Catholic Writing

Tom Medlar Evening gasps, Grasping closer his dusky cloak Till he's a shadow in the corner. Loitering longer near this luminous lady sewing in light. Time glides beside Evening, Stilled to see His winged spirit is her guest. Your presence, Lord, is felt By the powers of nature. Your silence speaks to the cycles of movement, To our longings for the everness of you. Abide always, meekest one. Fill my breath with the motions Of your arriving and going, She prays. A Habit of Pray

Tom Medlar We encounter many kinds of storms as we journey through this world, for some, they are more destructive than for others. We naturally react with fear, and worry, and anger over why it must be this way. God knows we are passing through a fallen world, and He asks us to try and see things as He does, or to trust that He is in control, and will guide us all the way. As a psychotherapist, I work with clients who live in nursing homes. An elderly man who I will call Ale

“Four pivotal human virtues: prudence, justice, fortitude, and temperance. The human virtues are stable dispositions of the intellect and will that govern our acts, order our passions, and guide our conduct in accordance with reason and faith.” Catechism of the Catholic Church, page 869. Have you read “Sense and Sensibility” by Jane Austen?” If not, get it right away, and do yourself a kind favor: read it with deep curiosity and be rewarded with deeper insights. Jane Austen i

Tom Medlar Always one with the Divine dispatch Never a thought for himself Always a swift and selfless messenger Never a pause to ponder his view Now God asking to become a person Never had this happened before Great Gabriel approaching This person This question This transition God asking if this Mary might become His mother Always he’d flown on the wings of the Lord Never had he felt like a human, hesitant to be seen Do not be afraid, Gabriel, for you have been chosen for th

Jesus with the Woman at the Well (Lu Hongnian) (In Public Domain)

Mary, Mother of Poets Tom Medlar The poet is a cultural crime fighter, A merchant of the timeless, A calligrapher of gravestone inscriptions. The poet wanders wasted lands, and Ponders books of ancient lore. The poet tosses runes skyward, and Traces the descent of inscrutable phrases. The poet leans into the cave of echoes, Listening for words spoken before speech began. Ancient poets are being found in melting glaciers, Their names, long etched in ice, Now melt into a crevas