Metanoia Magazine : In Corde Vol 3 No. 2

CONTRIBUTORS

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF & CONTENT DIRECTOR

Samuel Schirra

DESIGN DIRECTOR

Maghee Fleischer

ASSISTANT EDITOR

Amelia Coleman

ADVISORY BOARD

Eric Jenislawski, PhD

Daniel McInerny, PhD

Kathleen Sullivan, PhD

Niall O’Donnell

Daniel Spiotta

Lianna Youngman

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

Dear Reader,

MISSION STATEMENT:

In Corde aims to be God’s “little pencil,” so that through its contributors’ art, poetry, and stories, He may redeem and elevate the human experience.

Since time immemorial, man has glorified his Creator by imitating creation, reflecting the refulgent rays which emanate from His Heart. Such imitation, inasmuch as it reflects His Beauty, billows out beyond man’s months and years on Earth.

O, how freely time flies! Pyramids pose while castles crumble, with each waking hour passing like quicksand. Nevertheless, as Christians, we know this entropy is not the end. Fall will indeed come, and the bleakness of winter soon after; but from Jesse’s stump, a Shoot has sprouted. Since the Resurrection, we await the promise of an everlasting spring, a spring which even now seeps succoring sap through the holes of the veil that separates us from eternity. Is this life the end? Nay, but simply the shadow cast by the image bright—the symbol of the reality symbolized. At present, although stuck in a cave, we are beckoned by the shining Sun outside. Only one question remains: how shall we respond?

This journal is an answer to such a question. Herein, various artists have shared the fruits of their fervor as artwork, poetry, and stories. Although ranging in subject matter, each piece captures the transcendence of Beauty in its message and craft. As you peruse this journal’s depths, encountering the images put forth by us, His images, we pray that He will open you even more to His Most Sacred Heart. In so doing, In Corde will live up to its aim.

One further note: As you may have heard, a beloved graduate of Christendom College, Mandy Hain, passed from this world a little over a year ago. To this day, Christendom’s Christ the King Chapel owes much of its artwork and lettering to this talented master. Even so, Miss Hain’s artwork was only a fraction of the impact she had on the lives of those around her. To provide her with an ounce of the eternal honor surely in store for her, this issue of In Corde is dedicated to her memory. May she find rest in her Lord, forever and ever!

Forever in Christ,

Samuel Schirra Editor-in-Chief

+Agamus Te duce, Domine!+ (May we act with You as guide, O Lord!)

Maghee Fleischer and Samuel Schirra

Julie Wells Photography

IN S IDE THIS ISSUE

LiteraryPieces

A Gift from Mandy Hain

St. Joseph in the Lady Chapel

The Guide

I Sought Love

Regions Mysterious

The Journey

Silence Sweet

The Dancing Flame

Little Things

Refrigerator Dreams

The Greek Ode To a Stuffed Animal

Spring Rain

Just Me?

The Emerald Veil

Mandy Hain

by Natalie Briggs ’25

A Gift from Mandy Hain

by Annie Crnkovich ’25

I saw her just beyond the aisle, A paint brush in her hand. She looked at me and gave a smile; She seemed to understand.

She made the twisted pillars glow, The shrubs to come alive— Yet now she’s buried down below, Six years past thirty-five.

The sun’s eclipse, the angels’ wings— Forever they will stay. A short life making lasting things Which, too, may fade away.

Generations will her art extol, Not thinking of her pain. An artist’s soul, a Christian role, Belonged to Mandy Hain.

She knew that long her paints would stay, Although her bones decay, The memory of an artist’s pain— A gift from Mandy Hain.

Creatio Hominis

by Halyna Charba ’24

St. Joseph in the Lady Chapel

by Anna Maria Stein ’24

I think no man has felt as I have Since Adam.

No purer loveliness has walked this earth Since Eve in Paradise.

I long only for God— I know you will share Him with me. I long to give Him everything— but only through the giving of it with you.

What I will share with you is What every man wishes for on his wedding day, And what I can say is truer than any man has ever said: I didn’t know what it meant to love Until I met you.

Lamb of God

by Bernadette Eidem ’27

The Journey of the Magi

by Monica LaFramboise ’25

The Guide

by Patrick Ohotnicky ’25

A hidden power in the silence sleeps And waits to be awakened. A little bird on a branch tweets For the earth is not yet shaken.

I feel a power within the beauty And know not where to hide; Here comes a power, strong and free— It comes to be my guide.

I cannot hide, I cannot run, I cannot move at all; I am scared, I am still, As the power comes to call.

It comes in a little gurgling stream, It comes in the crash of thunder. It comes to set the captives free, To break the rocks asunder.

The power: it scares me, And yet I am at peace.

I know the power will set me free And nevermore will cease.

I Sought Love

by Helen Davis ’25

I sought Love in Babylon-rich streets, Amongst spiced silks and shiny wares.

I smelt and tasted all their saccharine sweets Though they were unripe as stolen pears.

I took a wrong turn at 6th and Despair, Broad roads curved down and I soon slipped. The night closed in, I choked on air, Weeping for innocence crudely ripped.

Light did reach me, but I carried my chain. By day, I screamed into the dark; By night, guilt buried me in its black rain. No hair left uncut by sin’s deadly mark.

But the soil of my soul started to hum, Cracking and swelling, my tombs were laid bare. Painfully, my heart started to thrum And race uplifted to Love’s holied hands there.

In His bloodied arms and heart-broken chest, Past death, I find my place, my peace, my rest.

Magdalene & Mercy

by Margaret Catalano

’26

Regions Mysterious

by Madeline Davis ’24

There are regions mysterious Tomb-tight sealed inside each soul. Untouched by fumbling fingers Unseen by prying eyes

They lie in our depths like black holes. There, we are all, all alone. No need for an Island To be desolate, Clinging desperately To anything that assures, Anything that promises, emptily, From outside the gateless walls

Of our vacuum prisons Promising to hold us

From the hole inside.

But

I know of one thing

That pierces through through the walls thicker than stone as light immeasurable

It finds our black holes And fills them.

Yet all our little eyes can see of this incredible power

—What?

Know? Really? One thing alone?

Oh but that HURTS!

Thick but not insensible! Light?—we would rather the dark.

What black holes? We’ve no such… things

???? ??? ?? ? Is w a hit cir en cle ess of

?????

The Creator of the universe

Made Himself the best disguise

To come to us.

It was not enough

To come as a child, laid on a bed of straw;

Not enough

To come as a simple worker, his strong hands guiding carpenter’s tools;

Two beams of wood set across each other

Not enough

To pour out emboldening fire

Strength and wisdom for the millennia;

Even that

Was not enough for Him,

To reach into that cold little space

Hidden in the human heart.

But He stays with us forever.

Not enough

To come as a teacher, pouring light into gray lives;

Not enough

To come healing, seeking out the broken, His feet aching with miles of love;

Not even enough

To come as a sacrifice

Poured on a wooden altar

A small piece of bread, powerless

Yet the greatest force in our broken world— motionless

Yet moving in that deep, dark sea

Heaving at the dusty foundations

Till waves rise Tsunamis

That make no sound but the thud-thud

Of a heartbeat.

And that little host

That small disc of white Is what I And every other island of a heart

Beating against its prison walls

Cannot live without.

From the Depths

by Anastasia Piroch ’26

The Journey

by Samuel Schirra ’24

You seek for me to tell my tale?

Of course, but first take note—

This tale is still occurring now

For life is like a boat:

It sails across the ocean blue

Through times of thick and thin

Persisting ever, at all costs, Except in times of sin.

At those times ships come side by side—

Like yours and mine today—

To help the lost regain their course,

To get back on The Way.

Today your ship has boarded mine—

A providential chance

For God above to teach us both

The meaning of His dance:

For when He breathed His breath in us

And shaped us from the dust,

He offered each of us His hand

In total, perfect trust.

Since then, each day the choice is ours

To serve Him or to not;

But sometimes we ignore this, or Forget that we forgot.

eI thank You, O most blessed Lord, For bringing this to mind, For I’ve been collapsing in my life From toil’s constant grind.

I oft forget to thank You, Lord, For Your amazing deed:

For coming as a little Babe, Then as our heavenly Feed.

I leave Your inner throne all cold, Your dwelling all alone;

But now I wish for You to break

My helpless heart of stone.

May You cast out my worthless fear

And my dead soul renew;

May You deliver me from Hell

And render my love true;

May You guide all the steps I take

When I don’t know the path;

May You be with me through it all

When I face others’ wrath;

May You be there to comfort me

When others leave me down;

May You help me to know Your love, And one day wear a crown!

Silence Sweet

by Michael Katreeb ’24

As I long for peace and silence

To fill my heart and soothe my soul, The sounds and noises surrounding me Keep me from tuning in to hear.

I know that Christ is calling me

To find him in the sweet silence, But my poor mind is caught and full With grating thoughts of dread and fear.

