At Home in Snow

      We met north of the city. Outside, the church doors were locked and no wonder, it was a Monday. We both missed morning mass. It was the holidays, December, and this time of year seems to both rekindle and revoke my nostalgia for home. Dad rolled down his window to greet me…

Gratitude, from the Deep Well of Sorrow

It isn’t Syriac, not even Arabic; both of which I love to hear being sung at the Maronite church in Buffalo, New York—with the incense filling the worship hall in thick haze, the parishioners dressed in  black, the back of their hair illuminated by the narrow and tall stained glass, and that sense of high…