The Lord is my light and my salvation;
    whom shall I fear?
The Lord is the stronghold of my life;
    of whom shall I be afraid?
One thing I asked of the Lord,
    that will I seek after:
to live in the house of the Lord
    all the days of my life,
to behold the beauty of the Lord,
    and to inquire in his temple.
I believe that I shall see the goodness of the Lord
    in the land of the living.
Wait for the Lord;
    be strong, and let your heart take courage;
    wait for the Lord!

PSALM 27:1, 4, 13-14

Now, read that again. And again. Let the words wash over your soul.

The Daly Mass readings are set years in advance. Yet: is this one a coincidence? It could not have been more apt, following such a contentious US election, let alone with international wars and riots blanketing our news and social media.

Wait — I intend for no politics in this post! Just an observation: that I am so grateful to have read this Psalm first thing today, before looking at anything else on my phone.

In short: Fear not! Jesus Christ already won the battle. Against evil. Against slavery of the mind and body. Against hopelessness. And for Heaven.

We know how to get there: Follow Him.

Those battles going on throughout the world now, be they political or cultural? They are mere skirmishes, after-action cleanup efforts. They may look and feel dire. They may have real-world implications today, and even for our children and grandchildren. Indeed, through self-righteousness guided by pride, we—all well-intended—may allow ourselves to get tripped up into those skirmishes. And tripped up into sin.

However we look at the current landscape, it may appear to be a hell on earth today. But all this, too, is passing away.

So, keep your eyes on the prize!

Jesus Christ is our salvation. End of story. We still must be held accountable in this life, and walk his narrow path. But if faith can move mountains, it can also move us toward the best possible eternity. We just have to choose it, and choose Him.

Rather than let yourself spiral into either post-electoral zealous glee or broken depression, keep your eye on the cross. Focus on the little things, done with great love.

That’s what I’m gonna really really really really really try to do today. After I look at those election results.

Photography: “Christ Jesus, Lord and Redeemer”/Mark H. Paalman/CC BY-SA 4.0

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Try praying today for all those souls in Purgatory.

“May the Souls of the Faithful Departed, through the Mercy of God, Rest in Peace.”

They hear. They know.

There, but for the grace of God, go we.

I have no doubt that my time of purification—if I am so blessed—will be considerable, though well worth it for the Beatific Vision.

But to know now that thousands, nay, millions, of Roman Catholics across the world will choose to pray for me on All Souls Day, is beyond humbling. Thanks be to God!

At some unknown time of God’s choosing, I will both die and relish in the cool comfort that prayers for the dead, even just one, will bring my way. That belief alone overcomes all of my shame for decades of sin and insufficient reconciliation.

My, and your, future Purgatorial comrades in arms deserve a favor, as I too am selfishly hoping for a favor, in my time of dying.

I’m not being intentionally morbid. I am being realistic and truthful.

I attended Mass for All Souls Day and prayed six Divine Mercy chaplets in our Adoration Chapel, all for the Souls of the Faithful Departed.

Did I tick enough boxes? It was all sincere. And if I’m truthful, it was with even the tiniest nod to my own mortality, that some living soul, such as I, might someday pray for me.

Human nature is selfish. But despite the Fall, we can grow outside of ourselves in holiness.

So go, go pray for the Souls of the Faithful Departed. And do it freely. It’s not too late for them. Or you.

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I’m bumping up against a deep irritation these days.

I write copious amounts of short fiction and flash fiction, and a little poetry, which I’m trying to get published in respectable literary journals. And I’ve had some success.

But most prominent literary journals are now stating in their submission guidelines that they are only considering unpublished work, which makes sense… but the meaning of “unpublished” has expanded.

Nowadays, my work must not have been published previously, either in another literary journal (makes sense), but also it can’t have appeared online in any form, on any platform, including social media.

Think about that for a minute.

Writers want to be read. Gain feedback. Edit. Perfect their craft. Spread the love.

Writers often share their work on Facebook or X or Substack or any number of platforms, seeking feedback from readers. Some readers provide great insights. (Thank you, kind readers!)

With these draconian demands of literary journals, writers are being squeezed.

You want feedback? You’ve gotta use the amazing 20th century technology of email to send your work to friends and family, who might not be able to give you truly unbiased, honest feedback. (“Oh, yeah, Mark, that was soooooooo good!”)

If you’re lucky, you might find a writer’s guild to join. I did (Catholic Writer’s Guild), and it’s been a blessing. But as with anything, participation opportunities wax and wane in any organization of that type.

So now, I’m faced with a quandary: I love posting fiction on Pomalom’s Ponderings alongside of my reflections on life, faith, and writing. Just wondering how long I can keep posting my new fiction. In fact, it’s been ages since I’ve put up any new fiction. For this reason.

Arrrrgh.

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The sun is trying to burn through some low fog. The rich sunrise hues are gone now, but you can start seeing tiny hints of them in the trees and shrubs all about town. Just hints, though. The perennial intensity of fall colors, and the concomitant toil of blowing and raking and bagging, are still weeks away.

Yet, earlier this morning in my backyard, still cloaked by a canopy of green trees allowing through only faint sunrise beams, lay a solitary bright red sweet gum leaf on a decaying log.

I was storing firewood at the time, my gaze dashing from one fresh-cut log to another, as I assembled the wood pile puzzle. Glancing at an old rotting log — clearly not suitable for stacking — there it was: a five-pointed red starfish of a leaf, clinging to some type of white bracket fungus that looked like a seashell.

There, I thought, it’s really beginning. Autumn.

Photography: “Hints”/Mark H. Paalman/CC BY-SA 4.0

And then, on came a rush of thoughts lingering with my own autumn: the sore back, the blood pressure and cholesterol, the retirement planning. Insomnia. Afternoon naps.

And right now: increasingly sore thumbs, trying to write this down on my phone. (Voice to text is only just so good.)

More than a smattering of red leaves are accumulating on my decomposing log of a self, drawing attention to the end game.

Hey, it’s part of life. I’m good with that. God made me to be born, live, and die. Hopefully, with dignity, and hopefully following the path of His son.

So just a few minutes ago, when I read my morning saint quote, it came full circle:

“God sees every one of us; He creates every soul, He lodges it in the body, one by one, for a purpose. … As Christ has His work, we too have ours; as He rejoiced to do His work, we must rejoice in ours also.”

—St. John Henry Newman

Certainly, we have our autumnal states through which we live — indeed, suffer at times, often terribly. But the full story arc of our lives is far more than its ending, far richer than a path of growth and decay. Far more than dead leaves on a rotten log.

We have purpose. God wills it.

This is something that we cannot ignore or belittle. Ever.

Somehow, as I read back through this — my thumbs cramping, my coffee now cold— I feel that it sounded much more interesting in my head than it looks on screen. Another fall leaf, I guess.

But there. I’ve written it, with purpose.

Photography: “The Big Bean (TM), Annapolis, MD”/Mark. H. Paalman/CC BY-SA 4.0

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Photography: “Basilica North”/Mark H. Paalman/CC BY-SA 4.0

Saturday, 26 September 2026 marked the fourth annual Dominican Rosary Pilgrimage in Washington, DC. Over three-thousand pilgrims gathered at the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception – the beating heart of DC’s Roman Catholic community – and thousands more joined via livestream. I described last year’s event as a divine LLM of sorts, an Enormous Grace Model for participants to receive God’s blessings as its output.

In my sixty-years-and-change, I’ve not experienced a spiritual feeling quite like joining with thousands of faithful, in one massive cathedral, praying the Holy Rosary together – the Dominican Rosary Litany of fifteen decades (the praying of one Our Father and ten Hail Marys) interconnected with glorious Latin chant. Each decade represents Mysteries of the life of Jesus Christ, from His incarnation and birth; through His crucifixion, resurrection and ascension; and the formation of His Church on Earth, with the crowning of Mary His Queen Mother in Heaven.

At all four such pilgrimages, the communal praying of the Dominican Rosary Litany followed introductory remarks and a talk on the theology of the Rosary; Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament and Benediction with musical meditation; the opportunity, if one chooses, for the Sacrament of Reconciliation; and another talk. Following the Rosary, the Dominicans hold a Vigil Mass enriched with glorious choral and organ works. All of this, in a stunning space built by man as God’s House, for no other reason than to summon a meeting of Heaven and Earth; indeed, to help guide us toward our hopeful destination for all eternity.

Something struck me at this year’s pilgrimage more than in previous years: the humility of it all. During the Rosary Litany, thousands of faithful Catholics join together, many (most?) of whom had just opened their souls during confession to a Dominican friar who, in persona Christi, was fully present to the penitent as Jesus while administering the Sacrament of Reconciliation. The basilica was, therefore, full of faithful who had just been absolved by Jesus Himself.

During my confession, my friar confessor reminded me – in persona Christi, mind you – that pride is at the root of almost every sin. I was reminded that “Pride is the devil’s dragnet,” from preacher Charles Spurgeon.

I chewed on that truth for quite a while after I received absolution.

