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Every dream eventually gets crucified. How? By time, circumstance, jealousy and that curious, perverse dictate, somehow innate in the order of things, that insures that there is always someone or something that cannot leave well enough alone, but, for reasons of its own, must hunt down and strike what is good.
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In her novel, The Underpainter, Jane Urquhart describes a painful time in the life of a woman named Sara.
In his rather provocative, though always interesting, autobiography, Angela's Ashes, Frank McCourt tells of a confession he once made as a young boy in Limerick, Ireland. His mother had just given birth and their in-laws from the North had sent five pounds to buy milk for the new baby.
Few persons have understood the Eucharist as deeply as St. Augustine. His homilies on it are precious, particularly those delivered to newly baptized adults receiving the Eucharist for the first time. In one of these he tells them that their sins are forgiven at the Eucharist: