Dear God,

Until the day I picked up that stone from the dust in the road, I thought I had lived a long, long time and must consider myself almost middle-aged. But when I examined that small piece of Your world, I realized I had scarce begun to live.

A few months after writing this letter, it occurred to Derek to submit it to Restoration. We think you’ll be glad he did.

by Fr. David May.

My mother was the first to introduce me to them—those shining moments of simple faith in God.

I remember being about six or seven. It was a very stressful time in our little family, consisting at that time of my mother, my little sister, and me. It was around 1957 or 1958, and we lived in a drab Detroit suburb.

by Irma Zaleski.

When I was a child in Poland before the Second World War, we used to spend nearly every summer at my grandmother’s house in the mountains.

My grandmother was brilliant and wise, although bitter at times. She had lived through a world war, revolutions, a bad marriage, and the death of two children.

Greetings in the Risen Lord! Let us open wide our hearts to let in the joy of Easter. We share with you our love and joy because he has freed us from our bondage to sin and bestowed on us new life. Alleluia!

by Fr. Bob Wild.

Resurrection means that life is stronger than death, that grace has more power than sin. Do we really believe this?

by Paulette Curran.

Spring comes late in this part of the world, and as I write this column in early March, the ground is still covered with snow. But Lent has begun, days are getting longer, and though we have had a lot of new snow just this week, spring is not far off.

by Andorra Howard.

Though Paul Holland was a man of few words, he had a light within him and an infectious joyful countenance. He was a mystery to me, and I felt drawn to him and wanted to communicate with him—somehow. But I never quite knew how to do it.

by Fr. David May.

It was late April or early May 1971. The dogwood trees in our city were in full bloom, the sunlight magnified a million times by the white blossoms in all the perfection of a brilliant spring day in Maryland. It was getting harder and harder to concentrate on my courses at Salisbury State.

"I think she used to be a nun," my friend Jim whispered to me during our creative writing class.

by the editor.

Paul, the second of five children, grew up in Toronto. His father had a horse-drawn taxi business; his best customer was the bishop of the diocese.

Then came the stock market crash of 1929, and the taxi business was lost. Paul was seven years old.

Memories — Paul Holland

by Pope Benedict XVI.

Easter is the true salvation of humanity. If Christ—the Lamb of God—had not poured out his blood for us, we would be without hope. Our destiny and the destiny of the whole world would inevitably be death.

by Fr. Murray Kuemper.

I was first approached about celebrating Paul Holland’s funeral Mass during the time when he was dying and we were keeping watch with him.

by Fr. Pat McNulty.

Some of the people who have come to a Madonna House funeral have observed that we seem to have a special grace for dealing with the death, wake, and burial of a brother or sister. And part of that is that when someone dies, it is not unusual for us to think in terms of a "word" that says it all.