It stands to reason she would have witnessed the St. Patrick's Day Parade at least once.

After all, she was Catholic and Irish and baptized at St. Patrick's Church in Cork, Ireland, in 1874 by Father John Falvey. When she arrived in New York in 1892, the 'new' parade route had just been established—a march up Fifth Avenue, right past St. Patrick's "New" Cathedral, where today's parade will proudly follow.

Her name was Annie Moore.

And she was just an ordinary girl who became a cultural icon at the hands of fate.

On December 20th, 1891, at age 17, she and her two brothers Anthony (11) and Phillip (7) boarded the Guion Lines ship, the S.S. Nevada, from Queenstown, Ireland, bound for America. They spent 12 long days, including Christmas in 'After Steerage, Starboard' steaming into New York Harbor late in the evening on Thursday, December 31st.

But it would be the events of the next day that would have her name echo through time.

The S.S. Nevada was anchored at the foot of the Statue of Liberty, along with the S.S. Victoria and S.S. City of Paris, waiting to disembark their passengers. But Annie's ship would be attended to first.

The paddle wheel steamer 'John E. Moore, ' adorned with ribbons, bows, and literal bells and whistles, pushed up against the massive steel hull of the 3600-ton ship to take the first group of immigrants to Ellis Island.

And as the wooden gangplank dropped on the stone pier, the first person to stumble across was Annie with her brothers in tow.

Under the shadow of the torch-bearing Lady, the 17-year-old girl from County Cork would be the first person to be admitted to the United States of America through the just-opened Ellis Island.

She was ushered to the Registry Desk amidst the fanfare, where her name was recorded in history. An 1892 New York Times article reports that the first Commissioner of Immigration, Colonel John Baptiste Weber, handed Annie a $10 gold Liberty coin, to which she gushed that 'it was the first United States coin she had ever seen and the largest sum of money she had ever possessed!'

Speeches were made, welcomes extended, and Ellis Island was christened as the new point of entry for the over 12 million others who would pass through its massive arched doors over the next 50 years.

Annie and her brothers joined her anxiously awaiting parents, Matthew and Julia beginning a new chapter in their lives. Settling in her first New York home on Monroe Street.

Annie Moore didn't choose to be thrust into the limelight—but she became a fabled icon to Irish immigrants. But her brush with celebrity was fleeting, as she went on to join the masses of immigrants and share in their similar fate—a life filled with hardship and struggle. A life all too familiar to most first-generation immigrants.

She would live out the rest of her life all within a two-block radius of St. James Church on James Street in Two Bridges. A neighborhood commonly referred to as 'The Lung Block' due to the high incidence of Tuberculous which was due in part to the poorly ventilated tenements that often had no windows.

The neighborhood also sported several brothels, the stench from the Fulton Fish Market when the wind was out of the East, and dangerous criminal elements in the adjacent Five Corners neighborhood.

But that was life in Two Bridges.

She married Joseph 'Gus' Schayer, the son of a German Catholic immigrant family, who worked at the Fulton Fish Market — a market that also employed the young Alfred E. Smith, who would rise to become the Governor of New York and the first Catholic Presidential Candidate. Together, Annie and Joseph had 11 children, tragically, five of whom died before reaching the age of three. In 1924, after a life marked by resilience in the face of hardship, Annie died at the age of 50.

There have been attempts to romanticize her life as the wide-eyed, rosy-cheeked young girl who had come to America full of big dreams and high ideals. But to do so would be a great disservice to the realities of her life.

Her life was typical of many first-generation immigrants of that time. They didn't have an easy time of it. But it was through their sacrifice that their children, and their children's children, would have the opportunity to soar in a nation whose skies have no upward limit.

Today, Irish Americans stand proudly on the shoulders of those who made the treacherous voyage across the oceans. Those who bore the hardship—those who paid the price. Just as St. Patrick carried the Faith to the shores of Ireland, the Irish brought their Faith to the shores of America.

That's why under a clear blue sky, tens of thousands gathered along Fifth Avenue for the St. Patrick's Day Parade. They're here to honor the legacy of Ireland's Patron Saint and celebrate the enduring spirit of those who, like St. Patrick, carried their Faith from distant lands to the heart of the greatest city in the world.

PHOTOS From the 2024 St. Patrick’s Day Mass and Parade in New York City!

Check back on St. Patrick's Day for new photos and full coverage of the 2025 Mass and Parade from New York City!

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“Brooklyn? There’s no way I’m going to Brooklyn!” exclaimed a reluctant Joe Campo to a very persistent Fr. Benedict Groeschel, “Oh come on, Joe, just take a look and tell me what you think….” A few days later, in early 1990, Campo and Fr. Benedict arrived at a small house, one of the oldest in Greenpoint. And a new chapter in the history of the little house was about to begin.

But the story begins in a different town, in a different county some 30 years earlier. The 27-year-old newly ordained, Fr. Benedict, was tasked to be the Chaplain for Children’s Village, a facility for the care of emotionally disturbed children. Here he encountered a harsh reality of the time. At 16, a resident child would be released back to the streets and forced to fend for themselves.

And in late 1966, there were two cousins, Bobby and Jimmy, slated for release on their 16th Birthday. The young Fr. Benedict, unwilling to see them return to the streets, decided to turn his empathy into action. As the boys were from Greenpoint, Brooklyn, he went there to find them a place to live.

With the help from the small Polish parish of St. Cyril and Methodius, he acquired a small, run-down house dubbed ‘The St. Francis Club.’ It was there that the boys would find their new home, and the St. Francis House was born.

But there was a storm brewing.

Greenpoint, also known as ‘Little Poland,’ was one of the most productive neighborhoods in New York City in the early 21st century. It produced the USS Monitor, The New Republic (the largest wooden ship ever built), and had over 50 Oil refineries. It was even home to the ubiquitous Eberhard Faber pencil company. But empires crumble, and in the late 1960s, amid a stark decline in industry, social unrest, and the emergence of devastating crime waves, Greenpoint, along with all of Brooklyn, slowly descended into hell.

Poverty, gang violence, and rampant drug use spread like wildfire throughout the borough, ripping apart communities and families as the lack of work tore apart the fabric of the once-proud community built on the blood and sweat of immigrants. A sharp rise of broken homes gave way to a growing population of homeless youth, often drug-addicted and desperate, turning to any means necessary to survive.

Before long, the St. Francis House was filled to capacity. It provided a Christ-centered safe haven. And offered a structured environment in which its young residents could find purpose, find hope, and promise.

Over the next two decades, hundreds of young men found their way, thanks to the little house initially founded by a young priest to help two 16-year-old boys.

When Joe Campo arrived in 1990 and took over running the home, another chapter would begin. He became ‘Grandpa’ to all the residents, counseling, encouraging, and becoming the rock wall between what plagued the streets and the boys under his watch. Driving away drug dealers just beyond the doors, organizing the house to be a true home with evening dinner and prayer, and always being present to listen and counsel.

After about 15 years of being a father to the fatherless, a radical idea came to be. Realizing that many of the boys couldn’t find work and lacked skills, Campo had a vision; to make a movie about the St. Francis House. A photographer by trade, he gave jobs to each of the residents as grips and cameramen and would teach them about production. And they went on to create what would be the first film produced by what would become Grassroots Films.

Since then, the film company has produced multiple award-winning movies, including The Human Experience, Fishers of Men, Outcasts, and a wide variety of commercials and short films.

The St. Francis house is a house of hope empowering those who pass through its doors to achieve lives of meaning and purpose. But it’s taken on new roles over the years, covering college tuitions, supporting families in need, and paying for the funerals of those who didn’t make it out. It’s become a bulwark in a raging storm whose winds are poverty and despair.

Despite the success of his film career, Joe is still there, living each day to serve the boys that lack the presence of a father in their lives and guide them to discover their greatness.

Please keep St. Francis House in your prayers, and for information on how you can help keep the mission going, visit

http://www.stfrancishousebrooklyn.com/

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Every photograph and story shared here is a testament to the beauty and depth of the Catholic Faith.

By choosing to become a paid subscriber, you're not just supporting Words & Pictures; you're uplifting the mission that drives it—bringing the light of faith into the everyday. Your support enables this mission to flourish and reach hearts and minds across the globe.

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May God bless you for your generosity and support.

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If she were a Saint, today would be her feast day.

That's because Saints are generally remembered on the day they died. And Céline Martin, also known as Sister Geneviève of the Holy Face, died on February 25, 1959, at the age of 89.

But there's always hope.

Her younger sister is St. Thérèse of Lisieux, her parents, Louis and Zelie, are Saints, and her older sister, Leone Martin (Sister Francoise-Thérèse of the Visitation at Caen), is a Servant of God.

Perhaps it's a matter of a miracle or two.

And if that day ever comes, perhaps she and St. Veronica can share the title of 'Patron Saint(s) of Photographers.'

But in the meantime, I suggest that she be honored with the title 'Patron Nun of Photographers.'

She may not have wanted that because even though her photographs are among the most recognized in the Catholic world, I think she'd rather be remembered for her unfaltering devotion to Christ.

Like I said, there's hope ;-)

Years ago, I was searching for a gallery of images of St. Thérèse of Lisieux and was surprised at how many high-quality photographs existed of her. Only a handful of Saints from the 19th Century were photographed. And even then, not more than once or twice. But in her case, there were dozens of photos spanning her entire life.

At the time, I didn't really appreciate the significance of how they came to be, or who took them, until I read a little bit of the autobiography of Sister Geneviève (Céline Martin), her sister-photographer-Sister.

Young Céline was a maverick. She had a tenacious spirit, an artist's heart, and an engineer's mind.

In her autobiography, she states, "I really liked making inventions and understanding the mechanism. Having had a sewing machine, I took it apart completely, and after cleaning each part, I put them back in their place. Speaking of the sewing machine, I also knew how to make it work, and often, our cousins ​​and I made toilets for ourselves!"

She excelled in academics and won several prizes for excellence in mathematics.

Her talents were diverse—electroplating, sketching, photography—but painting held her heart. She received offers to study with the Master's at 'The Salon' in Paris and was even encouraged by her father, Louis. But after he offered his assistance for her to move, she revealed to him that she felt called to be a Nun.

After his passing, she entered the Carmelite Convent in Lisieux, taking the name Sister Geneviève of the Holy Face, joining her sisters and cousin. Providentially, along with her abundant skills and talents, she was permitted to bring her cumbersome camera along with her, a simple gesture that would profoundly impact the world.