It takes a lot of self-awareness and humility to get past pride – pride which not only gets you into sin in the first place, but also works hard to keep you from openly confessing sin and seeking absolution. Even though I know of the fruits of Reconciliation – God’s forgiveness and abundant grace – I must always swallow my pride in order to bring myself to that confessional.

Photography: “Our Lady of Mount Carmel”/Mark H. Paalman/CC BY-SA 4.0

When I pray the Rosary on my own, I am being constantly reminded that I am a sinner. In the Hail Mary prayer, I recite:

Fifty times over I am admitting that I’m a weak sinner, and I beg Mother Mary to intercede for me, with her Son, that He might shower me with His divine mercy. I do not take for granted the divine mercy of Jesus. He can lead me in The Way, but I myself need to walk that straight and narrow path. When I stray, I need His help to rejoin that path.

A great focus of the Our Father prayer is also on forgiveness, but there’s a give and take component:

Whether you translate the Greek opheilēmata in St. Matthew’s prayer as “debts” (literal) or “trespasses” (contextual) is debatable. For context, Roman Catholics and most Liturgical Christians believe that the intent of Jesus’s words within the common Lord’s Prayer (Matthew 6:9-13) is set by the context of Matthew 6:14-15:

It is as puzzling as it is true: that the forgiveness of others has a rich component of humility in it. Just as does confessing one’s sins and begging forgiveness.

Take this concept to the next level. Collected in humble supplication at this pilgrimage, we faithful were admitting to God the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, as well as to each other, that we are all sinners in need of forgiveness and grace. The level of humility this requires is not insignificant, if you think about it enough. And perhaps I should do more of that: thinking, truly processing the words of those two prayers which I far too often rattle off by rote.

I’ve been asked by Protestant friends and acquaintances whether I’m saved. I universally respond: “Well, I hope so. You see, I’m a work in progress.” Sometimes I get looks. Sometimes I receive nods of understanding. But this is the correct Roman Catholic answer.

I have no idea which direction I’ll be pointing at my Particular Judgement. I hope and pray that it’s the correct one, the Heavenly one. And I hope that the choices I make in my earthly life keep me on The Way. Events such as the Dominican Rosary Pilgrimage serve as outstanding onramps to The Way. I’m praying that I’ll swallow my pride and keep moving in the right direction.

Photography: “Worthy Is the Lamb”/Mark H. Paalman/CC BY-SA 4.0

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Photography: “Satanic Irony”/ Mark H. Paalman / CC BY-SA 4.0

Kind reader, I’ve been away from Pomalom’s Ponderings of late due in part to a highly focused, time-sensitive re-edit of some works in a fairly new fiction genre for me: horror. That said, while in conversation with a barista friend who also is an avid reader of my work, he asked me about my writing process.

Sounds boring. But please check the title again and kindly allow me a few paragraphs.

The Process. For me, it’s mysterious. In the four-dozen or so short fiction works I’ve written (counting micro-flash-fiction) plus maybe three dozen non-fiction reflections—each of which range from 100 to 17,000 words—there are two emergent creative patterns.

First off, I am not an outliner. I tried that once, for a novel. Didn’t work. (Nor did the novel.) That’s just too systematic for me in my limited free time, since I have to be an extremely systematic thinker/writer for my day job.

My writing process generally involves one of these two events:

1. An Image: I receive something vivid—either imagined or from the real world—and jot it down on my Notes app. At some point, I recall one of these images. And suddenly I need to write. Often times, the image becomes the opening scene of my story or column. Then the work kind of writes itself. I usually don’t know the ending until I’m over half-way through the work. Word limits? Abhorrent.

2. A Story: A vivid full story will come to me, from start to finish, usually with a seed image. I’m then compelled to write this story down as fast as possible, beginning to end, fleshing out the bones with the necessary details. Things will develop, and often I’ll tweak things here and there, but generally I know the beginning and the ending from the start. Word limits? Bring ‘em on, baby! They help me focus. I’ll also know if it should be a flash (less than 1000 words) or short fiction piece (less than whatever).

You’ll see that the notions of vividity and urgency accompany both processes. I’m a sensory thinker: I see my scenes, smell them, feel them. I hear the dialogue over background music. Taste the bourbon. The muse fills my senses.

I think this is all fairly common, as are the above two writing modes. And, I’ll add that a number of times, especially with scenario #2, I’ve felt that the work was handed to me by the Holy Spirit, with orders to WRITE IT DOWN. Some will call this their muse, as I too have, but I humbly prefer the former. God willing.

The results have been humble but significant: nine stories published to date, in a few respected (albeit small-circ) literary journals and in an anthology edited by Alexander Semenyuk. No revenue, and that’s okay with me. I write for the love of it. And have a day job.

So, after bidding adieu to my barista and heading home, my wife (a muse of a different sort) directed me to a YouTube video interview of Jenn Nizza by Fr. David Michael Moses. Jenn is a former satanist/psychic-turned-Roman Catholic and has been covered on several written and social media outlets because of her dramatic story of despair, transition, and conversion.

She was first beguiled by Satan through—surprise surprise—a tarot card reading at age 13. Lacking a family anchored in faith of any kind, she was drawn deeper into occult practices. More concerning, she felt what she now calls “demonic oppression”: dreaming about future events that would come to pass. At first, it seemed like a true gift to her. She notes:

“That’s when I really walked through the door, because I was so intrigued by it, and I started seeking it out. […] I went full-in,” she said. “It was a rabbit hole of destruction. […] I had my own tarot cards. I kept going for readings; I became addicted to it.”

A big part of her obsession was steeped in the belief that, with her psychic images, she was truly helping people:

“This is part of the destruction that happens,” she said. “I think it’s the first line of deception […] I’ve always been a compassionate person and these psychic mediums, for the most part, are nice, compassionate people that really do want to help other people.”

But people engaging in such things, she said, have become spiritually vulnerable, believing the evil they’ve allowed in is somehow a form of good.

“Satan masquerades as an angel of light,” Nizza said. “You think that you’re a servant of righteousness.”

I found this absolutely fascinating. And a little bit convicting.

Jenn had intense visions which, psychic or not, would very often come true for those whom she read. She felt self-righteous, in fact. The Devil was clearly having his way with her. Demons work for the Prince of Lies and lay waste to minds by tempting them with minute truths but, in subtle ways, stuffing those minds with crippling deceit. It wasn’t until 23 years later that, at the lowest point in her life, Jenn cried out to Jesus for help. And help she got.

How does this relate to the writing process? Visions. Vivid visions. Jenn Nizza knew that she had a “seeing gift”—whether gifted by demons, or gifted by God and corrupted by demons. One of the charisms of the Christian faith is prophecy (cf. 1 Corinthians 12:28-30), and this has been interpreted in numerous ways over the centuries. But the gift is real. In the secular world, a prophet often is described as someone who sees visions and reads the future. In the faith world, a prophet is someone chosen by God to speak for God. To speak truth.

Jenn Nizza sincerely believed that she spoke truth. Sometimes she did. But under the rod of Satan, it ruined her life.

I believe that a significant part of my writing comes from visions gifted by the Holy Spirit. Mind you, I am feeling neither psychic nor prophetic. But you could almost call that visionary means of channeling the writing gift as prophecy. My stories are in no way temporally prophetic, so that only leaves the other option.

But are they really truthful? Do I even pretend to believe that I write truth through fiction? To crib from Pilate, “What is truth?” (John 18:38)

If you’ll allow me, kind reader: is it too bold to refer to those of us aiming to write for the Glory of God as “prophets” of the modern age? I simply don’t know. It sounds too self-important. It also sounds like a tremendous burden.

But some of those visions I get for writing are simply irrepressible. WRITE IT DOWN. POST IT ON SUBSTACK. GET IT PUBLISHED.

Lots of prayer for guidance helps. But there’s always room for more (prayer and guidance).

Jonah was a reluctant prophet, and look where it got him: spat up by a whale and cursed by a worm. And yet, despite his true wishes, he saved the people of Nineveh. Would it not have been so much more rewarding for Jonah if he had leaned into his God-given role?

Although, no prophet ever was loved in his homeland for truth-telling.

Wait. Is that what we writers fear most?

I’d love to read your thoughts on this.

(Certified “100% Human” by Pangram.)

Photography: “Crystal Ball”/ squidish / CC BY 2.0

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This reflection was first published about a year ago, in August 2025, when my subscriber list was about half of what it is now. In the spirit of Summer Travel Season, I’m sharing my observations again about our Catholic - indeed, Universal - Church and its most profound sacrament, which transcends borders.

Photography: Crucifix, Nijmegen/Mark H. Paalman/CC BY 2.0

While traveling, I’m always both amazed at and relieved with the Novus Ordo. Unlike Traditional Latin Mass, which, high or low, is unmistakable – you get what you expect, in Latin, and the Gregorian chant is always lovely – with Novus Ordo you never quite know. My wife and I were stunned by a lovely early Sunday Mass in Montreal about 10 years ago, and we could even manage some of the French. We also attended a Sunday Mass at la cathédrale Notre Dame de Paris on our honeymoon, 31 years ago, which now, alas, would be unrecognizable, given the tragic fall and rise of that Most Holy Place.