I know that, though my heart is clutched By some dark-shadowed hand not shown, I can break free and heed the call

That my Lord has given (untouched By evil) into my heart, much grown Through my friends and the Lord of all.

Lord of Peace

by Adam Rockwell ’25

The Dancing Flame

by Annie Crnkovich ’25

My searching soul with open eyes It probes the dimlit room

With thumping heart and desperate sighs— Again I’m in the womb.

Dancing alone, a single flame

It fills my soul with light; This beacon of hope, for which I came, Now pierces through my night.

The dancing stops. It seems to say, “Attend to me; be still. Stop for a moment; stay and pray. This, yes this, is My will.”

And so I wait. My heart is filled By one light in the room, And in this rest my soul is stilled To see the empty tomb.

And as I leave this place of peace I take with me one aim: To live each day with greater ease, Thanks to the dancing flame.

Little Things

by Theresa Dwane ‘24

Many are longing for power and fame, For status, for glory and praise— All of the riches approved by the world Determined to catch the soul’s gaze.

Lo and behold, as the time passes by, What’s empty is held to the light; All that was thought to eternally bless Will only sink into the night.

How can a life of contentment be found If not in such limited things?

Rather in living one’s heaven on earth

The hardened heart spreads out its wings.

Little by little can one find his peace

By living the way of the Flower, Who filled her whole life with small acts of love

Graced with great healing and power.

A smile, a hand, a sacrificed hour, Fulfilling the simplest of needs— Are all but a few of the wondrous ways To carry out small, loving deeds.

Since Saint Thérèse urges while living on earth

To “do little things with great love,” Let’s follow her simple, profound way of life, And wait for God’s gift from above.

Branching Out

by Felicity Schmidt ’26

Refrigerator Dreams

by Peter McMahon ’25

Can anyone portray the setting sun Unwounded by the damage done to it? What man would dare to claim his feeble wit Can redo better what’s perfectly done? Ars est naturae imitatio Why do we dare dilute, pollute the aweInspiring world, when what we make is straw, Is dwarfed by God’s eternal ratio?

Perhaps it is sufficient for us men If not to reach, to chase divinity— To mimic God’s grandeur with but a pen, To add to His fertile infinity. We scribble with a crayon; our Father beams; He hangs upon the fridge our little dreams.

The Greek

by Noah Rymer ’25

Feverish religiosity dripping foreign paint flecks

His stigmatized stare rendered seer-like Divine ecstasy sought in the Moorish Andalusian darkness

Surrounding these decrepit, reclaimed arabesques

Visions spiraling into heady heavenly spires

More intoxicating than a monk’s mead; Unknown yet still beholden to mortal man And blessed by broken brush’s careful hand

An Italian vivacity statuesque in earthly form, Still ghosts grace the canvas later in order to adorn; Spirituality almost mystic with visions of true splendor Burning like coals through their purifying hot embers

Dusk returned to red shimmer, no such simmer glare, Stained glass no dimmer christening sweet summer air: The Count of Orgaz assumed, sumptuously swooning into brief skies; Multitudinous coffers of angels low, exalting with sighs on high

You thus made Toledo your home, and you made her cathedrals thy crypt. El Greco, The Greek, royal painter—with God’s great gifts equipped!

Still Life in Color

by Rachel Cermak ’26

Ode to a Stuffed Animal

by Laurel Eckenrode ’24

There you sit, watching me with those empty eyes, eyes that could be laughing one minute and sympathetic the next. Your head is permanently tilted, and your collar isn’t straight—I tried to fix it for you, but my hands were unskilled.

And I could always rely on you to keep my secrets safe; you always remained mute when others were around. You never divulged my silent tears; You guarded me against giving up with laughter and a smile.

With you by my side, we conquered car trip boredom. We traveled the world in the safety of home. Whether I was healthy or sick, you guarded me from childhood terrors as I slept, like my guardian angel.

And I cannot leave you behind, for though I no longer need you, you need me—I’ll protect your beloved body of fluff from the destruction of time, my constant companion, my Clifford!

Sherlock Holmes

by Maura Piroch ’25

John Watson

by Maura Piroch ’25

Spring Rain

by Penelope Hepler ’26

The fairies wear their tap shoes.

Shyly at first, they begin to skip and dance.

Up and down they prance on rooftops and leaves.

The wind accompanies them through the trees.

Shyly at first, they begin to skip and dance.

The sprites make music on the boulders, pebbles, and stones.

The wind accompanies them through the trees.

Tired dancers stop to rest in shallow pools.

The sprites make music on the boulders, pebbles, and stones.