The camera was a 13x18 wooden box-type with a 'Darlot' lens. It used a dry-plate or 'tintype' process, also known as ferrotype. It was a 19th-century photography technique that created a positive image on a lacquer-coated metal sheet.

The process involves coating a thin iron plate with a light-sensitive collodion and silver nitrate mixture. This is exposed to light in a camera, then immediately developed, fixed, and varnished, resulting in a durable, detailed, and relatively inexpensive image.

But the process took a lot of work. Things would need to be thoughtfully staged and posed, and the subjects would need to stay unflinching for up to a minute due to the low light sensitivity of the media with an ISO of 1!

But as impressive as her skills were, it was where she was photographing that was that was groundbreaking.

Within the hallowed walls of a cloister.

She was one of the very first people to photograph within a cloister and she was the very first Nun to photograph within a cloister. And being a member of the religious community gave her access to the heart of the Order. The inner workings. The inner life. And what a life it was.

After entering the cloister, she took 41 photographs that included her younger sister, St. Thérèse of Lisieux, chronicling her life and, ultimately, her death. Among the most famous, and by far the most creative images—were the photographs made on January 21, 1895, on the feast of St. Agnes.

Each year, the Carmelite community celebrated the feast day of the prioress, in this case, Mother Agnes of Jesus (Pauline Martin), their older sister. Thérèse contributed to these celebrations by writing and producing plays they would perform.

For Mother Agnes's feast, she produced a 'Joan of Arc' play. Céline joined the convent a few months earlier and played the role of St. Catherine…and photographer.

During one performance, Thérèse, portraying Joan, narrowly escaped being burned alive in an accidental fire where she stood unflinching, demonstrating her willingness to offer her life to God.

The plays, preserved online by the Carmel of Lisieux archives, offer insight into her talents, with the book "The Plays of St. Thérèse of Lisieux" providing valuable context for these works.

But beneath it all was Céline's abiding passion for Christ, as was evident from her writings: "From the moment we first seek his kingdom and his justice, he is happy with us. And I am certain that even in occupations which did not have eternity as their immediate goal, I always gave myself up to them with the intention of finding there some beauty which would bring me closer to my Creator. Besides, it wasn't difficult, everything raised me to him, even the things that naturally should have taken me away from him."

She spent a lifetime developing her God-given gifts while at the same time detaching from them in her heart to make room for Christ.

The heart of an artist with the soul of a saint.

In a world that often forgets the hands that crafted its memories, Céline Martin – an artist, a sister, and perhaps, a future patron saint of photographers, sharing the mantle with St. Veronica will not be forgotten.

And bound by her love of Christ, her closeness to her sister, and her skills as a photographer, she left us with more than images— but a window into a soul.

You can see all 41 photographs taken by Céline in the cloister at: https://archives.carmeldelisieux.fr/en/photos-de-therese/

And you can learn more about the lives of the Martin sisters and their Saintly parents here: https://archives.carmeldelisieux.fr/en/

Every day residents of lower Manhattan traipse past the 10-foot brick wall that surrounds the perimeter of Old St. Patrick’s Cathedral, sipping their lattes and making their way down Mott Street.

Street vendors use the wall’s surface to hang their artwork and wares for passers-by to view, never knowing the incredible history it holds deep within its mortar.

But while its story may be long forgotten, its legacy remains.

The wall stands as a long-forgotten monument to a man and a time in New York’s history when Catholics and the Irish were brutally persecuted and their churches burned.

Each brick is a testament to the unbreakable resistance and unyielding Faith of the men and women who stood shoulder to shoulder against the torch-carrying mobs and hate-filled headlines that lusted for the annihilation of the Church in America.

In the early 1830s, against a backdrop of increasing immigration from Ireland, an intensification of religious intolerance and nationalism began to flare up.

Hate-filled and racist rhetoric about the Catholic Church and the arriving Irish “Papists” rose to a fever pitch, and violent skirmishes began to break out throughout the city.

Sensing the impending storm and in the wake of arsonists burning St. Mary’s Church on Sheriff Street, Bishop John Hughes leapt into action.

“Dagger John” — a name attributed to him for his fierce personality and the manner in which he drew a Cross before his signature — was not one to be trifled with, and he would take the fight directly to those who challenged his flock.

In 1834, the wall was constructed around Old St. Patrick’s and armed guards were placed within its courtyard. But it wasn’t until 1844 that things would come to a head.

After nativist mobs torched churches, bringing about multiple deaths in Philadelphia, they turned their sights on New York.

They prepared for a torch-lit assault of Old St. Pat’s, but “Dagger John” organized between 1,000 and 2,000 Irish men to defend each church in the city, placing sharpshooters on the walls of Old St. Pat’s.

He then took his cause public, declaring with an unblinking eye to the newly elected mayor, James Harper, known for his anti-immigrant position, “If a single Catholic Church were burned in New York, the city would come to a second Moscow” (referring to the 1812 Fire of Moscow where the residents all but destroyed their city, as Napoleon’s troops entered).

When city officials asked him to restrain his brigades, he replied, “I have not the power. You must take care that they are not provoked.”

Some of them were so determined to make every resistance, that they would have set fire to their own houses and destroyed the city, if any mob had ventured to attack them. They felt as if they were surrounded by enemies. The very officials that should protect them were in league against them; so they were resolved to protect themselves and their Churches, and to stand by their bishop to the death. [Most Reverend John Hughes, the first archbishop of New York — Henry Brann 1912]

Faced with this unyielding show of resolve, the attackers retreated, seeing that those defending their right to religious liberty and ancestry were willing to sacrifice everything — not out of hate, but out of love — love for their Faith and love for Liberty.