And in Small Town West Virginia, we’ve encountered tremendous devotion within several absolutely lovely little churches. At St. John University Church in Morgantown, a humble but proud community which was the parish of one of my daughters during college, we reveled in what was among the most reverent Roman Catholic churches in the US. Does your Novus Ordo church burn incense and chant the Eucharistic Prayer by gifted celebrants?

I didn’t quite know what to expect in The Netherlands. I’m currently visiting here to move my other daughter from Washington, DC to Nijmegen, for graduate school at Radboud University. We’re staying in a suburban section of Nijmegen with small but roomy duplexes and intriguing strip malls conjoined to apartment buildings – a pennywise use of real estate true to Dutch standards. Apple Maps found me a Roman Catholic church in a nearby neighborhood and so on Sunday morning I walked about fifteen minutes to find an unassuming church…building.

At first it appeared to me as a pill box from World War II, I have to say. But first impressions aside, I was graciously welcomed in – for some reason, they instantly knew that I was either Canadian or American – and, unable to find the holy water font, I dry-genuflected and zipped in to take my seat in the pewless congregation, thinking: this will be dry, but fulfill my Sunday obligation.

Photography: Agneskerk Lindenholt, Nijmegen/Mark H. Paalman/CC BY 2.0

The comprehensive mass guide, being in Dutch, provided me the secret joy of gaining the Lord’s Prayer and many other mass liturgical elements in an uncommon tongue. It also included the songs and music, to which I could actually sing along, given that the words were inherently metered and I could sing at half-volume and a half-second behind, to pick up the proper pronunciation. (Dutch is, in a word, brutal.)

And then things got going, and I soon realized that the priest was a gem. He was warm, engaging, and yet keeping Holy Reverence in his tone and gesticulation. And his singing voice was frankly amazing, given the priests I’ve contended with who sing a little too loudly and a little too…off, and who forget, Saints preserve us, to turn off their remote mic. No, this guy was clearly a choirboy in an earlier life.

Photography: Pilgrims of Hope, Nijmegen/Mark H. Paalman/CC BY 2.0

I stayed abreast on iMissal for the readings, and while I was unable to follow his sermon, it lasted for 20 minutes and had me eagerly listening to a tongue I knew not. He had the multicultural congregation riveted and grateful. Thinking to myself, darned if I didn’t learn Dutch at my grandfather’s knee, I was pleased to share in Communion with Jesus Christ and the Church Community of Agneskerk Lindenholt.

And then, after Mass, came the Sisters of Loretto.

A pair of Pakistani sisters – literally blood sisters, and also with the religious order Sisters of Loretto – presented a slide show in a meeting room that documented the suffering perpetrated on Christians in Pakistan. It was stunning and infuriating, to see such suffering perpetrated on our brothers and sisters in Jesus. After their presentation, I encouraged the sisters to visit our parish and others in the greater Baltimore/Washington DC area on their next visit to America, since our parishes are highly concerned about Christian persecution and extremely generous.

Then later on, I was able to speak with the priest for a while before he left. He was the Pastoral Director for Nijmegen, covering perhaps half a dozen church communities in the area with a handful of other priests, where they would go to visit small Catholic communities such as Agneskerk Lindenholt every week, to celebrate the Mass, hear confessions, and otherwise minister to the people. In a country with few Catholic priests, this system works well for them. They have a devotion for which I was both proud and humbled. Proud, because I have a good dose of Dutch blood in my veins. Humbled, because I belong to a large parish back in the US with upwards of nine resident priests. An obscenity of riches, some might say, in times like these.

Photography: Tabernacle, Nijmegen/Mark H. Paalman/CC BY 2.0

My status as a troubled sinner notwithstanding, this visit to a Nijmegen church community, on perhaps the most minimal of physical footprints for a Catholic church I’ve seen, renewed my faith in The Church as a true force of God in the world, built up of troubled sinners just like me who try to dust off the dirt and otherwise make a difference. The tie-in with the Sisters of Loretto and their description of ongoing Christian repression in Pakistan was yet another reminder of the power of evil in the world and how we can feel so helpless in its midst. It was also a sign from God that this institution exists for a reason, and must continue to thrive, especially for those most threatened. We’re all aiming for heaven, but aren’t we brothers and sisters in Christ due some security and freedom?

Photography: Our Lady and Our Savior, Nijmegen/Mark H. Paalman/CC BY 2.0

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I did something amazing the other day. I carried a 40-lb bag of water softener salt by myself! From a palate at the warehouse store, up and over and into the shopping cart, just so. And, later on while shopping, I grasped two 15-lb boxes of Epsom salt with my bare hands and packed them into that same shopping cart! This was a magnificent achievement, made all the more essential because my 17-year-old son was not with me.

For the me-of-late, this was nearly Sampsonesque. Shackled to fibromyalgia, it’s anyone’s guess what’s next on that pain-threshold meter in my upper extremities. A few months ago, I was barely able to lift those 15-lb Epsom salt boxes – using my forearms instead of hands – and plop them into the child-seat part of the cart, trying to conserve as much potential energy as possible for what would prove to be a challenging go at unpacking it all into my car.

It’s not that great when your shoulders are painfully weak and your hands feel like they’re being stung by ants. You have good days and bad, and it could as easily be the weather or something you ate.

A tweak of my meds could fix this, of course, adding a bit more of some prescription drug to reduce the constant pain. The only cost would be more of some annoying side effect.

Chronic pain disorders have a habit of beating you down in ways that only someone else with chronic pain can understand. I’ve struggled with two of these over the last five years. And when that chronic pain syndrome has a spooky name like “polymyalgia rheumatica” (formerly) or “fibromyalgia” (currently), it basically means that the doctors have no idea what causes it or how long it will last.

As for the meds, the docs are just throwing things at them that happened to work for some people and might, just might, work for you. “There are some side effects,” they’ll say, “you might be more tired, or unable to sleep. You might get constipated, or the opposite. You might suffer some sexual dysfunction.” The lists go on, often including some supremely helpful ones, such as “Do not take this drug if you are allergic to this drug” or – my favorite – “Possible side effects include death.”

Faith is tested during times like these. Faith is tried. I’ve become closer to my Rosary over the last five years and have more often sought the blessed sacramentals and sacraments of my religion. But was I really doing this right? Was I being sincere, or just banking on an ATM Jesus? I’d lost track.

To help sort this out, I went with some trepidation to a Mass of Healing at our parish. My wife and son – so supportive! – joined me for this moving spiritual experience, which included a standard novus ordo mass, Eucharistic Procession and Adoration, and laying on of hands. Attendance was good, from our diverse congregation. There was no personal witnessing. None of the wildly undulating faithful, shaking free from a crippling disease. The service was reverent, low-stress, and unassuming.

Following the ceremony and prior to the final blessing, Father stood at the pulpit, at first quietly. Then, without warning, he – I don’t know how else to describe it – he started channeling the Holy Spirit.

This priest, mind you, was not normally flamboyant or evangelical, just a kind and unassuming Redemptorist. This was quite out of character, and yet his rapid-fire words and groans were not affected or pretentious. With eyes closed and hands outstretched toward the pews, he spoke of a person here “…who is seeking word from an estranged loved one – news will come soon;” “…who is struggling with an addiction – your sponsor loves you and wants you to come back.” The revelations kept coming, on and on, a few dozen, for a good five minutes.

During this hypnotic experience, I believed that I heard “…who is seeking strength – more strength will come to you.”

Wait, that was me!

I glanced at my wife. She smiled, clutched my hand.

My personal conceit has always leaned toward self-reliance. I am not a good outpatient, especially after hernia surgery or a broken rib. During the worst of my fibromyalgia, not only am I not able to open that jar with a tight lid, but I actually have to ask my son to open it for me, or to haul those 40-lb salt bags, or those 15-lb Epsom salt boxes. My lack of strength is realized through prohibitive pain.

The unbearable heaviness of things I used to lift without a second thought had crushed me down low.

That heavy yoke was nearly too much to bear. Prescription drug side effects would just have to do. Or so I had kept telling myself, for at least eight months.

But then and there, in that Mass of Healing, I finally saw my yoke for what it was: a burden that Jesus promised to help me carry, if I offered it up. Whatever I had been praying for up ‘til then wasn’t quite right. It was the offering up for which I needed more strength.

That, and less self-pity, less desire for control. Above all: more trust.

The capacity of Our Savior to lift heavy loads far surpasses even the 125-lb crossbeam of His crucifix. I simply needed to trust in Him. Just as Our Lord trusted His Father and pitied not himself, thus obtaining the healing of rest.

During that Mass of Healing, I recall smelling incense, just a whiff or two. But no intense had been burned in the sanctuary, nor earlier that day, as far as I knew. I have no idea what this meant: an olfactory hallucination? A memory of a High Mass, or a message from the Holy Spirit? Not to worry, though. As incense wafts up toward heaven, so to go our prayers, heard by Our Father and His Son. So, make them count.

