July 2026

St. Benedict is pretty special to me for a few reasons.

July 11, the Feast of St. Benedict, is also my birthday. (And oops, I was having so much fun celebrating my 60th birthday that I forgot to share this post.) Although I could not be more delighted to have St. Benedict as my patron saint, I must admit that I was pretty disappointed when I first discovered it.

I believe in birthday weeks, celebrations, having fun, and the Rule of St. Benedict!

My parents had given me an illustrated book of the “Lives of the Saints” for my Confirmation. As any nine-year-old would do, I immediately looked to see who the saint was for July 11, my birthday. A lovely woman saint with a beautiful name, I had hoped. Perhaps Elizabeth or Mary, Theresa or Christine (my confirmation name) would be my special saint.

Instead, I saw an illustration of a man with a dark hood, a scary-looking bird, some sort of walking cane, and an unusual name that I had only associated with Benedict Arnold, a famous American traitor.

July 11, St. Benedict, Abbot, it said.

I had never heard of St. Benedict and surely did not know what an Abbot was. Through the years, I returned to these pages often, thinking that I should have some connection with this man, my patron saint.

Fast forward 26 years. Married, a mother of a seven-year-old daughter, a high school teacher, and a club sponsor, I had a full, busy, and satisfying life, yet also a longing for silence. An advertisement for a contemplative prayer retreat in our local newspaper caught my eye. It promised an “oasis of peace” at a retreat house in the cornfields of Nebraska called St. Benedict Center.

And then I remember St. Benedict. My saint.

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Joy is an act of spiritual and political resistance. Childhood memories of joy: the 4th grade, a one-room schoolhouse, a New Jersey pen pal, and 4th of July fireworks!

In 1976, when the United States celebrated its Bicentennial Year, I had just finished the fourth grade. I will never forget that school year and the following summer. My family moved from the north side of town to the south side, and I was anxious about starting at a new school in the fall. I turned ten, a coveted double-digit age, and everyone was alive with the Spirit of ’76.

The fourth grade was a big deal in Nebraska. Students learned about Nebraska history and attended a school day in a one-room schoolhouse, just like the “olden days”—bonnets for the girls, suspenders for the boys, slate boards, dunce caps, and more. We also learned about the American Revolution and participated in the Bicentennial Correspondence*, a pen pal project that encouraged students to connect with peers in other parts of the country. I remember the excitement when Denise from Paterson, New Jersey, responded to my letter. We continued to write to each other throughout our school years.

And, of course, every child (and plenty of adults) eagerly anticipated the grand finale, the Independence Day fireworks celebration. As daylight fades and darkness falls, whether at the end of one’s driveway, on a small-town baseball diamond, or in a city park, scintillating sparks soaring through the skies, crackling explosions, and brilliant bursts of light have become the pinnacle of any Fourth of July celebration.

Fireworks can evoke a variety of feelings—from excitement, pride, and awe to anxiety, fear, and disbelief. I enjoy the displays but abhor the loud sounds. I think of shuddering dogs hiding under beds and the trauma that many veterans experience, a vivid reminder of war. I consider how much money is spent on fireworks that could be used in so many ways to help others. Feeling conflicted, I watch and wonder. For this moment, I hold the tension between light and dark, beauty and terror.

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