Give until it hurts. That famous phrase was uttered by Mother Teresa of Calcutta at a national prayer breakfast in Washington 50 years ago.

Plunking down in a pew for Sunday Mass on Thanksgiving weekend brought a good deal of satisfaction and relief.

On a recent afternoon, the Bride and I met with my sister, Carol Anne, and our youngest daughter, Hope, at Holy Cross Cemetery, just north of Toronto. We had gathered to remember the second anniversary of the death of my mother, Anne McAvoy.

Then, miraculously, everything returned to normal. Or so it would seem.

We ought to be feeling pretty good about ourselves.

I am a fifth-generation Irish descendent from Southern Ontario, and a third-generation teacher.

A glimmer of light is now visible at the end of our 15-month-long tunnel of unnatural existence.

In our corner of the country, we fancy ourselves as extremely welcoming and hospitable folk.

Those of us living with serious health concerns know the days can be long. I have always appreciated an expression I heard years ago: The days are long, but the years are short. 

Most of us muddle through life oblivious to the symphony of roosters crowing in the background.