To learn more about fibromyalgia from a patient’s perspective, read more about my journey with chronic pain in this diet-related post and this theological look at suffering and hope.

To learn more about polymyalgia rheumatica (PMR) from a patient’s perspective, see my published academic article here [https://doi.org/10.1002/imed.1010].

Photography: “Pain.”/Mark H. Paalman/CC BY-SA 4.0

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Photography: “Triple Door Mixing Board is cool”/Roland Tangalo/CC0 1.0

Your life comprises the following: Eat. Clean. Dress. Compose.

Repeat.

Sleep has been optional for so long that it’s not worth listing. You sleep better while drunk, so sometimes, if you compose while drunk, you get a chance to nod. Your custom studio chair reclines automatically when it senses muscle tone gone limp.

Add your frequent medicaments – prescribed or not – and then you’ve got the perfect recipe for success. Or brilliance. Both, as long as “the balance of your mind’s creative threshold is cumulative.” (It’s what Guru said.)

It will all be worth it – or so they said. This is THE seminal picture, THE blockbuster of a generation – or so they promised. Working title: “Liminal Memories.” Writer-Director: top shelf. Actors: A-list. Artistic team: sublime. Genre: sci-fi fantasy. Musical score: yours.

They called you in midway through post-production after they’d sacked the first two composers. Your work on top studio feature films made them kick themselves. Why hadn’t they asked you sooner? (Answer: You don’t come cheap.)

Deadlines dance, advance. Three miles away, Prima Donna Writer-Director concocts her retakes and overdubs, choreographs bold arguments with the co-writer and cinematographer. The scent of success at all costs pervades their editing room, diffuses across those three short miles, assails you in your private retreat through a stream of texts and chats.

And so you sit, before your digital audio workstation, baby grand and synthesizer and electronic drums crammed against the back wall beneath a dusty Crucifix from when your studio was the nursery. A Stratocaster lies stunned on the floor, its vintage amp weeping a soft monotonic dirge in harmonic dissonance with the buzzing fluorescent lights. The latest vodka-with-essence you poured has spilled next to the control board. You type, backspace. Leap with excitement. Cringe with disgust. And spin in your custom muscle-tone-sensing studio chair, begging for the notes to come.

Voice mail pings. You check: Evelyn. She’ll be asking about your next support payment. Delete.

Delete!

You delete the twelve final measures you’d marked earlier as “SUCKS.” You smile in proud disbelief as twelve new measures flow from your fingers for the recurring theme to the rising action of the story arc with which you’ve struggled for over a week, because Prima Donna Writer-Director decided to gut the exposition and break the action up into multiple peaks and valleys, with references to expository details through remembrance flashbacks for each of the protagonists.

Such a change this late in production was unheard of. Kubrick, maybe.

“It goes with the title!” she shrilled.

“Completely outrageous!” you replied (striving against an expletive rant, since you’re trying to clean up your act for the custody battle).

The custody battle!

Bolt upright you rise and, tripping over the Stratocaster lying stunned on the floor, you recover your balance and lunge toward the studio door.

Locked!

You struggle, curse, slam your hand against the soundproof construction, check your pockets. Find the keys. Open. Run.

The one car you salvaged from the divorce awaits on your driveway. Remote start has the Italian engineering at a soft purr just as you arrive. And you’re off, running, running late.

As you approach the Circuit Court building through traffic, you notice the gentle throb of your phone against your thigh. You dig out the phone, thumb it open, read Evelyn’s jab:

Too late, toots! Three’s a charm!

Red light says stop.

Hands at 10 and 2 slam on the softest black Italian leather steering wheel available in this model for that price.

On the edge of emotion you foam, fume.

Green light says go.

Traffic honks, staccato and off key.

And just then you realize that the final bars you wrote for the rising action theme won’t work with the rest of the movie score. They are way too staccato. And off key.

You look at Evelyn’s text once again.

Delete.

Liminal memories have failed you.

Now “Liminal Memories” calls you back.

Photography: “Maseratti on Rt 40”/John Piekos/CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

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Photography: “It Is to Suffer”/Mark H. Paalman/CC BY-SA 4.0

Suffering sucks. No thanks to you, Adam and Eve! I would much rather be without fibromyalgia. That said, I can choose to deal with a chronic pain disease differently. Two ways in the spiritual space are thus:
(1) I could bemoan my predicament and pray endlessly for release from my suffering, for the mercy of an inscrutable, all-powerful God whom I must please to gain healing;
or
(2) I could muster through, but proactively seek additional help, by offering up my suffering as a sacrifice for The One who sacrificed for us, and then working to better myself as God sees fit.

These two examples have corollaries in the secular and material:
(1’) I could bemoan my predicament and wait on my doctor’s next word, passively reacting to the whims of this syndrome that’s caused my suffering;
or
(2’) I could muster through, but proactively seek additional help (e.g. research on diets, supplements, lifestyle changes, yoga), especially if I feel that I’m not getting the care I need from standard medicine. (cf. Paalman, 2020)

If you are already the member of a chronic pain/illness patient resource community, then you’re on the right track for either (2) or (2’). On these websites and Facebook pages, once you get past the heart-wrenching, perfectly understandable, but sometimes tedious “pity party” posts, much can be gained from knowledgeable and brave fellow patients who have already done much of the research and experimentation themselves, and who wish to share their wisdom with you.

But what undergirds that will to muster through the chronic illness slog proactively and not simply go limp as the victim? I argue that it is Faith and Hope.

For Christians, Faith and Hope are inextricably linked as two of the three Theological Virtues: Faith, Hope and Love. But please allow me to step away from the theological for just a moment and to secularize our first two Theological Virtues.

For a material thing such as disease, my best understanding is that Faith and Hope work in this way:
Faith is that which we have in our doctors, caregivers and the collective medical profession. We believe the tools for our ultimate healing are available.
Hope follows as an action. We act as if what we believe with our Faith will indeed come to pass. We act like we can achieve wellness.

Mind you, this type of Hope is not some weak, passive, reactive state. Not allowed are the following: “I hope my symptoms go away” or even “I hope my physician puts me on a different drug, I can’t bear the side effects I have now.” These are about as useful as “I hope I win the lottery.” Instead, we must actively align our lives toward Hope.

Rather than passively wish for a miracle cure, or fume because we feel that our doctor isn’t helping, we can actively evaluate our situation, respectfully question our doctors, and cooperate with them to reach a degree of wellness. If one doctor doesn’t seem to work out, we can usually seek another opinion. We can embrace our belief that wellness in some form is there for the taking, even if it’s just out of reach for now. That fundamental act of embracing belief — our Faith — becomes the energy to fuel our active Hope.

St. Thomas Aquinas wrote: “The perfection of Hope lies not in achieving what it hopes for but embracing its standard.” That “standard” is the knowledge, through Faith, that we can: We can achieve wellness. Our slog through chronic pain or disease may be long and hard, with good days and bad weeks. So, Kind Reader, I celebrate and encourage you in your Faith - your belief in the medical profession and the promise of wellness. Through that, I praise your Hope — your actions, rightly aimed, in accordance with attaining wellness.

Hope reaches for things not quite at hand. But our hopeful hand is actively reaching, extended toward a goal which we believe, through Faith, we can realize. Yes, true Hope will take courage. Let that courage feed into the fuel of your Faith and support your engaged and active Hope!

Now, taking Faith and Hope back from the soil of the secular to the sunshine of the Sacred is — I deeply believe — crucial to the final steps of true healing. And note that “healing” can mean many things. Even the stage IV cancer patient will heal, as her soul passes from her suffering body to her eternal rest, eyes focused in Faith on a loving God and in the Hope of Eternal Salvation.

Grounding Faith in God and Hope in Salvation was crucial for me, and has been for countless others I know who have given up their suffering to Jesus and attained an inner peace and confidence.

Mind you: this is not easy. The Sacred is no quick fix: it is a path, with turns and stumbles. There is no ATM god, no bargaining for health with a god of material deliverance. But the All-knowing, All-powerful God of the Trinity has a beautiful plan for all of us, even those suffering chronic illness for no clear reason.

To God, the reasons are clear. All He asks is that you believe in Him, have Faith, and Hope confidently for that help from Him to shoulder your burden.

And that help will come. Be vigilant: perhaps it may not arrive in quite the way you envisioned. But it shall. And when it does, you will experience healing, and through that, you will shine forth as a testament to Our Savior’s Grace.

Photography: “Deliverance”/Mark H. Paalman/CC BY-SA 4.0

This Reflection was originally published on Substack in October 2024, when I had barely a dozen subscribers.

My chronic illness is still here in June 2026, but in a much better place. That said, I felt this post needed to be dusted off and shared again.

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Photography: Untitled / Ruslan Zaplatin 🖤 on Unsplash /Unsplash License

The story of Polish piano virtuoso Ignacy Jan Paderewski and the little boy made it into our Pentecost Mass homily. You may know it: a mother brought her five-year-old son to a Paderewski piano concert. While she was distracted, the little boy, bored and curious, found his way onto the stage, sat at the imposing grand piano, and began playing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” Hearing the music, Paderewski joined the young man on stage, sat down behind the child, and whispered, “Don’t quit. Keep playing.” Paderewski then enveloped the boy with his arms, playing a complex bassline with his left hand and a harmonic accompaniment with his right. The two talented hands did not challenge the little tune of the boy, but complemented it, morphing what could have been an embarrassing situation into a mesmerizing, collaborative performance.

As I write these words, I am listening to Paderewski’s stunning Piano Concerto in A minor, Op. 17, just to confirm the mastery this musician had for his craft. Now, if I multiply my appreciation of this fact infinitely, across all music and art and science and …knowledge, that approaches my pathetic understanding of just how awesome is the Holy Spirit, of the God of Abraham.

As One of the Three Persons of the Holy Trinity, it is the Holy Spirit Who aids and guides us in the ways of the Father and the Son. Inasmuch as we are open to such guidance. Through nudges and whispers either subtle or unrestrained, the Spirit can take my meager and broken human life and transform it, from blandness to majesty. If I let Him.

The Spirit – the love of the Father for the Son and the Son for the Father, actualized – works on us and through us. If I’m the little boy in the story, I’m probably frightened initially by Paderewski edging up behind me. My first thought: I’ve been caught! I’m in trouble! for whatever I’ve plinked out on the white keys of my life. My pathetic knowledge of anything is, in fact, pretty much limited to just the white keys. Progress for me often means plinking out a few notes slowly, eyes counting from middle C up and down the keyboard, trying to make some sensible sounds within one octave.

At first, I’m frightened by The Spirit’s sudden presence. I flinch; I baulk. But then, the kind words of the Master come: “Don’t quit. Keep playing.”

Reassured, I scoot over, making room for the Master on the piano bench, giving Him enough physical space near me with which to work. He sits to my left. I feel his warmth. My heart calms.

His large left hand reaches up and rests on the low white keys, at first. Then His fingers pick out a deep and rich bass accompaniment for what I’m playing, using both white and black keys, adding variety and nuance to my humble yet purposeful plinkings.

Then, from around my back and to the right goes His other hand, to find even more white and black keys that I really never appreciated before. As He envelops me, the harmonies produced by our four hands are stunning to behold. Along with His amazing efforts, plus my concentrating on keeping the melody going, our joint effort becomes a master class in collaborative performance.

And He continues to guide me in this performance, and the next, strengthening me with His abundant fruits: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self control (Galatians 5:22-23)

The simple tune I’d started? I could not have completed it, to this extent, alone. I needed the Master. All I had to do was shake off the initial fear, scootch over to make room for Him, trust Him and His guidance, and keep playing what I was playing. The Master did the rest.

As I continue to meditate on the Feast of Pentecost, I’m grateful to Fr. Eric Hoog, C.Ss.R., for sharing this beautiful allegory of how the Holy Spirit can work in our lives.

Photography: Untitled / Puscas Adryan on Unsplash / Unsplash License

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Photography: “AI Exploration”/ by Cash Macanaya on Unsplash/Unsplash License

I just received an email from Zac Johnson, co-founder of Truthly. I received it because I’m a subscriber to his fantastic, Catholic-centered AI app. [Full disclosure: I don’t know any of the founders or employees of Truthly personally, nor do I get endorsements from Truthly. Okay, I do have a wee bit of a Substack relationship with , one of its co-founders, but it’s limited to the occasional mutual likes or comments.]

Why am I writing about some spam email I got from an app I subscribe to? Well, I insist the email is not spam. It is informative, not intrusive. And since Zac’s email was to me, I’m going to share some of it here.

It’s about the pending encyclical of Pope Leo XIV on the Artificial Intelligence revolution. The message should (and, I pray, will) go far beyond the borders of the Roman Catholic world.

First of all, I am no knee-jerk worshiper of AI. Nor am I fiercely opposed to it. I’ve ruminated here before about GenAI, Art and Faith. It affects me not only within my day-job sphere of academic publishing but also in my creative life of writing and photography. I worry about it because of those who may wield it wrongly.

So, when I learned from Zac that Pope Leo XIV has signed his first encyclical, Magnifica Humanitas (“Magnificent Humanity”), and that it covers the latest industrial revolution that is AI, I took notice. Pope Leo will present it officially on Monday May 25^th, 2026. The Holy See Press Office notes that the encyclical will focus on “care for the human person in the time of artificial intelligence.”

No topic is more apt for today than this.

Thankfully, Zac’s email cut to the quick on AI and its proper relationship with humanity and The Church.

Pope Leo sees AI as this generation’s industrial revolution — a technological shift of comparable magnitude, demanding comparably serious moral engagement.

And the response he is modeling is not retreat. The encyclical will be launched at the Vatican alongside the co-founder of a major AI lab, with senior cardinals presenting it.

That tells you something. The Catholic response to AI is not flight. It is engagement.

Engagement has been the way The Church has always dealt with technological advances. Never mind the misleading stories you’ve heard about Galileo and Pope Urban VIII (you can find the real story on Truthly, btw). As Zac continues, the truth regarding technology is that The Church…

…never condemned it — not the printing press, not the radio, not the internet. Last year, the Vatican’s Antiqua et Nova stated that “technological progress is part of God’s plan for creation.” [emphasis mine]

Any technology, AI included, can be directed toward good or evil ends, and the moral responsibility lies with us.

A clear understanding of this fact is crucial, absolutely crucial, in order for us to move forward as a society with this nascent and powerful – some say frightening – tool. The key word here is “tool.”

Artificial Intelligence is merely a tool. Created and manned by humans. Although which humans “man” AI is certainly an issue. Even with Human-in-the-Loop (HITL) design, it is of course critical that you are able to trust said Human who is ITL. My current career of investigating research fraud exists, in large part, due to the decidedly wrong Humans being ITL, thereby polluting academic publishing with fake science in order to expand wallets, not to mention egos.

Ultimately, Zac gives about the clearest, most comprehensive advice anyone ever could about using AI or any tech tool.

The Catholic method here is the one Christ gave us: judge by the fruits. If using AI is helping you know and live the faith more deeply — use it. If it is making you distracted, dependent, or shallow — stop. That standard applies to AI, and to every technology you have ever encountered.

This need not be taken as a purely religious message, either. If “faith” bothers you, just omit “the faith” from the above advice. The message is really very much the same, either way.

I look forward to seeing the Pope’s full encyclical soon. If it’s anything like I believe it will be, hopefully it will receive the wide press it deserves. Most importantly: I pray that it will stir more hearts and minds toward cautious, careful use of Generative AI. Our civilization depends on it.

Photography: “God numbers all the stars, calls each of them by name.” / Mark H. Paalman / CC BY-SA 4.0

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Photography: / CC BY-SA 2.0

As the United States of America prepares to celebrate a 250th of note — the 250th anniversary of our Declaration of Independence — it was on or about May 1st that I realized I too had achieved a 250th milestone of my own. My 250th subscriber joined Pomalom’s Ponderings. This means so much to me: that at least 250 of you out there would trust me with your already-overburdened inboxes.

I’ve always loved to craft thoughts into words and hope that they land. For somebody besides myself, even. I love my day job, too, which makes time for writing mighty scarce these days.

Whom to thank? Bella the Torbie inseparable from my writing, very often as you see here — and, actually, almost precluding it. She doesn’t look or act at all like she’s well over 16, which keeps me feeling young.

Hiding behind the camera is my wife, , who is the love of my life (besides Jesus), as well as my number one editor and theological consultant. She also offers up myriad beautiful photographs of exotic places like Rome, Florence, Assisi, and Santa Fe. Her rates are dear, but her heart is true.

My age-old best friend from grade school through college and beyond (who shall remain anonymous) nagged me into joining Substack, as a means to share my words with others, and probably as a way to get me out of his face, asking for feedback on my latest weirdass story all the time. Thanks, bruh (I think that’s what the zoomers say now, and not always ironically).

I’m also indebted to , who bothered to pay attention to me, a fledgeling Substacker, about 20 months ago. He took me seriously, offered me encouragement, and brought me on as a guest writer for his wonderful newsletter , which is full of fabulous literary artists who also support and encourage my work.

A shout-out to my fabulously talented friends in the Catholic Writers Guild “Fiction Crit Group,” some of whom are also on Substack, and all of whom have not only supported my short fiction writing, but helped me to improve my craft; urged me to draw on faith, scripture and the Holy Spirit for all of my writing; and encouraged me to publish my work in literary journals. A number of other dedicated family, friends and readers have urged me on with likes, comments, and shares of my article posts and concise notes. Merci!

While 250 is a spit in the bucket for many if not most of the excellent writers in this part of the ‘stack ‘verse, it still feels like an accomplishment. Again, I’m so humbled. I’ve always hoped that my writing would reflect truth and be a vehicle for the glory of God and Mankind. Please keep me honest.