And it was from this pivotal moment in the history of New York that the tide began to change, marking a path forward for future generations to worship freely.

This wall that stands quietly in the shadows of the towers and skyscrapers that surround it carries the spirit of those whose strong hands placed each brick upon brick to raise it from the ground … and of a people resolved to courageously stand together to defend their Faith.

Old St. Patrick’s still rises proudly within its protective embrace, remaining a beacon of hope just as it was when its cornerstone was set … just as the Catholic Church has been for more than 2,000 years.

“And so I say to you, you are Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church, and the gates of the netherworld shall not prevail against it.” Matthew 17:18

Some photos…

Text and photos by Jeffrey Bruno except where otherwise indicated. Originally published on Aleteia.org . Re-printed with permission.

The wild horses that haunt the drifting sands of North Carolina’s Outer Banks are ghosts of an age gone by.

Their presence there is veiled in mystery, as the story of their origins perished with the captains and ships that once transported them.

Saddled with the name “Banker Horse,” a name taken from the bluff of land they grace, they roam free, possessing the gentle and abiding spirit of their forebears from some 500 years ago.

While the history of their landing may be an enigma, their ancestry is anything but. With bloodlines tracing back to the Iberian Peninsula with hints of an Arabian lineage, they are, beyond a doubt, descendants of the iconic Spanish Mustang. Fittingly so, as the name “Mustang,” loosely translated, means “ownerless beast.”

It is thought that the first horses to descend on the Western hemisphere, after 10,000 years of extinction, were brought by Christopher Columbus on his second voyage to the New World to the isle of Hispaniola (Little Spain).

The New World settlers, in their advance further into unexplored lands, treasured the steed as an invaluable asset in their pursuit of the dominions and riches they dreamed of.

The legends

There are at least three prominent tales of how the horses made landfall on the Outer Banks. They are derived from scant historical records but have endured over 500 years of scrutiny.

Sir Richard Grenville and the Lost Colony

Sir Richard was one of the earliest English captains to lead an attempt to establish a permanent settlement on the continent. In 1585 he commanded a fleet of seven ships carrying over 500 colonists destined for Roanoke Island in the Outer Banks. This would be the first of two unsuccessful attempts to settle this location. The expedition fell under the auspices of a charter held by Sir Walter Raleigh, who, among other things, is credited with introducing tobacco to the United Kingdom.

On April 9, 1585, the flagship Tyger in concert with the Elizabeth I, Dorothy, Red Lion, Roebuck, and two pinnaces, put to sea.

The harrowing voyage went through the Bay of Biscay to Mosquetal on the south shore of San Juan Bautista (modern-day Puerto Rico). Under sail for only a few days, they were ravaged by a storm off the coast of Portugal, separating the Tyger, and claiming a pinnace.

The Elizabeth and Tyger eventually rendezvoused and forged their way northward, meeting the Roebuck, Red Lion, and Dorothy only when they neared the Outer Banks.

Ships logs indicate that the fleet made landfall in Hispaniola, where they traded with the Spanish, which is possibly where they may have picked up several mustangs and livestock.

Their arrival near Roanoke Island was as dramatic as their departure from England. The Tyger struck a shoal as she made her approach and was nearly wrecked, losing all of her precious cargo and supplies — an arrival not unlike that of Vázquez de Ayllón.

Despite the colonists’ best efforts, the first attempt to create a permanent settlement was doomed.

Speculation that this could have been the source of the Corolla horses is rooted in the Lost Colony location, which is only a few miles from Corolla. It would be likely that the settlers left the horses behind when they abandoned the colony.

The graveyard of the Atlantic

The Gulf Stream is a warm, swift current in the Atlantic Ocean that originates near the Gulf of Mexico. Its northward flow passes Cape Hatteras before turning eastward toward Europe.

The discovery of this 5-knot current allowed ships a quick return to Europe.

But for all its benefits, the route was not without its terrors. Beneath the shimmering seas, the eternally shifting sandbars off the Outer Banks claimed the lives of countless sailors and their ships laden with treasures from the New World.

The foundering ships frantically cast cargo overboard in attempts to survive; this would have included any livestock they may have been transporting. Horses released overboard could have swum to the barrier islands.

The common challenge to this theory lies in the doubt that ships bound for Europe would have any need or desire to carry livestock. Below deck space was at a premium. Large animals were notoriously tricky to ship, and Europe was in no need of horses.

Lucas Vázquez de Ayllón and his hundred horses

Lucas Vázquez de Ayllón bet it all and lost everything … including his life.

Vázquez de Ayllón was an explorer, political figure, and plantation owner on Hispaniola with close ties to King Charles V of Spain. He backed two explorations of the continent in search of the “Northwest Passage” and became enamored by the tales of strange lands and peoples brought back by his Captain, Francisco Gordilla.

He secured a charter from the Crown in 1523, granting him rights to settle the lands along the eastern seaboard. Investing all of his considerable wealth and mortgaging his plantation, he organized the voyage that he would personally lead.

By 1526 he gathered a fleet of five vessels, over 650 men and women, and vast supplies to sustain the new settlement — including 100 horses. The reasoning? To have a herd that would “reproduce and sustain itself …”

Among the colonists were two Dominican Friars, Fr. Antonio de Montesinos O.P. and Fr. Antonio de Servates O.P. They were to establish a church and monastery in the new settlement. Fr. de Montesinos was a champion for the rights of indigenous peoples, and is considered a forefather of those who proclaim the dignity of all human life.

And on a hot mid-July day in Puerto Plata, (Venerable) Fr. Bartolomé de las Casas blessed the fleet before their departure.

The flagship Capitana, La Chorruca, El Breton, Santa Catalina, and La Trinadad set sail for points north.

The flagship Capitana was wrecked on her approach to the barrier islands, losing all of her precious cargo.

After weeks of searching for a suitable location, they established the short-lived San Miguel de Gualdape Colony. The name derived from the Guale tribe who lived there, and St. Michael the Archangel. whose feast took place on the day they settled.

With a shortage of supplies, unusually cold weather and strained relations with the tribe, the settlement did not survive long.

Vázquez de Ayllón died in the arms of Fr. Montesino in October 1526 of an unknown illness, sealing the fate of the colony.

Only 150 of the 650 colonists would make it back to Hispaniola alive.

And Vázquez de Ayllón’s body was lost at sea as the ship by which it was being transported was lost to the waves.

The theory holds that the horses remained … a herd enough to “reproduce and sustain itself.”

The legacy

While they roam the Outer Banks to this day, the mystery of the horses’ arrival lingers on. They are a living testament to the Age of Discovery, a time when the European imagination was seized with dreams of distant lands and untold treasure.

While debates rage on as to the first permanent settlement, maybe that debate isn’t looking in the right direction. Maybe the answer gallops on the shores of the Outer Banks.

Perhaps it was not men, but their stalwart companion, the humble horse, that established the first permanent settlement in the New World.

Those with four-wheel drive vehicles can catch a glimpse of the regal Bankers on Corolla Beach in the Outer Banks. For those without, there are many tour operators who will bring you to the best viewing spots and give you a little history lesson to boot.

For more information, go to Visit Currituck.

Words and pictures by Jeffrey Bruno except where noted.

Originally published on Aleteia.org - Reprinted with permission.

The southerly trade winds gently rolled across the island of Hispaniola, calming the warm blue seas as the ships approached the sheltered cove of what is presumed to be Cap-Haitien in modern-day Haiti. It was Christmas Eve, 1492.

With darkness falling and the fatigue of two 2½ days sailing weighing heavily upon the crew, watch was posted, and the men drifted off into a peaceful slumber, never to realize what fate had in store.

It had been five months since Christopher Columbus, his officers, and crew had stepped out of the Chapel Convento de Santa María de la Rábida and hoisted the sails on the Santa Maria, Santa Clara (Pinta), and Niña and set out to sea to embark on a journey that would change the course of history.

Columbus’ love affair with the sea began at the tender age of 10 when he first worked aboard a ship. In decades to follow, he crisscrossed the oceans as a shipping agent, often spending more time at sea than on the land. He had an insatiable desire to learn, and while he had little by way of formal education, he was an avid reader, immersing himself in books of all subjects but astronomy, geography, and history in particular. But the two books that had proved the greatest influence were The Travels of Marco Polo and the Bible.

It was in 1474 that a Florentine astronomer named Paolo dal Pozzo Toscanelli sent a map to Columbus with a proposal for sailing east across the ocean to reach Asia. While the notion was stoutly rejected by most everyone, it was the spark that set fire to Columbus’ imagination and what would become an 18-year mission to piece together an expedition and find backing.

Fortunately, his unprecedented passion for the mission and iron will steeled him against what would be years of rejection. Nevertheless, he persisted, undeterred. Two of the underlying motives that fueled this determination were the prospect of evangelizing the Far East, and the possibility of acquiring enough wealth to launch a Crusade to retake Jerusalem and the Holy Sepulchre. If there is anything to be said about Columbus it’s that he didn’t lack imagination and his aspirations weren’t small.

When he finally received the backing of King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella of Spain, he encountered a new set of challenges. Few sailors were willing to stake their lives on what was perceived as a madman’s folly, and even fewer ship owners were willing to risk their vessels.

It wasn’t until the Pinzon brothers, Martin, Francesco and Vincent, who were relatively famous as sailors, pirates and explorers, agreed to join that things began to take shape. And on August 3, 1492, the three ships passed from the Odiel River to the embrace of the sea of uncertainty.

And after a 10-week-long nearly mutinous journey across the “Ocean Sea,” as it was referred to, they made landfall on October 12, 1492, claiming the first land for Spain, and naming it San Salvador.

The fate of the Santa Maria

At around 2 a.m. Christmas Day, Columbus awoke with a start to the sound of water rushing and screams from the helm. He ran to the deck to find that the watch officer had turned the helm over to a deck boy; an act that was prohibited. The inexperienced lad had allowed the ship to run aground, which fatally opened the seams below the waterline.

Ordering the crew to lay an anchor aft, several of the crew set off on one of the ship’s boats, only to directly disobey the order and make their way to the safety of the Pinta. Fully aware of the implications, Columbus made one last effort to save the ship by cutting the masts away to lighten the ship, but it was in vain. The waters rose higher and higher and the ship that had led one of the most daring expeditions of all time came to rest on the seafloor.

