I don’t know what it looked like when the loaves and the fishes were multiplied. I believe it happened, and I have envisioned it often, but I just can’t picture it.

My children often ask me questions about heaven. What does heaven look like? My answer is almost always the same: “I can’t tell you for sure."

Driving up my street in late spring, you can see which yard is mine from a whole block away: it’s the one covered in dandelions. And I like it that way.

I began writing this piece by googling “how do you make soil fertile?” which should tell you everything you need to know about my own abilities as a gardener.

It is so easy for us to forget that great faith does not require great intelligence. It does not require great knowledge of the world and its workings.

But I refuse to receive the junk mail. I don’t have space for it, in my head or on my counter, so after a day or two, I just throw it away without looking through it.

In the 1883 painting “Mass in a Connemara Cabin,” a small congregation of shabbily dressed faithful is huddled together in a sparsely appointed room.

This excerpt from Matthew’s Gospel has become a catchphrase in the Church. We give ourselves vertigo with the amount of head-shaking we do over “decline in numbers.”