Eating a fine Italian meal, delightful black and white photos of Italy decorating, savoring eggplant parmesan served over delicate pasta flavored with garlic and olive oil, a deep melancholy sweeps over me. I missed mass at St Paul Shrine. My obsessive nature depends upon the daily nurturing recieved through the Eucharist, celebrating fellowship with the Poor Clares, the attending. I scheduled an appointment with Dr Nitcha, always an appealing and enlightening affair, yet it is obvious where my true strength arises. No more noon appointments. A creature of habit, I am not one fond of jumping around from church to church. I like my same seat, day after day, observing the sisters, joining voice with them in hymn and response. I know who I am, content in sorrow, longing deeply, understanding to grow strong in God is a good thing. A heart of sorrow is advanced to a hopeful heart of love, reposing maturely within faith. I am not afraid, nor overwhelmed by sadness. As with all things, I trust in God. God displays irony, a sense of humor. Behind me a table of diners talks of Pope Francis, a sister in hospice–what a hospice is and is not, and St Paul Shrine momentarily touched upon–‘it’s such a beautiful church’. It lifts the mind and heart.