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Photography: Priest Ordination/Scott Wagner/CC BY-SA 2.0

This May 2026, a fabulous event is taking place: a very good friend of mine is being ordained to the Transitional Diaconate, as the penultimate step toward his full ordination to the Roman Catholic priesthood. This is a moving occasion, one that I deeply wish I could attend in person. However, I will be there with him, at least in spirit and prayer.

While duty calls me to miss his ordination because of an unavoidable yet transient business trip, the duty calling to my friend is, long-term, much more important on the universal scale. And, well, it is exceedingly holy.

My good friend’s calling has been one long in the making. Suffice it to say that my friend’s path toward the priesthood began much later in life. And no, it was not a “mid-life crisis.” It is profoundly insulting to conflate a calling by God to ender Religious Life with a “mid-life crisis.”

My friend – let’s symbolically call him Hunter – has had quite a career, one that any person would consider profoundly successful in one’s chosen field. It is safe to say that Hunter had established quite a legacy, with honors, notoriety, and eponyms to his credit.

And yet, when one is chosen away from one’s chosen field, interesting things can and will happen.

“Here I am,” is a common response to calls by the LORD in the Bible. When the prophet Samuel said “Here I am” to God as a child, it opened a path for him that would intertwine his legacy with that of the Israelite people through modern times, chiefly because of the second man that he anointed to be King of the United Israel: David.

But more apropos to Hunter, the immediate, unstated “yes” of Abram in Genesis Chapter 12 came from a nomadic man, a wealthy herdsman already late in years. While my friend was by no means “nomadic” when the Lord tapped him on the shoulder, Hunter was late in years when He drew him toward a new life.

Hunter has his former life’s legacy to accompany him throughout his newly found religious life. He cannot escape it, nor necessarily should he.

And yet, may I just say: Legacy be damned! So many people over so many years have lived and died by the legacy they struggle to accrue – be it fame, or accomplishment, or riches for their heirs. Of course, fame, accomplishment, and riches will fade.

But a true legacy, a selfless one that impacts upon not just the material world but the spiritual, is eternal. It is the notion of eternal legacy which so many citizens of this planet consider all too little as they run about their everyday lives, striving instead to concoct some sort of ephemeral earthly legacy for themselves and their descendants.

So: Thank you and God bless you, Hunter, for changing up your life, re-ordering it to serve God and His creation! As well, thank you to all of the other men and women who are pursuing, or even just considering, a life in religious orders within the Church!

I offer up my deepest appreciation and love to those men and women who decide that the legacy they have chosen is one that doesn’t really involve capital or contrivance or calculation, whether for ill or for good. Ordination to a Religious Life of any kind — and especially those involving vows of chastity, poverty and obedience — is a gift not only to God Almighty, but to the human race as well. The legacy of ordination is far richer than jewels or gold or real estate. It enacts the sacred art of saving souls from perdition. What could be a more profound legacy than that?

Photography: Priest Ordination/Scott Wagner/CC BY-SA 2.0

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The holiest and most sorrowful walk of shame in the history of mankind is perhaps our best and only chance to put ourselves into the shoes of Our Savior, Jesus Christ. The following original photographs of the Stations of the Cross are from the life-size diorama statues gracing St. Anthony Chapel in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. I offer them here in reverence, for visual reflection and with minimal commentary. The full stations might be cut off in the email version for subscribers, so the best viewing will be online or in the app.

Station I: Jesus is Condemned to Death

“Now consider this: Who is the person you love more than any other in your life? Jesus loved the man who scourged him more than that. Jesus loved that man more than you and I have ever loved anyone.”

Dynamic Catholic

Station II: Jesus Carries the Cross

“The world believes that suffering has no value and should be avoided at all costs. God believes that suffering has value–enough value to save all of humanity.”

Dynamic Catholic

Station III: Jesus Falls for the First Time

“With our thoughts, words, actions or inaction, we put more weight upon his shoulders. Why? Because we love this world, we love some of our sins, and we are addicted to comfort. But even with all of this weight, Jesus gets back up. And he invites us to radical transformation, to forgiveness, and to a life with him forever.”

Dynamic Catholic

Station IV: Jesus Meets His Mother

“Pray for us, Mary. Teach us to prayerfully endure the struggles in our own lives and to comfort others when they suffer.”

Dynamic Catholic

Station V: Simon Helps Jesus Carry His Cross

“Whatever cross you are carrying at this time in your life, claim it as your own. Name it as your own cross. And talk to Jesus today about what it is like to be carrying that cross. If you need help carrying it, ask him in prayer to send you a Simon of Cyrene and trust God that he is with you every step of the way.”

Dynamic Catholic

Station VI: Veronica Wipes the Face of Jesus

“Veronica boldly stepped out of the crowd to wipe Jesus’ face of blood and sweat. She wasn’t afraid to be seen with him. She didn’t care that he was the most hated man on earth that day. She noticed his need, and she went to him. Jesus was the same way. He made a habit of going out of this way to engage with people on the fringe of society–no matter who they were or what they were like.”

Dynamic Catholic

Station VII: Jesus Falls a Second Time

“Why did Jesus accept stress and suffering and humiliation and even death? Because he had a mission. And that mission–to save you, to save all of humanity–was the reason he was able to get up again. What’s your mission?”

Dynamic Catholic

Station VIII: Jesus Meets the Women of Jerusalem

“When we suffer trauma or loss, we are stunned and can become numb. After the initial shock wears off, we can experience stress, disorientation, anger, and depression. [...] We may think and say things like, “I just want to move on” or “I’m ready to put this whole thing behind me.” But the first step to healing is facing what has happened.”

Dynamic Catholic

Station IX: Jesus Falls a Third Time

“You have unique hopes, dreams, fears, ambitions, talents, and needs. God will use each of these to call you along your own unique path, but always toward the light. If you’re not sure where you are or what direction you should be going: move toward the light. The light always leads us forward.”

Dynamic Catholic

Station X: Jesus Is Stripped of His Garments

“They’ve taken everything from Jesus, even his clothes. But it doesn’t matter–no amount of humiliation, no amount of pain, will stop Jesus from fulfilling what God has asked of him.

What’s stopping you, right now, today, from fulfilling what God has asked of you?”

Dynamic Catholic

Station XI: Jesus Is Nailed to the Cross

“And Jesus said: Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

Luke 23:34a, Douay-Rheims

Station XII: Jesus Dies on the Cross

“And it was almost the sixth hour; and there was darkness over all the earth until the ninth hour. And the sun was darkened, and the veil of the temple was rent in the midst.

And Jesus crying out with a loud voice, said: Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit. And saying this, he gave up the ghost.”

Luke 23:44-46, Douay-Rheims

Station XIII: The Body of Jesus Is Removed from the Cross

“Mary’s Son had just gone through the most horrendous death imaginable. Here is Jesus being taken down from the cross and laid in her arms again. Thirty-three years earlier, Mary held Jesus in her arms for the first time. She must have been in ecstasy, for this was her Lord and Savior whom she was cradling in her arms. Now she arrives at this moment in time, having suffered along with her Son during His passion and death. Mary is holding the lifeless body of Jesus and once again cradling Him. Does she see a dead body? No. After seeing Jesus die on the cross, she finally sees peace in her precious Son’s face again. She is still sorrowful but at the same time filled with hope of seeing Jesus again in His resurrected body.”

Fr. Angelo Casimiro, MIC/Marian Fathers-The Divine Mercy

Station XIV: Jesus Is Laid in the Tomb

“Jesus, as Your body is laid in the tomb and the stone is rolled in front of its entrance, there is complete darkness. You are alone again, Lord, and Your spirit is immediately plunged into the depths of the dead. You carry Your cross again, not in defeat but in triumph, for You have won victory over death! Thank You, Jesus, for dying for our sins on the cross and rising from the dead.”

Fr. Angelo Casimiro, MIC/Marian Fathers-The Divine Mercy

“They say that the darkest hour is right before the dawn, and it is in these darkest hours that God is often preparing to do his greatest work. Jesus, do that work in us today. Unleash the power of your suffering, death, and resurrection. And resurrect the area of my life that needs it most.”

Dynamic Catholic

Thank you for accompanying me on The Way of Lent. As we reach the end of Lent, you can still reflect on the whole journey which started on Ash Wednesday and ran every Lenten Sunday, at Pomalom’s Ponderings and Lighthouse.

Have a blessed Easter Triduum!

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Art: “Jesus Washing Peter’s Feet”/Ford Maddox Brown/Public Domain/UK Copyright for photo: Tate Britain

The Way of Lent has transitioned into The Way of Holy Week. On Palm Sunday, I reflected on the name of Jesus. On this day, we remember the service of Jesus, as He prepares the twelve apostles for their last meal with Him.

The confusion of the apostles must have been intense, when Jesus stripped off His outer cloak, wrapped a towel around his waist, and brought a bowl to wash their feet. Then it gave way to disbelief. When Simon Peter asks Jesus if he’s seriously going to wash his feet, Jesus assures him that there is more to His act than they can now understand, but that they will in time.

