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By: Father Pablo Migone
Originally Appeared in : 9912-6/6/19

A dark green Mercedes-Benz slowly came to a complete stop on a busy intersection as the light turned red. It was a cold day. On the tan leather back seat of the car sat a 15 or 16-year-old young man. Riding alone, his eyes had been fixed on the headrest in front of him, but as the car reached the light he turned his eyes toward the window. Within seconds another young man about his same age approached the car selling something. He held a wooden box full of bubble gum tightly secured around his neck with a weathered piece of yarn. wThe young man wore old, tattered clothes.

By: Rachel Balducci
Originally Appeared in : 9912-6/6/19

It’s not you; it’s May and end of the year collections and pool parties will be ancient history. It will all be behind us. But today, as I write my column, I’m staring it down. I’m right smack dab in the middle of the last week of school, and life feels nuts.

 

By: Jason Halcombe
Originally Appeared in : 9912-6/6/19

The “Happiest Place on Earth” would be the last place you’d expect to find someone with a sad, disappointed look on their face (unless you’ve listened to Jim Gaffigan’s hilarious take on Disney World), but there Jesse was, shoulders sagging and usually perky cheeks drooping as we strolled through New Fantasyland.

 

By: Padre Pablo Migone
Originally Appeared in : 9912-6/6/19

Un carro Mercedes-Benz verde oscuro se detuvo en el semáforo de una intersección congestionada. Hacía frío. En el asiento de cuero trasero estaba sentado un joven de quince o dieciséis años. Viajaba solo y al frenar el carro su mirada que había estado fijada en el reposacabezas delante de él se reubicó lentamente hacia la ventana. En ese instante otro joven de aproximadamente la misma edad se acercó al carro vendiendo algo. Llevaba una caja de madera llena de chicle colgada de su cuello con un pedazo de pabilo desgastado. El joven vestía ropa vieja y rota.

By: Rachel Balducci
Originally Appeared in : 9911-5/23/19

Summertime magic.

 

Summertime sadness.

 

Summertime blues.

 

No matter where you’re coming from, there’s an angle for summer. Are you excited? Are you nervous? Are you counting down the days with great anticipation or great dread? Probably a little bit of both.

 

By: Father Pablo Migone
Originally Appeared in : 9911-5/23/19

I arrived to the neonatal unit of the hospital after receiving a phone call requesting a possible emergency baptism. I rang the bell of the unit, and a few seconds later a voice asked through a small speaker, “How may I help you?” I introduced myself and shared with the nurse the information of the family I wished to see. She informed me that the baby was not there, and recommended I check the children’s hospital instead.

By: Jason Halcombe
Originally Appeared in : 9911-5/23/19

Our family is not very adept at presenting “spoiler free” reviews of films.

 

Following Jesse’s spoiler to Magan of Han Solo’s death way back in 2015, every subsequent trip to the theater was preempted with, “We don’t say a word. Do you understand?”

 

By: Padre Pablo Migone
Originally Appeared in : 9911-5/23/19

Llegué a la unidad de recién nacidos del hospital después de recibir una llamada telefónica solicitando un posible bautismo de emergencia. Soné el timbre de la unidad y a los pocos segundos una voz preguntó a través de un pequeño parlante, “¿en qué puedo servirle?” Me presenté y compartí con la enfermera la información de la familia que quería ver. Me informó que el bebé no estaba allí y me recomendó ir al hospital de niños.

By: Father Pablo Migone
Originally Appeared in : 9910-5/9/19

“Weep for lost memories that never were. Weep for that which never was. Mourn the memories you do not possess. Mourn the present moment that was not willed to be.” I wrote these words in 2010 while sitting on the back pew of St. Joseph Catholic Church in Washington, Georgia. The last time I had entered that small, rural parish was late December 1995, a few days before my brother was diagnosed with cancer. I was scheduled to play the piano at Christmas Mass that year; we never made it.

 

By: Rachel Balducci
Originally Appeared in : 9910-5/9/19

My brother who lives in Ann Arbor called me the other day, eager to tell me something amazing and hilarious he had just witnessed.

 

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