experience in a competition between what was previously known, and what remains to be learned. In other words, what parts of the old world are left behind, and which parts are brought to the new, in order to build this new life?

Father Vaillant experiences this in the strongest of ways toward the end of the novel. After many years establishing himself in New Mexico, he is sent away to Colorado and Camp Denver to begin new missionary work among the miners. He is again forced to leave home and adopt another, in a “terrifying and cold new landscape”:

“The congested heaping up of the Rocky Mountain chain about Pike’s Peak was a blank space on the continent at this time. Even fur trappers coming down from Wyoming avoided that humped granite backbone…people were living in tents and shacks, Cherry Creek was full of saloons and gambling-rooms. [The people] lived adrift in a lawless society without spiritual guidance.”

I, perhaps more than most readers, was shocked at these paragraphs describing my beautiful homeland as a rough and terrible place. I had grown up with the heroic stories of the miners and trappers, the bravest of all people, coming to settle the welcoming landscape of the Rockies, and it was the barren and foreign desert of New Mexico that was to be feared. But this only further proves that the sense of home is relative, and it is an individual struggle (or grace) to understand, accept and love each aspect of it.

Father Vaillant proved an example for all of us by gracefully and willingly accepting the mission of settling in the Rocky Mountain region. “I seemed to be doing the most important work of my life [in New Mexico],” he said to Father Latour before leaving, “but Heaven knew what was happening in Colorado, and moved us like chessmen on a board.” Father Vaillant embraced the uncertain, and at times unfriendly, turn of events that would lead him to become one of the most influential advisors in the settling of Colorado and the Front Range.

Uncertainty is the most fearful part of leaving home, and is the emotion that makes us cling to the old world in either nostalgia or desperation, depending on the moment. For those of us who choose to adventure away, we are willing to accept every challenge. Yet the uncertainly of its result is a constant weight upon the mind: What will come of this new life I am building? Who will I become? And most importantly, what of the old can I carry with me that will build on a solid foundation for the new?

It is a constant mystery each person must handle in his own way. I attempt to unravel it every day in my own habits of observing and learning. Even in just simply living as best I am able. Sometimes I feel I will always be ‘the new girl,’ because every new day is filled with new challenges. But with the inspiration of Father Vaillant’s grace, and remembering the patience in Father Latour’s devotion, I can close each rewarding day having found the answers I seek.

It is the lifelong mystery I am blessed to discover.