Our kitchen floor is at least 35 years old, and it’s the ugliest color to come out of the ‘80s. But it’s a good, durable floor, and my husband, bless his heart, guards it like it was a finely finished hardwood imported from Brazil. Every time the kids track mud and sand across its vinyl surface, he immediately gets down on his hands and knees and lovingly wipes the mess away. I’m too impatient to do this myself — we have kids, so we’re going to have a dirty floor, is my attitude. But this is the hill upon which my husband dies.

“A prophet is not without honor except in his native place.” It could be the slogan of high school reunions everywhere.

I speak from experience — I didn’t go to my high school reunion, but I do live in the same area in which I grew up. Ghosts from the past lurk in every grocery aisle and gas station. Former classmates fill my prescriptions at the pharmacy. I am always sure to see an old teacher or two at the Fourth of July parade.

For a long time, I didn’t understand why the virtual Masses of the pandemic were so wearisome to me. Theoretically, shouldn’t it be a tired mother’s dream, fulfilling her Sunday obligation from the couch, not having to worry how much noise the kids are making?

But it wasn’t. Seeing Mass without experiencing it left me hungry. It left me starving.

I am writing this on a Saturday morning. Saturdays are my writing days, when my husband takes over the kids and the house and I disappear into the office with an enormous cup of coffee and noise-canceling headphones. Saturdays are sacred — if work can be called sacred.

But Saturday morning is also the only time I’m able to consistently get to confession. Every other time the sacrament is offered in my area during the week, I seem to have unavoidable commitments — but on Saturday morning, all I have is work, and how can I let work come before a sacrament, as much as I might secretly want to?

My mother and father fell in love with each other rather quickly. It was only a span of two months between their first meeting and quiet betrothal. They waited for a significant period of time before going public with the happy news. It simply wasn’t time. Love’s strength and speed can sprout scandal in public. Until the big reveal, they gave the outside world only little hints, gestures, and riddles.

Look here: there is no one more family-oriented than me. I drive a minivan. I wear mom jeans. I wipe unidentified gunk off of kids’ faces without a second thought.

I’m all about family, but I’m not always a fan of what “family” has come to mean in the modern lexicon. Family values. Family-friendly. Family-oriented. It’s usually a synonym for “non-offensive.” Soft. Moderate. Nice.

A friend in high school once asked me why I wore a Crucifix around my neck. She was a Christian and very devout, so I was surprised at her confusion. “To remember Jesus’ sacrifice,” I said.

Her upper lip curled in disgust. “The cross is a sign of Jesus’ sacrifice,” she said. “He’s not on the cross anymore. It’s really weird that you wear his dead body.”