Dr. Mary Marrocco is an associate secretary for the . She is also a teacher, writer and lay pastoral worker. Morrocco explores the lives and writings of the saints, spiritual writers and theologians鈥� and how they relate to contemporary life.
It can be easy to feel lost and lonely in church; and that鱿鱼视频app twice as lost and lonely as anywhere else.
God is found in being present to each other
By Mary MarroccoRecently I received, on the same day, articles from three different sources. One was about the 219 girls captured by Boko Haram who are still missing. The second, about 鈥渨ay more鈥� than 1,200 aboriginal Canadian women missing or murdered. And the third, about 4,472 baby girls 鈥渦naccounted for鈥� in Canada over the past 20 years, referring to female fetuses aborted in favour of male children.
Open and shut case for mercy
By Mary MarroccoIn our city, and throughout the world during this Year of Mercy, several churches have Holy Doors. They鈥檙e pilgrimage sites, just like the one at St. Peter鱿鱼视频app in Rome, only much closer.
Getting rid of the bitterness
By Mary Marrocco鈥淚 saw that everything within my view which ought to be white, had been white long ago, and had lost its lustre, and was faded and yellow. I saw that the bride within the bridal dress had withered like the dress, and like the flowers, and had no brightness left but the brightness of her sunken eyes.鈥�
Exposing the lies depression spreads
By Mary MarroccoA woman was sitting with her spiritual director. Not quite 鈥渟itting鈥�; collapsed like a rag doll, listlessly staring at the floor. He looked at her. He urged her to pray: stop doing, stop trying to get herself out of the dark place she was in. 鈥淲hat good will it do?鈥� she bleated, equally unsurprisingly. She hadn鈥檛 read Richard Dawkins鈥� description of prayer as uselessly 鈥渕urmuring in our heads,鈥� but would have resonated. Then, bitterly: 鈥淚s God going to send me a rose?鈥�
Ideas of God may be obsolete, but God isn鈥檛
By Mary MarroccoMy mother and I have an annual tradition of spending a day together at the Canadian National Exhibition. This year, as we sat in sunny chairs near a shady gingko tree, listening to the approaching parade, a tall man folded himself into the neighbouring chair. Taking a break from his booth, he told us it was his 38th year exhibiting there. He showed us a smooth rounded stone with a hole in the middle: a cobblestone he鈥檇 reclaimed from the lake. They were dumped there because they were obsolete, but he finds beauty in them.
The alternative to change is the cross
By Mary Marrocco鈥淐hange is good!鈥� So proclaimed a brightly smiling instructor to her dismayed class, who鈥檇 just learned their school was being moved to a different corner of the city. Somehow it didn鈥檛 feel quite as good as the neon smile and cheery voice pronounced it should.
Margaret taught us to give
By Mary MarroccoThe richness of a gentle August day was all round. A drive in the countryside featured lush fields ready or almost ready for harvest, with merry little breezes riffling through. Such a day will always make me think of Margaret O鈥橤ara, for I heard the news of her Aug. 16 death during that country drive in 2012.
Without gratitude, we lose everything
By Mary MarroccoAt a conference I attended in Belgium, people around the dinner table got talking about the different countries they were from, and the characteristic spirit of each nation.
We are not alone in the truth
By Mary MarroccoOnce, across a crowded meeting room, I recognized a face. Our eyes locked. Weeks earlier, this person and I had attended the same retreat. We both knew we needed to steal away and talk, as soon as possible.
When the opportunity came, each of us took it immediately. We found a quiet place. We talked as though we鈥檇 known each other for years. 鈥淚 had to speak to you,鈥� said my new old friend. 鈥淚 feel as though we met in Narnia, and back here in the regular world I have to touch you to know it was real.鈥� I understood instantly. 聽
Our soul is as vast as the universe
By Mary MarroccoEven the daily trip home from work can be an adventure. One wintry night, I stood on a jam-packed city bus impatiently tracking its slow progress up a crammed street. We finally came in sight of the station. And there we stopped. Stuck. Inexplicably, the bus glued itself in place while minutes passed.