The Holy Names I overheard a man who burnt his fingers, blew a tire, tripped a wire in the undergrowth and called upon the worst things he could think to say: Jesus, Mary, Joseph! The holy ones spoke to my heart too, their names leapt up gently as benediction. How good, I praised, that you are with us, Holy Family! How good that you become the curse of many! How good that they are shorting

Mary is a touchy subject for Protestants. I get it. Really, I get it. The majority of my life I sat in the pews of a very conservative Protestant Church with very Protestant views of Mary. If you would have told me then that in the future I would believe in Mary’s perpetual virginity, call her Mother of God, and be devoted to her in my prayer life, I would have laughed. At that time,

I am constantly amazed by the poets’ ability to capture facets of human experience. Recently, Emily Dickinson caught my attention with her poem “The Duel”: I took my power in my hand And went against the world; ‘T was not so much as David had, But I was twice as bold. I aimed my pebble, but myself Was all the one that fell. Was it Goliath was too large, Or only I too small?1 Two