I discovered that no one here uses cardinal directions, which explains why the sun sleeps in later than I do. Humidity walks me to the gym in its absence, downriver several blocks and lakeside several more. I come out wetter than I went in, and our journey ends past the drop-off line of a grade school. Children arrive holding hands with their parents while I pass by holding beads with my rosary. We are not so different in God’s eyes, and I look more out of place among them than I feel. A teacher with a microphone drowns out my musings, and a cold shower washes them away. My morning cup of coffee feels like a reward, and I have several minutes to read before prayer.

It never occurred to me that a person could pray for an hour, and I’m still not sure that anyone does. It is no coincidence to me that folded hands stage twiddling thumbs. In May I would spend fifteen minutes on a rosary (twenty if I dragged) and ten on debate over what prayer was. By now I’ve said enough Hail Marys to make Our Lady sick of me, and a priest assured me that almost anything counts.

God’s redline of my prayers would make even my dad blush, but I will risk a few thoughts nonetheless. First, prayer affects me the way that lifting does. I cannot pinpoint moments when my heart and mind change, but they do. Practically, I ask God to open my heart and then try to be honest about what comes up. He moves the wind; I move the wheel. Reading the Bible details my map and clears the fog. Your results may vary.

The stability of semi-structured days gets me out of bed, and their variety keeps me awake. One priest I met used to box, so in conversation I compared modern outreach to an old boxer shaking off the rust. He replied that he could still kick my ass. Fighting a priest was not on my bucket list before then, but it is now. Father’s got three inches and about thirty pounds on me, so maybe I’ll put it last—right after having him hear my confession. Later I asked him to lead a boxing class for my guys. He said he’d think about it.

This week a fire consumed the Catholic Center grill. I put it out and learned that fire extinguishers do not have recoil.

On a marginally less violent note, we recently ate lunch at the home of the archbishop. He served us a salad that had strawberries in it. I hate strawberries. People who learn this about me push me to try them, which I never do. But when the archbishop of the Archdiocese of New Orleans puts food on your plate, you eat it.

Altogether my days have emulated the beauty and chaos of the city, which will suit me unless I get shot.

Deo Gratias.