The constant rhythm finally starts to slow.

Tired dancers stop to rest in shallow pools.

Just when you think they’ve stopped, they begin again.

Up and down they prance on rooftops and leaves.

The constant rhythm finally starts to slow.

Just when you think they’ve stopped, they begin again.

The fairies wear their tap shoes.

Afae woman once visited the farm of an old man and his sons, both of them youths with strong arms and dark, willful eyes. Knocking on the kitchen door one evening, the hag asked for a bite of something to ease her long nighttime travel. The old man snored in his attic bedroom, but his sons were moved to compassion for the rain-beaten woman on their doorstep. The older son dusted their finest chair with his sleeve and bade Old Mother to sit before the hearth while he stoked the embers. The younger son prepared a meal of the very last rolls in their larder and a pork chop he had saved for his own breakfast. The young men gave the woman milk to drink and ointment for her chapped hands. The elder begged Old Mother to let him whittle a smoother handle for her walking stick, while the younger asked that she allow him to mend her shoes while she rested.

Greatly surprised and moved by their kindness, the old faerie blessed them and, rising from her seat, gave them a promise in return: when both brothers had achieved full manhood, their farm should begin to flourish as never before. They would never starve or become destitute. Should they wish it, the old woman vowed, they would prosper more than anyone in the land and grow wealthy, able to lavish unfathomable generosity upon whatever beggar or vagrant staggered to their kitchen door. But should they receive such gifts from the earth, they must never take to the skies, for the faeries alone reap from both clay and cloud.

The depth of the faerie’s gratitude shocked the youths, and they kissed her gnarled hands in thanks. Bidding them not to tell their old father of her visit, she bowed once and disappeared down the road.

And so the moonlit night turned into many weeks and months, until one spring evening stole their father’s breath from the farmhouse. His sons wept and buried him in a near-barren field. Standing under the single, twisted apple tree, they wondered at their murky future. Suddenly, the younger turned to the elder and declared they must toil much harder now, so that the farmhands’ livelihoods should not be diminished by the loss of the old farmer. His brother agreed, saying that he hoped to marry a young shepherdess from the next valley, and he would not have her enter a home whose master had neglected his duty from grief. As the brothers clasped hands, a golden rain fell on their fields and transformed the dirt into a rich, dark soil. The apple tree straightened its trunk and blossomed, sheltering its masters with strong branches and blooms of pure white.

The young men remembered the old faerie’s promise, and their faces bore the glow of great hope. So they worked their fields with diligence, carefully counting their crop and distributing wages far more generous than in their father’s time. The elder son indeed married the shepherdess, and soon children with hair like falling sunlight bounded through the garden and swung from the barn rafters with all the vivacity their father and uncle had possessed years before.

The younger brother was also blessed with good

fortune, and having saved his earnings with prudence for a time, he embraced his kin in farewell and departed across the country. It was his intention to join a house of prayer, but the place was many weeks’ journey away. He walked with great cheer, whistling at the birds that flew in merry circles about him and thanking the daisies that cushioned his footfalls. The wind murmured prayers and poetry, and in a sudden ecstasy of gratitude, the man planted his foot on a stone and leapt higher than a stag into the sky. He wished to join the birds and breezes in their joyful simplicity, and so he soared ever higher.

Then the old woman appeared before him and shook her finger at him, though her lips curved in a mother’s amusement. Did he not remember her words, that he could not have both the riches of the earth and the bewitching joy of the sky? The young man returned her laugh and replied that he no longer claimed the earth’s bounty, that he sought men who could teach him in highest virtue. Let his brother’s family enjoy and share the blessings she had granted, and let him bestow blessings upon others with all the grace of the wind and sun.

The woman shook her head and said that never before had a man broken her commands in pursuit of greater goodness. He and his brother might only live the ordinary spans of men, but she declared that their lives would ever glow with fae light. And so she gave him safe passage among the birds and breezes to his house of prayer, and golden rains ever fell on the farm of his childhood.

You’ll Get that Feeling...

Short Story by Rita Penny ’24

Joel stepped off the train, shielding his eyes from the blindingly bright sun as the other passengers around him began chattering, introducing themselves and exchanging pleasantries.

But Joel didn’t much care for meeting new people. The strap that held his well-loved guitar to his back weighed down his shoulder with a familiar urgency, pressing him to go, to wander, to explore.

So he did.

Jumping down from the platform the train had stopped at, he gave Seb, the only person who seemed to notice his departure, a quick salute before turning and walking through the ankle-high grass, unwrapping the scarf he had been wearing across his neck and shoving it into one of the small pouches he had attached to his belt.

The island seemed peaceful enough. Joel wandered through thinly wooded forests, gazing up curiously at the massive wall almost completely covered with vines and faint pink flowers. The leaves of the various trees shook loose in the gentle wind that wound through the forest, covering the ground with a blanket of pink, green, and red that rustled softly under Joel’s feet.

It was so peaceful, unlike the chaos that had plagued him before he had been invited onto the train and subsequently the island. He hunched his shoulders subconsciously, attempting to move past the dark memories that clawed their way to the surface, reminding of the man he had been, the broken man, the helpless and hopeless man everyone gave up on.

But the memories blew away in the wind, caught in the swirl of the dainty leaves and petals and spinning down to the river, left to die and drown among the bur-

bling water and the clean sand. Joel let them, content to sit down on a flat rock next to the river and rest his guitar on his leg, carefully picking a slow tune that matched the pace of the world around him.

“The cute bomber jacket you’ve had since sixth form, adorned with patches of places you’ve been,” Joel sang, mind turning back to better memories, “is nothing on my khaki coat I got from a roadside when I was sixteen.”

Her smile, so rare in recent memories, still graced his mind in the few memories from long before war and hatred had hardened her face and mind.

“My boots are from airports. My backpack’s from friends. I’m not a man of substance, and so I’ll pretend to be a wanderer, wondering, leaving ascetic belongings in hostels and restaurant bins.”

Joel’s voice, husky from disuse, hovered over the riverbank, joining the wind in its majestic dance. Memories kept coming up, and Joel took his time, leaving the dark ones in a slowly growing pile at the bottom of the water and bringing the bright ones out into the sun, glancing over them and smiling at the times that had been buried in his mind for so long.

“The roads are my home, horizon’s my target. If I keep on moving, never lose sight of it—”

A slight noise behind Joel caused him to start, his finger slipping off the string and throwing a harsh chord into the air, slicing through the delicate web of love that he had been pulling from his memories. But he recovered and continued, refusing to turn around and face the person who had come to see him.

“Treating my memory of you like a fire, let it burn out, don’t fight it, and try to move on.”

Joel’s voice shook. He had tried to treat her like a fire, tried to move on and let it burn out, but the love and joy woven through every memory he had with her tethered him to his first love, his last love, his only love.

“It’s been sixty weeks since I saw Vienna, a bandage and a wide smile slapped across my face.”

The person hadn’t moved, standing ominously behind Joel. Ignoring this presence, he continued to sing, pulling the last memories out, the ones stained with anger and bitterness over the undernotes of love and compassion.

“I’ll pick up my hiking boots when I am ready—”

The person finally moved, coming up next to Joel and sitting down on the ground next to the rock.

“—and I’ll put down my roots when I’m dead.”

Joel glanced over at the person and his heart skipped a beat.

Eliza sat next to him, her arms wrapped around her knees as if she was too nervous to begin the conversation that now hung in the air.

Joel couldn’t bring himself to finish. The last note hung in the air, urging him on, but he couldn’t, not when the woman he had written it for sat next to him for the first time in years.

Eliza looked over at Joel and tears glittered in her eyes. She picked nervously at the edge of her long white sleeves, then coughed and looked at the river, refusing to meet Joel’s eyes as she whispered,

“The distance is futile . . .”

Joel stared in disbelief. In all his wildest dreams, he had never expected that Eliza would remember his song. Why would she? They hadn’t exactly parted on the best of terms.

But Eliza was offering an olive branch, an unspoken apology in the lyrics that had first been sung over a smoldering campfire in the small break in the war that began the end for them. Joel grasped it as a drowning man grasped at the life preserver thrown from the rescue boat.

He couldn’t screw this up again.

He wouldn’t screw this up again.

“Come on, don’t be hasty,” he sang back, resuming the strumming with more tenderness, pouring every emotion, every apology, every wish, every plea that he had ever felt in the years since they had last spoken into each and every single chord, “you’ll get that feeling deep inside your bones.”

Eliza looked back, tears streaming down her face at the sound of Joel’s voice. She smiled, and Joel couldn’t help but smile back at the bright grin that had graced his memories and dreams for years of longing.

Eliza began slowly singing along, and Joel let her, slowing his pace as the two sang together, “I’ll be gone then, for when you must be alone.”

The final note spun in the air with the wind as Joel slipped his guitar off his shoulder, carefully placing it on the ground next to himself before he pulled Eliza into a crushing hug, squeezing her tightly to make up for the times when he had refused to hug her, had hurt the woman he loved more than anything in the world.