Simon Peter remains indignant:

Why “never”? Is it because this act was that of a slave, a servant? Societal class was a crucial reality in the first century, especially to an occupied people. But Simon Peter believed Jesus was the Christ! The Messiah! Master! How could the Chosen One stoop so low as to offer this lowly service to a mere fisherman? With his impetuous cry, Simon Peter shows how his own faith in Jesus can be so easily rattled.

Is our faith in Jesus easily rattled? With the benefit over Simon Peter of hindsight, we can see even more of the picture. We know that the Passover Seder they are about to eat is really the institution of the Holy Eucharist, and also their last supper together with Jesus in a pre-Resurrection world.

But consider what happens to Jesus within just a few hours after the washing of the feet: He is betrayed by one of his followers, arrested, accused, scourged, mocked, tormented, condemned to die, and crucified upon the most cruel and disrespectful of Roman torture devices.

So. Is that all there is? This… man, this victim? Am I going to follow… this guy, hanging from a tree? It’s a fair question to ask, even today.

But Jesus, patient yet firm as ever, is having none of Simon Peter’s incredulity, nor ours:

In our case, as well as in Simon Peter’s, Jesus ultimately washes us in His blood. His service to us is pure sacrifice, as it is also our path to His inheritance. If we only manage to follow… this guy, to believe in Him, to repent of our sins, and to follow in His footsteps.

For my part, the washing of the feet on Holy Thursday has not been at the top of my list for meditation. Until now. The act is both normal and startling. Even today, how would I react to someone, even a friend, coming over to the dinner table and washing my feet?

The brutality of the Crucifix, certainly startling, is so out of place in our present day, that it makes it a bit harder for me to grasp. The washing of the feet, though. It makes me see in a more tangible way just how far Jesus was willing to go for us, for me. Just how startling he was willing to be in his servitude to mankind.

Which makes me all the more unsure of whether I deserve to have my feet washed, let alone whether I deserve even a drop of His blood.

Photograply: “Franciscan Crucifix, Assisi”/Susan Paalman/CC BY 2.0

Thank you for reading The Way of Lent! It began on Ash Wednesday and will culminate on Good Friday. Have a blessed Easter Triduum!

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Photography: “Wildlife and Plants of Israel”/ Liraz Amrani / CC BY 2.5

Last Sunday, the Fifth Sunday of Lent, I considered Spirit. And now, as we perch on the precipice of Holy Week, it seems appropriate to consider not just Spirit, but God incarnate: the King of Glory.

Who is He? How else shall we call Him?

Here’s one of His designations: “The Master.”

I’m convinced that anyone who asked the disciples what the heck they were doing, and heard “the Master has need of them,” would have not missed a beat, but instead waved the disciples on their way with the ass and the colt. Jesus as the Master will lead many of His disciples and apostles away from tethered security, in fact to what the secular world might consider as their doom – just as a domesticated animal is led to the slaughter. And yet, in the end they will go willingly, almost eagerly, for the Master, to do the Master’s bidding.

But He is also called, rightly, “The Son of David,” “The Prophet from Nazareth.”

One of David’s line was prophesied to be the Messiah. But oh, how the lineage of David had waned, through sin, lack of repentance, and exile. Could Jesus be the one? Since the death of Malachi, the true prophetic line was considered extinguished. Is Jesus truly a trusted prophet? I can appreciate both dismay over troubled family trees and the hatred that often follows truth-sayers. But the cries of the followers of Jesus on Palm Sunday were joyous! They truly believed he was the Messiah!

With such a triumphant entrance into Jerusalem, it has always been on the edge of unimaginable for me that Jesus would, just a few days later, end up attacked, spat upon, slapped, and scourged. Of the myriad followers of Jesus, so many must have believed that they were simply wrong. Yet, how does the King of Glory, the Master, the Son of David, the Prophet – how does Jesus respond to the evil and brutality of those who felt threatened by Him? Isaiah, himself a brutalized prophet, tells us:

In the end, the regal and righteous names applied to Jesus on Palm Sunday could not save him from the physical manifestations of mockery and hatred as Holy Thursday and Good Friday approached. The name Jesus becomes a mockery, a curse, and He himself is relegated to an insignificant being:

In his Letter to the Philippians, Saint Paul recounts concisely the disgrace from which Jesus Christ suffered.

To the ruling class of the Jews, He was a blaspheming, sinful man claiming to be equal to God. And, in the end: weak, pathetic, crucified like a criminal, a joke of a “king” whom Pilate mocked with a sign fixed atop His cross, naming him thus:

Iesvs Nazarenvs Rex Ivdaeorvm

But, as we know, this was not the end of the story. And it is the Holy Name of Jesus Christ to which we return in full glory with the dawn of Easter Sunday.

“At the name of Jesus every knee should bend.”

To The King of Glory: all praise and honor! To The Master: behold His word! To the The Son of David, to The Prophet from Nazareth: all homage and respect! To the worm: Saint Francis loved less than these! To Jesus the Christ: every single knee!

So, how is it that I constantly fail to honor Him and His Holy Name? Why do I continually fall and sin? Why do I lean into my humanity and eschew the divinity which the name of Jesus should instill within me?

Photography: “The King of Glory,” The Duomo, Florence/Susan Paalman/CC BY 2.5

Thank you for reading The Way of Lent! The path started on Ash Wednesday, presented a meditation every Lenten Sunday, and will continue periodically through Holy Week.

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Photography: “The Spirit Renews”/Mark H. Paalman/CC BY 2.0

On the Fourth Sunday of Lent, Jesus gave sight to the man who had been blind from birth. Blindness is a biblical metaphor for spiritual blindness.

In each of the Fifth Sunday’s liturgical lessons, the Church spotlights the spirit and the soul. While reading, it occurred to me: how could I possibly understand spiritual blindness without understanding spirit?

The terms “spirit” and “soul” are often used interchangeably. And that’s fine, on a practical level, at least for mankind:

While we can make distinctions between “soul” and “spirit” as St. Paul writes in 1 Thessalonians 5:23, they are fundamentally the same in man (CCC 367). That is, as the Church teaches, the “soul signifies the spiritual principle of man. … The human body is human precisely because it is animated by a spiritual soul” (CCC 363-364).

[…]

In man, the soul has not only vegetative powers (as plants have) and sensitive powers (as animals have) but also rational powers, which makes it akin to pure spirits in that sense. It is this rational power that separates us from other living beings in this world.

– Catholic Answers

The awareness of spirit is inescapable in Sacred Scripture. Saint Paul urges me to embrace my spiritual nature by seeking to be more receptive to God dwelling within me, within my heavy earthbound flesh that is so often dead from sin:

When thinking only of the flesh, I can’t escape the fact that death pervades life. Degrades life. Ends it. Irreversible and terminal. If I’m mired in this notion, I get depressed. This is one reason why I feel so heartbroken for my atheistic friends who do not believe they have an eternal spiritual nature.

Indeed, this is why the vision God shows the prophet Ezekiel is so spectacular! Ezekiel views an expanse of dry bones filling a broad valley. Neither muscle nor sinew nor skin; not even defined skeletons. Just bones. The only elements vaguely recognizable as once human would have been the skulls, now just rounded rocks of hydroxyapatite plus denatured protein – pretty irreversible and terminal.

But then, God orders Ezikiel to prophesy over the bones. And, they rise – not just animated skeletons, but bodies with new muscles and sinew and skin and, eventually, even spirit, breathed into them by the LORD God:

A vast army of Israelites is thus reborn within this prophecy, who one day will return to the Promised Land. For a once-great people who had been repeatedly defeated and exiled to distant lands (through every fault of their own), embracing these words of the prophet Ezekiel would have kept alive a glimmer of hope in an eternal future.

As we shift to the Gospel lesson, a glimmer of hope is unfortunately not what either Martha or Mary had for their beloved Lazarus in his mortal state. Jesus arrived too late to save their ailing brother from death. Four long days he had been in the tomb. The grieving Martha, acutely aware that nothing could be done for Lazarus in this life, expresses her belief – perhaps recalling Ezekiel’s valley of bones – that her brother will rise again, “in the resurrection on the last day” (John 11:24). Her faith spurs Jesus to share some of his most powerful words in all of the Gospels:

I find it interesting that, for all of his usual talk about God’s Glory and the Spirit and the Kingdom of Heaven, here Jesus leaves Martha to focus on the spiritual while he instead dwells on the material. His focus is on His earthly mortal friends. And, we see Jesus – God Incarnate, limitless – weep.

For whom? He knows that Lazarus will rise in but a few moments: the decomposing muscles and sinews of his friend’s decaying corpse will be restored, the spirit of Lazarus will be breathed back into a renewed body by the Father after four long days.

Yet still, Jesus weeps. His limited human nature weeps for the devastating pain that this demonstration of God’s Glory has inflicted upon Martha and Mary.

Then, Jesus barks orders. Martha can’t believe Jesus would have them roll away the stone blocking Lazarus’s crypt, for a horrible stench would follow.

