He saves, he hoards, he gloats over his cache of candy: my grandson, Tyler the Tightwad. He’s never heard of Silas Marner or Shylock or any of those other renowned literary misers, being barely four years old. Nor is he ungenerous in any other direction. In this case, however, he truly is a sk

It is easy to overlook Joseph, much as we overlook those millions of men and women who do their work quietly and well, without the least fanfare.

Whenever I hear someone say, “Offer it up,” I remember Sally. Sally had a fondness for sweets, but they weren’t good for her. Every time she spied me sneaking a cookie or candy bar, she would stare intently at me, hoping I would feel guilty and share. “Offer it up,” I w

Last year, three times per week, I would stumble out of the 59th Street subway station in midtown Manhattan, stupefied by the competing traffic jam of landmarks. Trump Tower shot up from my left as Christopher Columbus balanced himself on my right, claiming dominion over his stone pillar and the int

Should I feel guilty? The question nagged at me—a good Catholic question, pecking at my conscience as I sat under a shaggy tree on the grounds of a great monastery and listened to the bell as it tolled. It was time to pray. I should have been heading to the church. Others on retreat would be i

I am in the kitchen, whipping up a batch of fig cake, and as I sort through the handwritten recipes in my collection, I recall the two grandmothers who were related to me not by blood but by love. In 1988 my husband, his sister and I traveled to Brandon, Miss., to visit their grandmother, Sadie, who