As daylight came and cast its rays on the foundered hull of the once proud ship, Columbus sent a landing party to the island to meet with the King of the Guacanagaríx, the leader of one of the five Tiano tribes that inhabited Hispaniola. The king, who had great affection for Columbus and his men, broke down when he heard the news and sent all his people in large canoes to assist with recovering whatever was lost and help in any manner they could. He offered them houses and food, welcoming them as their own.

From Christopher Columbus’ journal:

“The king and all his people wept. They are a loving people, without covetousness, and fit for anything; and I assure your Highnesses that there is no better land nor people. They love their neighbors as themselves, and their speech is the sweetest and gentlest in the world, and always with a smile.”

In the days that followed, the crew and tribesmen dismantled the Santa Maria bringing her timber to shore. From this a fort was constructed, aptly named “Fort Navidad” since the shipwreck was on Christmas. This was to be the very first colony in the “New World.”

A lot has been said about Christopher Columbus in the past few years and to some, accounts of his governance may cast a shadow on his accomplishments. But between what is known and what will be forever lost in the sands of time stands a man whose life serves as a shining example for those with high aspirations.

The young boy who set sail with dreams of lands unknown set to the symphony of sails buffeted by tradewinds and a ship’s hull cutting through the seas paints a portrait of what the human spirit can achieve when it dares to dream.

“No one should fear to undertake any task in the name of our Savior, if it is just and if the intention is purely for His holy service.” Christopher Columbus

Originally published on Aleteia - Re-printed with permission.

In 1785 when the cornerstone was set for what would be the first parish church in New York State, the builders would have been staggered at the role it would play in New York’s tumultuous history … especially because it wasn’t even supposed to be there at all.

Anti-Catholic sentiments had forced the early Catholics to build the church where it stands today, on Barclay Street, after their bid to build it in the center of the City had been rejected. The city officials wanted the church as far from the center as they could get it, so it was banished to the outskirts of town. It stands as a deep irony that some 200 years later, perhaps the two most iconic buildings in the world would be built one short block away.

After the parish’s first 50 years of service — which included hosting the city’s first Catholic school and tirelessly caring for the community through the yellow fever epidemics of 1795 and 1798 — a new church building was to be placed on the old foundation.

In 1838 none other than Bishop “Dagger John” Hughes commissioned the new church to be constructed in place of the first, to better serve the growing needs of the diocese. It stands today much as it did then, and much as it did on the fateful warm sunny morning that would change the course of history.

The “Saint of 9/11”

The day was September 10, 2001. Father Mychal Judge celebrated mass at FDNY Engine 73/Ladder 42 in the South Bronx and spoke these words in his homily to his firefighters:

“That’s the way it is. Good days. And bad days. Up days. Down days. Sad days. Happy days. But never a boring day on this job. You do what God has called you to do. You show up. You put one foot in front of another. You get on the rig and you go out and you do the job — which is a mystery. And a surprise. You have no idea when you get on that rig. No matter how big the call. No matter how small. You have no idea what God is calling you to. But he needs you. He needs me. He needs all of us.”

[Read Father’s full homily here]

Little did those firefighters know that in courageously and selflessly following those very words, 343 of their number would not be returning to their stations the next day. And Fr. Mychal — living out his call to serve the men and women of the FDNY — would be counted among those who made the ultimate sacrifice. While he was anointing and blessing those who had fallen, he was struck by a piece of debris. Fr. Mychal went down as the first casualty at Ground Zero … his death certificate reads Victim 0001.

Firefighters and Emergency Service workers bravely fought through the debris and rubble and carried his body to St. Peters and tearfully laid him before the altar — the same altar that St. Elizabeth Ann Seton stood before when she converted to the Catholic faith, the same altar that Venerable Pierre Toussaint and his wife and niece knelt before to receive the Blessed Sacrament, and the same altar where three dozen additional victims would be laid as the day wore on.

Persevering Faith

“Prior to September 11th we were accustomed to look at the Twin Towers as the symbol of America’s strength and power in the world of trade, commerce and finance. But as those buildings turned to dust before our eyes, we came to look to each other to see where our true strength and power lie. Our true strength was in all those acts of compassion, those deeds of generosity and self-sacrifice that were performed that day and in the days, weeks, and months afterward.” Fr Kevin Madigan, Pastor of St. Peters Church on September 11, 2001

Fr. Thomas Colucci remembers the day intimately as he was then Captain Thomas Colucci, FDNY:

“Christ was there that day, in all the people that showed up that day … he was with us through all our grief and our sorrow … it was the Lord, the Spirit that helped to sustain us to get through the tragedy … God was definitely with us on that day.” Fr. Tom Colucci — Look Up Stories of Hope

As the Towers came down, St. Peter’s Church rose to become the face of Divine Mercy amidst the brutal agony and suffering of what was the most devastating tragedy in the history of New York City. Perhaps this little church that was denied a place in the old city center was actually meant to be in the very center of this calamity, and to be the very heart that would bring life, healing, and hope to all those whose tears would not be wiped away.

The church endures as a sanctuary for prayer and a source of the sacraments as it has been since its foundation. But within the context of 9/11, it also stands as a symbol: a symbol of God’s ever present love for us especially when we are in the depths of despair.

Special thanks to Communications Department at the 9/11 Memorial Museum, Fr. Thomas Colucci and Anna Favale from Aleteia.

Photography by Jeffrey Bruno except where otherwise noted.

Originally published on Aleteia.org - Re-published with permission

Feature photo by: U.S. Navy photo by Chief Photographer’s Mate Eric J. Tilford. (Released)

They would be disappointed, of course.

They wanted to see her one more time before she left for New York.

They were also working to secure passage for her, Sister Antony, and Sister Mary aboard this grand new ship that was to depart from the port in Southampton, about a day’s ride to the south of the Convent in Honor Oak, which is near Charing Cross Station.

Perhaps it was Mother’s frail health, or perhaps it was the urgency with which she felt compelled to cut her trip to Europe short due to new challenges facing the expansion of Columbus Hospital, or perhaps, more probably, it was Divine intervention.

Whatever it was, it prevented Mother Frances Xavier Cabrini from setting off on her journey to London to board the R.M.S. Titanic and put her aboard the SS Berlin in Naples bound for New York instead. It spared her life.

As a child, Maria Francesca Cabrini had a brush with death at age seven in a near-drowning accident thought to have occurred at Lambro Meridionale, a canal that runs through her hometown of Sant’Angelo Lodigiano.

This traumatic event forever scarred her with a profound fear of the water.

This, however, did not get in the way of her undertaking 23 trans-Atlantic voyages on her mission to establish schools, orphanages, and religious communities around the globe.

From an early age, Cabrini longed to be a missionary, a longing only second to her desire to serve Christ.

Her diminutive figure, frail health, and the culture’s resistance to the idea of a female missionary all paled in comparison to her profound trust in God and radical zeal to serve others, two qualities that carried her through a lifetime’s worth of triumphs and tragedies.

In March of 1889, Mother and her Sister companions set out on their first voyage to New York aboard the SS La Bourgogne, a ship that would meet its end on the high seas a few short months later.

On the 12-day voyage through two storms and heavy seas, the Sisters met their first charges — the Italian immigrants who were traveling in third class, otherwise known as “steerage.” The immigrants were berthed below deck and suffering greatly when Mother and her crew set about immediately to care for them, providing what comfort they could and leading them in prayer — a harbinger of things to come.

And a side note: When they first arrived in New York, they initially lived with the Sisters of Charity, the same sisters who would care for the survivors of the Titanic.

It was Pope Leo XIII who famously directed the young Cabrini, who wished to travel to China as a missionary, “Not to the East, but to the West …” This landed her in the slums of New York among her suffering countrymen.

Discrimination was rampant, and the living conditions that they would be absorbed into were atrocious.

A famous Italian saying goes, “Before I came to America, I thought the streets were paved in gold. When I came here, I learned three things: First, the streets were not paved in gold; second, the streets weren’t paved; and third, that I was expected to pave them.”

Over the span of 28 years, Mother Frances Cabrini and her missionary Sisters established 67 institutions. Her mission to acculturate, educate, and inspire Faith laid the foundation for a hope-filled future for the Italian immigrants who, like most immigrants, were greeted by hardship and rejection.

Mother and her Sisters became the loving arm of Christ wrapped around the shoulder of the immigrant restoring the Faith and dignity of these people who arrived in America seeking of a better life.

St. Frances Xavier Cabrini, Patroness of Immigrants, please pray for us.

Some Rare Photos

A very special thanks to the Missionary Sisters of the Sacred Heart of Jesus for allowing publication from the Cabrini University Collection.

Also, to Rudolf Kämmerer |Bernd Rossberg | Europeana Collections for the wonderful CC BY SA 3.0 image of the S.S. Berlin

Thanks for reading! Please join me on Instagram!

(Originally published on Aleteia.org. Republished with permission)

Overcoming violent anti-Catholicism, poverty, and gangs, the Sisters of Charity opened the doors of opportunity to generations of immigrants.

The narrow hallways of 32 Prince Street in Lower Manhattan silently echo with the stories of an age gone by: the long-lost voices of orphan children clamoring in the small courtyard as the nuns would scurry about ushering them across the street for Sunday Mass at the just dedicated “Old” St. Patrick’s Cathedral on Mott Street, a faded portrait of grace and beauty painted on a canvas that at the time could easily have been mistaken for hell.

The beginning

The year was 1815, and New York “City” would be completely unrecognizable to those who identify it by its soaring skyscrapers and broad avenues. It was a time when Canal “Street,” actually a canal at the time, was the northernmost boundary.

Beyond it were rolling hills, forests, and farms leading clear up the Hudson River. While the “teeming” population of 80,000 supported itself through traditional trades, New York was rapidly becoming the import/export capital of the country with its expansive port and sheltered harbor.

The fledgling Catholic community, made up mainly of Irish, German, and French immigrants, was the religious minority, and anti-Catholic sentiment among the descendants of colonists was de rigueur. Few churches, and even fewer priests, made access to the sacraments a challenge.

On November 24, 1815, following a grueling sea passage that had many convinced she had met her end in the depths of the Atlantic, the 147-ton brig ‘Sally’ dropped anchor in New York Harbor, depositing a weary 68-year-old Bishop John Connolly on the bustling docks of the East River.

Connolly, being the second bishop of New York, was the first to set foot on its cobbled streets, as the previous bishop lost his life in the Napoleonic Wars before he could ever make the journey to the New World.

Historian Monsignor Peter Guilday of Catholic University remarks, “It may well be doubted if, in the entire history of the Catholic Church in the United States, any other bishop began his episcopal life under such disheartening conditions.”

Some 15,000 Catholics, four priests, and three churches … one of which was 300 miles north, in Albany: This new flock, which was suffering abject poverty, disease, and anti-Catholic bigotry, welcomed their new shepherd with hope.

And he set about the business of serving his flock with enviable zeal, attracting vocations, opening parishes, and penning a letter that would ultimately lead to one of his most notable achievements.

Among the imminent challenges facing the new bishop was that of homeless children. Prostitution and contracted life expectancy among adult parents due to disease led to an abundance of orphaned infants and children left to the streets.

So in a letter dated July 14, 1817, to Mother Elizabeth Ann Seton, whose growing order, the Sisters of Charity, had taken up residence in Emmitsburg, Maryland, Bishop Connolly implored her to send three nuns to open an orphanage to serve the dire needs of his burgeoning see.

And barely a month later, on August 20, 1817, Sr. Rose White, Sr. Cecilia O’Conway, and Sr. Felicite Brady of the Sisters of Charity arrived at their first home in New York, a small post-Revolutionary field hospital known as “The Dead House.”

Its wide plank floors were so stained with soldiers’ blood that no amount of scrubbing would ever remove the memory of those who crossed the threshold.

Within a week’s time, the Sisters welcomed the first five orphans into the shelter, and the Roman Catholic Orphan Asylum of the Sisters of Charity, the first Catholic orphanage in the United States, was established. By cleverly arranging the interior space, they managed to accommodate 23 additional orphans, bringing the number to 28.

Over the next few years, the orphanage grew in size and population and was frequently visited by both benefactors and volunteers. Among them was a young black girl named Euphemia Toussaint and her uncle, Pierre, who would arrive bearing pastries and fruits to throw a great celebration for the young girls’ birthdays.

It is said that Euphemia’s heart was with the orphans from her early childhood, and after her tragic passing at only 14 years of age, her uncle, who had previously been instrumental in raising funds for both the church and orphanage, redoubled his efforts, even opening his own home at 105 Reade Street to shelter and educate orphans. Euphemia was laid to rest in view of the orphanage in the cemetery at St. Patrick’s on May 11, 1829.

From humble beginnings in a city not yet realized, St. Elizabeth Ann Seton’s prophetic decision to send the three pioneering nuns to what would become the greatest city in the world laid the foundation for over 180 schools, 28 hospitals, 23 childcare institutions, and countless other ministries providing Faith-guided care that allowed generations of impoverished immigrants to build lives filled with promise, and build the city of dreams.

Add to their litany of service, in 1862, their care for the wounded soldiers returning from the Civil War, which dramatically altered how Catholics were viewed at the time.

In 1912 they received and cared for the survivors of the ill-fated R.M.S. Titanic at St. Vincent’s Hospital, and in the 1950s, taught a young Martin Scorsese how to read and write at their St. Patrick’s School on Mott Street.

In the dramatic tale of New York City, the Sisters of Charity have played an epic role as Catholic women, caregivers, and educators, profoundly shaping the very soul of the city of concrete and steel.

The legacy of their heroic work is indivisibly woven in the rich cultural fabric of a city of men and women drawn by the promise of a better life … and a better life was exactly what the Sisters of Charity afforded them.

St. Elizabeth Ann Seton, please pray for us.

[Originally published on Aleteia.org]

"What's the event called?" I remember trying to decipher what the person was saying on the other end of the phone line. I'd never heard of Tenebrae. And apparently, I'm not alone in that. 

But that's the Catholic faith for you. So many breathtaking traditions. So much beauty. If only we discover it. 

The Tenebrae tradition is an often overlooked aspect of Holy Week. It can be traced back to the early Christian Church, where it was a form of prayer that took place in the early morning hours of each day.

The name "Tenebrae" is derived from the Latin word for "shadows" or "darkness," and the practice involves gradually extinguishing candles as a symbol of Christ's suffering and death.

The form has varied slightly over the years. Traditionally it was held on the Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday of Holy Week, culminating in the Good Friday service. But now it's typically celebrated on the Wednesday of Holy Week.

The service consists of a series of psalms and readings, accompanied by the extinguishing of candles until only a single candle remains. This candle is then hidden or taken away, symbolizing the darkness and despair that accompanied Christ's death.

Traditionally, a unique candle holder is utilized for the service called a Tenebrario. The Tenebrario is typically made of wood or bronze and consists of a long, central candlestick with three branches or arms, one on either side. The central candlestick represents Christ, while the three branches represent the three days leading up to his resurrection.

During the Tenebrae service, 15 candles are placed on the Tenebrario, 14 of which are smaller, and the central one is the largest. As each psalm or reading is completed, one of the smaller candles is extinguished until only the central candle remains. This central candle is then removed from the Tenebrario and hidden.

The Tenebrario is an essential element of the Tenebrae service, as it visually represents the themes of darkness and light central to this tradition. The gradual extinguishing of the candles on the Tenebrario symbolizes the fading of Christ's presence in the world. In contrast, the central candle represents his ultimate victory over sin and death through his resurrection.

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So, whether you are a lifelong Catholic or simply curious about this lesser-known tradition, attending a Tenebrae service can be a powerful way to deepen your Lenten journey and experience the transformative power of Holy Week.

Wishing you a Blessed Holy Week.