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

My late husband and I often caught the tail end of a popular television talk show while we were waiting for the news to begin. One evening Tao, a guest of one of the hostesses, got into an animated dialogue over the definition of love. A beautiful actress, whose name escapes me, painted that virtue

More than we imagine, probably. Hallmark. Fashion gurus. Purveyors of sentimental gifts. And I, too, once prayed to him.

I sat out back with the newspaper early one summer morning, reading about current events. Most stories dealt with death and destruction. Headlined were such vices as avarice, adultery, casual dishonor—all sins not acknowledged as such, but openly condoned. (Ironically a full-page ad urged pare

How many times have I uttered those words, sung those jubilant words at Mass, and paid scant heed to their meaning? I’m a poor singer, so mostly I just fake them, scarcely letting a sound escape from a tight mouth and heart. I’ve probably concentrated more on the hairdo of the woman in f

I am a slothful pray-er. At Mass I pray standing up, kneeling or sitting along with the flock. But at home I seem to pray more earnestly—in a prone position. Sheer laziness, probably, but I rationalize the act by assuring myself that God doesn’t mind. The posture isn’t important, n