Eliza’s hands wrapped around his back and she hugged him back.

The two sat there, breathing in each other’s company, until nothing could be seen except the stars overhead, lighting the love that was burning brighter than it had for years.

Just Me?

Short Story by Mark Cermak ’24

Iwas driving through Wyoming in a little car on an empty road. The road and the barbed wire along either side of it were the only signs of humanity in sight. I don’t know what the barbed wire was for, if it was marking off ranch land, or just put there to keep animals from wandering onto the road. Dry shrubs grew out of the dusty earth. The land rose on either side of the road into red and brown tables of rock. I passed a silhouette image that was at the top of a slight hill, showing a cowboy and a Native American fighting on horseback. I sometimes saw images like that; maybe they were put there to keep the drive interesting through this sometimes-homogenous landscape. The sun was beginning to sink in front of me. The sky was turning pink, with a large gray storm cloud next to the sun. I could see the rain coming down from that faraway cloud like legs from a mythical spider. It was a dry, prairie twilight where I was. I didn’t expect to hit that storm for a long time. I had been looking at it from my car for forty minutes, and it didn’t seem to move, change, or grow. Maybe I would completely miss the storm. I saw a car coming down the other side of the road. I remembered to turn on my headlights. As that red pickup truck came closer, I tried to wave at the driver. There was a turn coming up though, so I decided not to take a hand off the steering wheel. Anyway, I could see the driver was looking at his phone; he wouldn’t even have noticed me. My gas gauge was getting a little low. I saw a sign for a town about fifty miles down the highway, and I had sixty miles of gas left in my tank.

The town was right on the highway, with no special exit or anything. The speed limit just dropped from seventy to forty-five to twenty-five miles per hour, and a few garage-like buildings on dirt driveways came up. I think I might have been in a reservation. The sun had completely gone down when I arrived, with no sign of the storm. Maybe it just faded away, or the wind blew it some other direction. The town had one gas station, not one of the major brands, just an austere convenience store with two pumps and an outdoor ice cooler. My car crept into the station, and I coasted to a gentle stop beside the second pump. I looked at the store; the lights were off and the door was locked. I panicked for a few seconds while I turned my head towards the pump. It did take credit cards, so it didn’t matter that there was no one else there. I climbed out of the car into the eighty-degree evening. There wasn’t a sound except a faint buzzing from one of the electric lights and the sound of my own sneakers on the concrete.

While the gas was pumping I walked around the station to stretch my legs. I noticed there was a diner over there with a big, shining sign. I thought I saw somebody there with a mop pacing from window to window. Yes, it was a young woman, probably around twenty years old. For a second I thought she was pausing to look out the window towards me, but my heart sunk when the lights in the diner went off as she pulled the mop bucket into the back. Couldn’t someone have joined me on this journey?

The gas tank was full, so I closed up the gas cap and got back in my car. I took a gulp from my water bottle and turned the car on. I was feeling something empty inside my head, like it was a solitary space pod waiting in vain to dock up with another pod or a mothership. I wanted to take my mind off of this heavy loneliness that was spreading to my chest, so I turned the radio on.

Static. I thought I might have heard one voice for a second, but it cut out before I could make anything out. I turned it off.

With a sigh I started driving again. Within a couple minutes, I was going seventy miles an hour again, racing through the dark with my brights on. Seventy miles until the next town. I kept driving with my mouth hanging slightly open. Heavy sighs came out of my mouth. After about half an hour with my mind brooding over past mistakes, separated friends, and failed attempts at love, I felt compelled to pull over onto the dusty ground beside the road. My headlights cast an eerie light on the tall grass. I wondered for a second if the Cheyenne had ever moved through this area. I didn’t turn off the engine, but I got out of the car and stretched my arms. I got on my knees in the dust and looked at the stars. The most beautiful night sky I had ever seen hovered miles away from me. With another sigh, tears began to well up in my eyes. I didn’t want to cry, at first; but after about two seconds

I decided there was no point in holding it back. I didn’t really know why I was crying, but once I let it happen, it was hard to stop. It would have been nice if I could have gotten some friends to come with me on this trip. They had commitments to keep, so I had to go alone. Now I was crying in the middle of the American West, at night, nowhere near anyone. I might as well have been in space; maybe an alien could be my friend.

I got up and moped my way back into the car. I looked up at the visor over the driver’s seat. A little image of the Archangel Michael was clipped to it. I looked at the rear-view mirror, and saw the plastic Rosary hanging from it. I smiled a bit, and I took hold of the little crucifix on the Rosary and put it to my quivering, blubbering lips. I gave it a little kiss and wiped my eyes on the backs of my hands. I then took a big swig from my water bottle. I was all alone, save for my spiritual friends who were watching over me. I had wanted someone to be with me on this trip, but I needed that cry, and I needed this time. I felt alone in the world, and I had the world at my feet. My dreams and ambitions returned to my consciousness. I took a deep breath and put my car in drive. I then spoke, to myself I guess, but maybe to God, too…

“Alright, let’s go.”

Aragorn

by Natalie Briggs ’25

Dominus Tecum

by Meg Meehan ’24

Young eyes survey the mountain peaks

Cheeks pink with Nordic air

A child hears the valley speak Blóm laden in her hair

Young fingers find a hand to grasp

The knight takes gentle care

He lifts his little golden lass

Upon his trusty mare

“No elvish spell shall harm you now, There is no leering voice”

But still remains a looming vow The future holds but choice

~

A maiden’s eyes crave mystery

The wonder of the world

A spirit yearning to be free

By passion loose, unfurled

A maiden’s hand in faith bestowed

A promise made by kin

But O, behold the unbetrothed Doth lead her into sin

Who is to blame, the virgin lost?

The pauper of a knight?

Both away their honor tossed

Now sin doth blind their sight

~

Dull eyes look deep into the dusk

A will like iron bent

A soul is left alone in dust Virtue all but spent

“Consent!” she cries o’er childhood fields

Her will it must be won

But with a father’s reluctant yield, From blackest clouds—a son

A mother’s eyes in horror fall Wed wrongly under God

And burdened by her bridal shawl A sprout bursts from the sod

~

So many years of passion spent And burdens seven-fold

An eighth her mind securely bent Against her husband’s mold

“Let justice be my vengeance!” Inconstant were her cries To lose her greatest grievance Made rivers flood her eyes

As in that garden once he held The maiden in his cloak

She clung unto the corpse and yelled Her bond to him now broke

~

A woman turned to God and asked, “Where do I go from here?

My love has turned to coal and ash My sons—my heart has seared”

“Return to me,” a voice did sing, “I’ve long awaited you. And bring to me your golden ring; Your heart shall burn anew!”

~

Old eyes survey the mountain peaks Awrinkle with love and care

A child grown both wise and weak Lays all her burdens bare

A wreathéd head now only veiled

By motherhood and grace

The Lord of all that night prevailed His gift to her—His Face

The pilgrim’s faith ebbed bright and dim But ‘fore she lay in tomb

The Lord ensured reprise of hymn—

O, Dominus tecum!

*A Retelling of Kristin Lavransdatter

The King of the Birds

by Clare Sebestyen ’24

The Emerald Veil

by Maghee Fleischer ’24

What does one think when stricken by The beauty of the Irish countryside?

It puzzles one’s wits and livens the senses

Like the flow of the ebbing turquoise tide…

The mighty cliffs, the stormy sea, Inspire in us a whoop of glee; For as we have seen in the Veldian Boy, To be young and alive is a great cause for joy.

The dappled flowers and purpled heather

Make up for the quick turn of the weather.

The sandy beaches and salty waves, Upon which we have spent our days, Invite a run, a swim, a dance, And the swirling sea puts one in a trance. One cannot forget the little sheep

Dotting the landscape, awake or asleep;

The white cottages sprinkled upon green hills

Surrounded by cobbled walls and remnants of mills; Abandoned ruins of days gone by Where happy families lived and loved and died. Mossy forests hold whispers of the past, Of a Mass said and a priest who breathed his last.

The rugged mountains and windy peaks

Seem to whisper, seem to speak—

For whence comes this beauty, ever ancient, ever new, Which excites our hearts with a rush so true— Of what? Of joy? Of fear? Of pain? For this nature is Beauty, there is no other name.

Who placed it here? Who painted this scene? Of fields so rich and valleys so green?

‘Twas it the fairies in forests dark Dwelling in lagoons and leaving their mark? Or leprechauns’ mischief on the moor That gave us the flowers and sheep galore?

The answer lies in the village church Where the Shepherd of all sits on His perch

In a tiny home under the appearance of Bread, Yet He is the Creator of the beauties aforesaid— The Painter of these scenes, the Lord of this Isle Who made this beauty to make our hearts smile.

