Here's something that's a little different but still appropos of today. It's a column from our local Sunday paper, mentioning my parish in a story from decades ago.
He was 12 years old in the summer of 1943. He had finished the sixth grade at St. Joseph School and was an altar boy at the church.
He was called to participate in a funeral Mass at St. Joseph with Father Robert Bryant on the morning of July 21, 1943. It was a Wednesday. He was told nothing about who had died. He just showed up.
Remember the part of the Eucharistic prayer that speaks of how Christ "shared in our humanity"? I am the granddaughter of a war widow whose first husband is buried somewhere in Europe. Of a pilot shot down in World War II (who lived to tell the tale) and his Italian war bride. Like the teller of this tale, I am grateful to be part of the universal Church, reminding us of our common humanity under God.