Therese DesCamp

Revulsion is not my instinctive response when someone confides their image of Love. But when she said, “I think of Love—big, universal Love—as couch grass,” I grimaced. Because I detest couch grass.

Every night at 8 p.m., after the war began, Pope Francis called Holy Family Church in Gaza. Every night until he drew his last breath, Francis faithfully picked up the phone and checked in. I haven’t been able to get this picture out of my head. Actually, what I haven’t been able to get out of my head is the image of what happened after the Pope spoke with Fr. Romanelli, the pastor. After the assembled community, listening in on speaker phone, said hello. After Francis asked about the...

As a kid, I used to love finding seaweed on the beach after a big storm. We would wield short strands of kelp like clubs in mock fights, twirl the long ones above our heads so they’d whistle in the wind, and pop the little air-and-slime-filled bladders. Once in a while we’d even find a root-like holdfast. Holdfasts. Such a lovely name; such an unglamorous appearance. By the time a holdfast shows up on the beach, it is dead: brittle and broken, a woody knot no longer holding fast to anything....