He greened the hills and purpled the heather, He calms the sea and controls the weather. This Beauty reflects the love of His Heart, It awakens our senses, and hence, it is art; The questions it raises of love, joy, and pain All draw us to Him, to call on His Name. It fills us with longing, since for Him we are made— Thus, this earthly beauty can pierce like a blade; But in Heaven true Beauty will one with us be, The Beauty that calls like a Shepherd to me.

And till then, dear Ireland, be a glimpse small Of the Beauty we are made for: the Lord of Donegal!

Check out these published literar y works by Christendom students!

Inkspots and Inkwells Anthology Volume 2

The aspiring authors of the Inkspots and Inkwells Creative Writing Club at Christendom College proudly present a second collection of their own creative short fiction! Read six thrilling new short stories set in a unique fantasy world (created collaboratively by the writers themselves), complete with a detailed map and a preface on the calling of an author written by our own professor, Michael Strickland. Dive to the lost city of Adamaris or sail to the distant Mysterious Isles. Stand at the Gates of the Abyss itself or tremble at the curse of Kumma Kha. Listen to the songs at the Jumping Jig or block out the Voice of Despair. No matter what, you shall enjoy traveling this vast world of Atria. Additionally, the Creative Writing Club is working on a third Anthology this semester. Inkspots and Inkwells Anthology Volume II is available for purchase on Amazon.

The Unspoken Vow by Patricia Carlo ’24

An unspoken vow that binds them together for better or for worse. A servant girl who suffers an inexplicable evil. Will she learn to love again? A Crown Prince facing two conflicts. Can he win both the kingdom and the girl? Or will he lose them both?

When Crown Prince William meets Ari, he instantly falls in love with her sweet spirit, compassionate heart, and brave soul. Although he goes against his father’s wishes, he vows himself to her. He is certain that there is no other woman in the entire kingdom who will captivate his heart the way she has. What he does not expect is for a treacherous spy to strike his revenge upon her. Now that she is no longer completely his, he needs to make a choice to stay and be true to her or to break the vow he has made.

As a servant, Ari only had one wish: to fall in love with a man who would remain true to her. When she meets William, she is instantly drawn to him. He is charming, handsome, and, above all, makes her feel safe and cherished. Little does she know that he’s the Crown Prince--that is, until later. William is quick to reassure her of his love by making the ultimate vow The Unspoken Vow. Now, their bond is inseparable or so they think. When Ari becomes victim of a harsh crime, she cannot find it in her to love William as before. Will she believe him when he protects her as war brews within his kingdom? Will a marriage of protection and sacrifice be enough to convince her?

The first three episodes are free on Kindle Vella. | Recommended for ages 16+ because of trigger warnings and dark themes.

The Timemaker by Rachel Piazza ’24

The Timemaker lives as far from magic as he can in Mysteria. After hiding away and erasing any trace of the man he had been, he believed he could keep his power a secret. For many years his plan was successful, but when an ancient enemy of the throne discovers it, the entire world of Mysteria is threatened by a dark evil that could corrupt everything. Finding themselves with the key to the world’s survival, the Timemaker, his apprentice, and a girl with a powerful gem, embark on a journey that will take them across lands they’ve only seen before on a map to rescue the world from its fate. Along the way, the unlikely team must learn to help each other in exploring what it means to have purpose if they are to unlock history and succeed in saving their home. But when the enemy finds a way to use their greatest weapon against them, will the team have enough courage and strength to persist in their perilous journey?

The Timemaker is available for purchase on Amazon.| Book 1 of The Timemaker Trilogy

The Wordkeeper by Rachel Piazza ’24

It has been a year since the last adventure of the Timemaker, David, and Eletha. It seems like they have just started settling back into life in Hayi when an urgent message from the king reaches them. General Arminger, Radix Malum’s former second-in-command, has escaped just punishment and consequently, has activated a spell that will cause him to be destroyed unless Eletha agrees, against her will, to help him break the spell. While seeking a way to bring Arminger to justice without putting Eletha in danger, the team discovers the history of previous kings and of a mysterious alliance called the Manipulators. They must gain new allies of their own if they want to stand a chance against the powerful wizard. With new friends, undiscovered history, betrayal, and a secret that could bind the world to imminent danger, the team will be tested in both loyalty and courage in order to protect Mysteria and the king.

The Wordkeeper is available for purchase on Amazon.| Book 2 of The Timemaker Trilogy

IN CORDE

WOULD ESPECIALLY LIKE TO THANK:

• Abigail Greca, Trevor Scott, Marilyn Charba, Maribeth Martin, & Kristin Stephens

•

Mr. McFadden Sr. & our other generous donors

“ “

Behold this Heart which has so loved men.