Mask wearing is an act of love. So are peaceful protests, and doing your job.
The only real tradition I have established in six years as a columnist is an annual piece that coincides with Holy Week.
Last year I wrote about the impact the novel coronavirus had on me and my life in the faith. Two years ago, I urged readers to take faith in in the ashes left when fire burned down Notre Dame.
Maybe my all-time favorite column remains the one I wrote about Maundy Thursday and Christ’s commandment to “love one another.”
This year, when I thought about writing it struck me that I have not been in my church for over a year. While I still attend virtually via video connection — and, there is something to be said for sipping coffee as “communion” while wearing sweatpants — it remains difficult to feel fully connected to my faith.