Writings
When I was but a wee, little lad (on the near northwest side of Detroit), Roman Catholicism was a foreign and not always friendly world. Many of my friends inhabited it, but never explained it. Perhaps, because they barely understood it. In those days, Catholicism wasn’t about understanding. Catholicism was about practicing.
I don’t know whether you’ve noticed or not, but not everything that looks tame is tame. Like some of the animals that run around my neck of the woods. One Sunday afternoon, a little red fox scampered across our deck. Then, just a few nights ago, we froze him in our headlights on the side of the road. Maybe it wasn’t the same fox. And maybe it wasn’t a fox at all. Not that I would know.
Over the course of eight summers (from the summer following the third grade to the summer following the eleventh grade), I went to church camp twelve times. A week each time. Meaning that there were some summers when I went twice. I camped at Lake Louise, Lake Huron, Mill Lake and Judson Collins Camp on Wampler’s Lake in the Irish Hills. That’s where I started.
My daughter is home and here this morning. This is my soon-to-be-married….even-sooner-to-be-thirty….daughter. Where did they go, these days of our lives? I don’t remember growing older. When did she?
