My adult daughter, who still hasn’t gotten confirmed, recently delivered some incisive car commentary on Catholic male radio voices. “They sound like pleasant eunuchs; not alive, self-consciously holy.”
    As I sit here, I’m reminded of T group facilitators back in my undergrad days: gentle healers, seeped in their own goodness. The artificial smiles, the invite to come and join THAT party!
    Well, we’re all sinners.
And that’s the point I want to make in these sonnets. We all reach for Jesus, and we all fall short—and so often! (People have to clean up behind us.) These sonnets try to move along that fault line. They reach for the King, but attempt to do so spaciously, to accommodate the human.
    Then why the beauty of the sonnet form?
    There is an arc of glory behind every move the Christian thinks he is making by himself: Jesus is the air we breathe. Being itself, He accounts for each hand before we lift it.
    He moves the air currents so we can walk on the right path. He allows us to participate.
    There’s an extravagance in His (our) every move. He accounts for every sin, will turn each; that is part of the alleluia of heaven.
    We will truly be ourselves there. Maybe we’ll still have our quirks, our little eccentricities.
    Others will rejoice in them.

    Maybe St. Francis will come looking for you!