Driving up my street in late spring, you can see which yard is mine from a whole block away: it’s the one covered in dandelions. And I like it that way.

I fear neither my husband’s shame nor the snarky comments of neighbors: I will never apologize for my dandelion-filled yard. “It’s for the pollinators,” I say, but it’s a total lie. I just think it looks lovely. Who doesn’t like a splash of yellow after a long, dreary winter?

Sometimes I feel capable of absorbing almost anything except God’s Word. My mind soaks up song lyrics, sports trivia, and endless online content. But what was the reading at Mass this morning? I struggle to recall. That realization discourages me, and it leads to an uncomfortable question. What is my heart really for? Is it shaped for constant information and distraction, or is it truly designed for God? Am I capable of deeply receiving His Word?

A few years ago, I met a woman in my parish who was a successful lawyer. Yet in her free time, she poured her energy into a nonprofit she founded to advocate for children with special needs. When I asked what in- spired her, she spoke of her niece, who was born with disabilities. Her niece was both a glorious gift and a constant challenge. Out of that painful, beautiful experience, she felt called to create something lasting for other children and parents. The nonprofit thrived, not because she had mapped it all out, but because she was deeply moved to act.

I was 16 years old on a youth group retreat in the mountains. One night, I opened my heart to the message being proclaimed: that God so loved the world that He sent His Son for us. Later, I lay under the pine trees and looked up at the countless stars. They seemed different. No longer cold, distant balls of chemical reac- tions, they appeared as an expression of God’s love, as if He were giving those stars directly to me. The truth of God sending His Son changed how I saw the whole universe.

The seasons roll on each year as winter turns into spring and spring steadily moves toward summer. During these same seasons, our liturgical year goes forward, too, as Ordinary Time becomes Lent, Lent turns into Holy Week, the Paschal Triduum, and Easter, and Easter then leads us back into Ordinary Time. It’s a rhythm that we experience every year as Catholics, an opportunity for each of us to participate in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. You can read about the Church’s liturgical year on the US Bishops’ website, https://bit.ly/USCCBYear.

If you’re asthmatic, you know the phrase “as natural as breathing” doesn’t always make a lot of sense. Maybe that’s because breathing isn’t always natural. Sometimes, it’s supernatural.

I come from a family of asthmatics. In my earliest childhood memories, my sister’s nose and mouth are covered with a bulbous plastic mask connected by clear tubes to her transportable nebulizer.