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For more than 30 years, I have lived with mental health issues. Much of my life has been colored by chronic and, at times, severe depression. Circumstances of my childhood, including domestic violence and my mother’s rage-filled alcoholism, have left me with bouts of anxiety and post-traumatic stress.
Many years ago, long before I became a Catholic, I worked as a youth minister at a midsize Presbyterian congregation on the east side of Atlanta. In addition to weekly hangouts, the annual youth conference in Montreat, North Carolina, and the occasional car wash, we would also gear up every couple of years to go on a mission trip.
In his book The Foundations of Christian Faith, theologian Karl Rahner asks us to think about a man engaged in the simple act of buying a banana at the grocery store.
Have you ever made a decision based on very little information that will surely affect the rest of your life—as well as the lives of everyone in your family—and which has no assurance of success? At the end of this past summer, my wife and I made a decision like that. We bought a house.
It’s October, and the long sunlight in the afternoons and the coming chill in the air sing the approach of autumn. Fall has always been my favorite season, with hayrides and visits to the apple orchards south of Chicago with my family. It brings me deep joy.
Earlier this summer, I took a plane from Chicago to the Mississippi Delta to go on a pilgrimage around the Gulf Coast and deep into southern Texas to the border of Mexico.
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