The spirit of Lazarus reanimates his once-dead body. The penultimate miracle of Jesus as the Messiah is complete.

In John’s Gospel, His final miracle will be performed at the Passover Seder, where Jesus will re-present the Bread of Life Discourse (John 6). He will have His apostles feed upon His own body and blood, once bread and wine, at the Last Supper. They will be the first mortals to share in this way of the Spirit of Christ.

I try to wrap my head around this every Lent, every Holy Week – heck, every Holy Mass: that while my human spirit is alive within my decrepit body weighed heavily by sin, Jesus wants His own Spirit to dwell within me also. It’s up to me, to call out to Jesus and ask Him to help me roll away the stone from my self-inflicted tomb. It makes me want to weep.

Photography: “The Spirit of God, St. Mary Major Basilica, Rome”/Suzy Paalman/CC BY 2.0

Thank you for reading The Way of Lent! This path starts on Ash Wednesday and continues each Lenten Sunday.

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Photography by Katelyn G on Unsplash

A drive for the spiritual is hard-wired into mankind. We thirst for spiritual grace from God, and I reflected on this notion last week. But what if you cannot see that for which you should thirst? When my vision is obscured by my own sin – or at least, my inattention – I can’t even view that for which my soul longs.

Saint Paul knew this all too well. Spiritually blinded by sin in his zealous persecution of the first Christians, Jesus physically blinds Paul on the road to Damascus. Paul is left in darkness, only to have his sight restored miraculously by one of Jesus’s disciples. Perhaps as a consequence, Paul writes often of this symbolism. In today’s epistle lesson, we read:

It is from this light, a grace from the Lord God, that we are freed from spiritual blindness.

The Old Testament provides many examples of our being unable to “see” without guidance from God. Samuel was shown two kings of Israel by the LORD Almighty: first Saul, who proved to be a disappointment in Samuel’s time; and then David, son of Jesse. Right after Saul disobeyed God’s demand to neither (a) pillage the Amalekites after victory in battle nor (b) take their king Agog as prisoner, the LORD God shared with Samuel His will that Saul would no longer be the anointed king of Israel. Samuel prophesied to Saul the end of his reign and then departed for Judah. We are told that “never again, as long as he lived, did Samuel see Saul” (my emphasis; 1 Samuel 15:35).

God Almighty had other plans, but they were more obscure than Samuel might have guessed. God chose Jesse of Bethlehem to be the father of the next king of Israel, but who except God could have seen this coming? Not even Samuel.

After Samuel greets Jesse, a sacrifice is prepared, in communion with the prophet, Jesse, and his sons. Samuel’s work seems clear enough, so he surveys the young men standing before him. Alas, it’s not that easy.

Samuel cannot find and anoint David as king until he is able to follow the LORD God as He looks into David’s heart. Can God help me to learn how to look into the heart of my fellow man? How about starting small, with my own heart? Can I learn to do even this without God to guide me?

Doubtful, given my fallen nature. As much as I try to wave the clouds of sin away from my eyes, they come back, obscuring my view. I can’t do this on my own. Instead, I need trust and faith in God to be my shepherd.

The Gospel lesson for this Sunday is steeped in the symbolism of vision. The premise is that Jesus meets a man blind from birth. Blindness denotes a symbol of spiritual blindness in Scripture. But in this case, spiritual blindness seems more present in the disciples of Jesus than the blind man.

Jesus upbraids his disciples and then, in an elaborate and tender ritual, cures the blind man. Of note, Jesus did not forbid the man to tell anyone of the cure, as He had often done after performing signs and wonders. The Man Born Blind Who Can Now See tells his neighbors, who take him to the Pharisees.

Talk about spiritual blindness! Through a prolonged interrogation, the Pharisees repeatedly deny the possibility of a miracle: “The sinful man Jesus couldn’t possibly perform a sign!” “You were probably never blind to begin with!” As they persist, the man (who remains nameless: my friends, he is us!) stands up to them and their own blindness:

The supposed men of God themselves cannot see Jesus for Whom He is. Their spiritual blindness is caused by the sin which pervades their souls like silt in a stagnant pond. The miracle of Jesus Christ has transformed the man—once blind— who now lectures the Pharisees!

What is obscuring the stagnant pond that keeps me from receiving the grace to see Jesus as the true source of life, the one true God, and then embracing him fully? Proclaiming Him?

Photography: “The Son Is the Radiance of God’s Glory”/Mark H. Paalman/CC BY 2.0

Thank you for reading The Way of Lent. It began on Ash Wednesday and has proceeded every Sunday during this reflective season.

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Photography by Dan Gold on Unsplash

Last week, I reflected on the promises that God has made to us since the Creation, which have now culminated in the promise-made-flesh, Jesus Christ. This week, we need to consider thirst.

For what do you thirst?

Thirst for water is what most people will think of. And this is what it appears the Israelites are pining for during their desert wanderings:

But if you look back just two lines in Exodus Chapter 17, you’ll see that the Israelites have been wandering for hundreds of miles in the desert, the aptly named the Wilderness of Sin. The word “Sin” is likely derived from a Semitic root related to “Sinai” or “thorny,” referring to the sandy, arid region between Elim and Mount Sinai where the Israelites grumbled for their lack of sustenance. It’s an inhospitable wilderness, and particularly thorny, too, which sounds like “sin” to me.

In any event, The Israelites were far from their previous home in Egypt. They were alone, suffering, and thirsted for their past habitual comforts, which had trapped them in slavery.

I can tell you of what I thirst. All too often, it’s for the wrong things at the wrong time. During winter, I drink far too much coffee, under-hydrate, and am constantly thirsty—a vicious cycle. Of course, there are those misplaced thirsts I have for that which will raise my blood pressure, or increase my low-density lipids, or reduce my sobriety.

Wandering through Sin could make anyone lose perspective of what’s essential, what’s healthful. It alters perception, distorts reality, makes me feel like the King of my own Castle while I’m really the prisoner of Satan’s Dungeon.

Moses cried out to the Lord, who told Moses to strike the rock at Massah and Meribah. And the Israelites were overjoyed with the flowing water… that is, for a time. We know how they succumbed to complaining, rioting, and idolatry, even as Moses was ascending Mount Sinai to receive the Ten Commandments. Their thirst for past indiscretions put them on a path of discontent and ultimately delayed their journey to the Promised Land by forty years.

Fast forward to Jesus and his ministry in Samaria, at Sychar, where Jacob’s well was said to be. A Samaritan woman came to draw water from the well – an ancestral well. This well offered up the same water from the same aquifer, year after year (if they were lucky).

What do I get when I go back to the same old habits of sin? The same old boring life, year after year (if I’m lucky).

But Jesus confronts the Samaritan woman with His own allusion to thirst: “Jesus said to her, ‘Give me a drink.’ (John 4:7)” Naturally, Jesus could have summoned water from a stone if He’d wished. Instead, He, a Jew, summoned water from a woman with whom He had nothing in common. Jesus is calling her out of herself, asking her to look past the differences of their divided cultures, and consider how she might have anything to offer him. Then, in one of his strongest statements in the Gospel, Jesus says:

Rightly confused, she is still focused in on the materiality of the well and how Jesus could possibly provide any water from it, let alone “living water,” especially without a bucket.

And this is the opening He was waiting for, to explain Himself to her.

The woman begs for this easy way out: to get what she wants to quench her thirst, no work required. What could possibly satisfy us like this? It is the divine life, which is infinite, ever overflowing, freely given infinite grace; that is the living water that Jesus promises.

But first, the woman needs to order her heart so she can receive that grace. When Jesus quizzes her on her checkered past with multiple husbands and, now, living in fornication, we see that she’s addicted to the disordered life of sin. In order to prepare herself for the infinite grace offered by Jesus, she needs to clean up the moral house of her life. She must be purified to receive the eternal life offered by Jesus’s living water.

What has Jesus done? He showed her the way out of those addictive patterns into which she fell, the way to be ready for the living water he has to give: grace.

The woman leaves her water jug behind at the feet of Jesus. This symbolizes her old way of searching for water that does not satisfy: habitual sin. Then, she runs back into the town and evangelizes about Jesus! She goes on to tell all people thirsting for an unsatisfying life about Jesus as a prophet, and His living water. She shares the grace Jesus gave to her. And in sharing the grace, she receives all the more.

Can I also hope to find this living water, this heavenly grace? It came to the Samaritan woman through Jesus, who was waiting for her at the well. She had to prepare herself, though – by having Jesus reveal to her that which she’d been trying to hide, in living one false and sinful life after another.

How can I hope to prepare myself for this grace, so that it wells up in my life to properly quench that for which I truly thirst? That’s what will satisfy the thirst of my heart, not the dead water of sin. Saint Paul reminds me that this hope is not only reasonable, it’s realizable — if I only repent and open myself to the Holy Trinity.

Photography by Jabari Timothy on Unsplash

Thank you for reading! The Way of Lent started on Ash Wednesday and will continue every Sunday through Holy Week.

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