The following column appeared in the November 29, 2013 edition of The Boston Pilot, http://thebostonpilot.com/article.asp?ID=16681.
The leaves are down. The year is old. Between fall and winter waft up the homey smells of Thanksgiving and Advent, with the warmth of indoors and the tea. An oaken and mellow delight, seismic with all the thunder of melancholy.
Time scours the soul. What is in store for me? Aslan is on the move. But am I glad that Jesus is coming?
At Mass, these are the weeks of apocalyptic readings. “Apocalypse” means uncovering, revelation. What will our lives look like, what will tortuous and torturous history look like, when the King of kings unveils the work He has been at?
The speaker in T.S. Eliot’s poem on the early winter of life, “East Coker,” indicates what is to be found:
Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment/Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment…