It wasn’t always pleasant when my husband Bill and I discussed politics. The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan aren’t pleasant so why would discussions about them necessarily be? We usually ended up agreeing to disagree before a full-scale war would break out at the kitchen table. That can happen when a closet Republican marries a Democrat. On matters of religion, Bill’s predictable response was a discussion stopper: “You mean you haven’t figured that one out yet?” ...more

Frank McGuire was a 51-year-old United Methodist minister dying of pancreatic cancer who wanted to share a message with others but was too weak to put his thoughts on paper. So I volunteered to write down what he wanted to say. We did not meet in the hospital, but in his home in Virginia, where I drove to see him. The year was 1991. A social worker as well as a minister, Frank and I were longtime close friends. We did street work together night after night during the summer of 1968, when thousands of so-called “hippies” flocked to the Boston Common. ...more

HOME FROM IRAQ

In August 2009, Reverend Denis Como, S.J. returned to Boston from a 3-year assignment in Iraq. Born in Massachusetts in 1936, he came home for well-deserved R&R. He did not suffer any wounds, post-traumatic stress disorder, or physical or mental injury. When told that he had recently been in Iraq, people who just met Father Como would ask “Oh, were you there with our boys?” He would reply serenely, “No, I was there with their boys.” ...more

I enjoyed calling my friend “Mr. Bill,” because I truly respected him that much. I was a person who never respected anyone.

We were both abused in the home. I was born into a family of alcoholics. No pretty words can describe my parents: they were drunks. My dad was a mean drunk. ...more

When I met and fell in love with my charming, fascinating, creative ex-husband, I never saw the addict. We came together as poet and painter, with great passion for our respective gifts and for each other. It would be six months before I would begin to suspect that this exciting roller coaster ride of joint inspiration and creativity came with “another woman”—Lady Crack Cocaine. ...more

The poem below distills for me the year 2003, when I was diagnosed and treated for ovarian cancer. I was partway through chemotherapy when the inspiration for the poem arose. It took seconds to write.

I had joined a meditation group for patients at the Dana Farber Cancer Institute. We were drumming and shaking tambourines and other instruments during one of the sessions. My heart was beating real fast. The boom boom boom was going right through me. With a passion I wanted to beat this cancer. ...more

From Publisher Bob David:

Around 1970, the author of this article seized an opportunity to kill a man who he was sure was intent on killing him. He was convicted of first-degree murder and given a life sentence.

Despite this glaring truth, Wilfredo grew to earn the sincere respect of all who knew him during his long incarceration. ...more

I walked into the small, overheated, stuffy office for our weekly staff meeting. Andrea, the rector, was there, her gangly body looking uncomfortable on the wooden office chair, her pinched sour face more unpleasant than usual, and her short mousy hair typically unkempt. The light from the window behind her dazzled my eyes, making it hard to look her in the face. To her left sat Frank, ...more

The atmosphere at CAB Health & Recovery Services and at other holding facilities for people facing alcoholism and addiction that I have spent time in is full of fear. A “waiting for death” syndrome engulfs the people there. Call them patients, residents, inmates, or detainees—regardless of the label, the experience is the same. I saw fear and dependence often during the six months I resided at CAB in 1997-98. I have seen it often when I have returned, as I still do occasionally, to carry the message of hope to the 170 or so men held there. ...more

SEVENTEEN YEARS ago, I was thrown into a cell in the Segregation Unit at Holman prison for conspiring to escape. I felt as if I had been pitched head first into the open jaws of a monster, a monster whose roar was the sound of steel banging against steel; whose moan, the whispering of schemers late into the night; whose cry, the whimper of tortured souls shadowboxing demons; and whose smell, a rank mixture of rat shit, body odor, urine, and disinfectant. The gullet of this beast—a narrow hall ankle-deep in trash and bits of food—fed nightly armies of roaches and mice. ...more