By Christina Capecchi

Oprah Winfrey looks regal in a purple pleated skirt and matching sweater, beaming on the cover of the magazine that delivers her much-anticipated Favorite Things – “112 crowd-pleasing gifts for everyone on your list.”

Now in her 9th year partnering with Amazon, Oprah vouches for each product with her trademark hype: a $22 silk eye mask she calls “life-changing,” $350 Beats headphones that are “the best of the best,” a $600 TrueBrew Drip Coffee Maker she lauds as “a dream for persnickety coffee drinkers.” Not to mention her new book, which will help you “be happier in 2024.”

It’s commerce with a spiritual bent. “What I know for sure,” Oprah writes, “is that what you give comes back to you.”  

I’ve always been intrigued by the television queen’s shopping list, but what strikes me most is how much company she now has. These days, everyone has a holiday gift guide – from high-profile peddlers to micro-influencers and suburban moms. 

You can follow them in real time, linking every item. The wreaths they’re hanging. The bows they’re hanging on the wreaths they’re hanging. The joggers they’re wearing while they’re hanging the bows on the wreaths they’re hanging. 

’Tis the season to spend money. It’s never been easier to do, requiring the kind of deliberation that vanishes in the blink of an eye, the tap of a button. It can almost feel like play money – no paper trail, no accountability, just an invisible Venmo transaction. 

What we lack in time, we try to make up for in money, throwing it at people and problems who actually need minutes and hours. The kindergartener doesn’t need a fancy new baseball glove but an adult to play catch with. Back and forth, again and again, chasing all the errant throws until, finally, there are fewer. 

Our immigrant ancestors had no money and all the time in the world. They made use of long bus rides, early mornings, tiny apartments, daily walks to Mass. Stitching and scheming, painting and plotting.  

Today we have flipped the script. We have all the money in the world, so it seems, but no time. We’re busy. And when we’re not busy, we’re distracted by screens siphoning our precious time. But the things we buy cannot replace quality time spent with loved ones.  

I once read an article about a troubled teen who was turning to the wrong remedies. Her parents recognized a better one and chose to lavish her with their time and attention. 

“We took her kayaking, played more board games with her and watched more TV with her and took other short family trips,” her mom said. They asked their teen to stay off the internet and instead keep a journal. She obliged, even though she was frustrated.

Eventually, something shifted. Her depression lifted, and, in its place, a sense of self emerged. 

This will be our first Christmas without my paternal grandma, who showered us with loving attention. She and my grandpa bought a modest cabin on a little lake up north where we all squeezed in countless hours and memories.  

The porch was the gathering place where Grandma was always perched, catching all the comings and goings, the fishing reports, the sunscreen applications. We played 500 at the long dining room table where Grandma placed the centerpiece: a chianti straw bottle holding a taper candle. She lit it every day, letting the wax from candle after candle drip down the straw, lumpy strands of mauve and violet, sage and cream.  

It was a visual of our time together, hour after hour, a work of art that could not be rushed. Our layered family, ever expanding yet bound together. The sum, greater than the parts. 

It will not make Oprah’s Favorite Things list. But it was, indeed, “life-changing,” “the best of the best.” Time together – the ultimate Christmas gift. 

  —

Christina Capecchi is a freelance writer from Inver Grove Heights, Minn. 

The post Christina Capecchi: Keep the candle lit: pouring out the greatest gift appeared first on The Central Minnesota Catholic.

By Christina Capecchi

I’ve been following the press around the most anticipated biography of the year: “Elon Musk” by Walter Isaacson. I’m interested in the controversial innovator and also the author’s writing process, which involved shadowing Musk for two years.

Isaacson, an acclaimed journalist, gained surprising access to Musk, sitting in on high-profile meetings and negotiations, studying the billionaire in real-time as he made headlines and profits and mistakes.

One of the author’s central talking points, articulated again and again in the press circuit, resonated with me: We have become a nation with more referees and fewer risktakers. In our
beginning, in our glory days, the scales were tilted toward risktakers. These are the people who founded countries and churches, companies and movements.

By contrast, Isaacson says, modern culture is largely defined by referees. These are the folks who sit on the sidelines and offer commentary. They criticize, cancel and correct the risktakers – often from the comfort of their couch, through anonymous online profiles.

I’ve been reflecting on this claim through a Catholic lens. The prophets, the early Church fathers, the saints – it certainly holds true in religion. The people with the strongest convictions didn’t think twice about taking risks. They were compelled by an undeniable drive.

The Catholics I most admire today take risks for their families, spurred by their faith. They see the perils and pitfalls of modern secular life and they dare to build something different.

That’s what Karen and Tully Wyatt did. By any measure, the Catholic parents of four had the perfect life. They had built their dream home on a shady cul-de-sac in a coveted school district.

But Karen, now 41, a realtor and Beautycounter executive director, felt a stirring in her heart. She yearned for rural life.

Most days, she dismissed it. “It seemed like a retirement dream – or maybe it was just a dream altogether,” she said. “There were too many unknowns, so many moving pieces that seemed impossible to fall into place. But my heart kept longing. We’d search Zillow and daydream.”

In the fall of 2020, they visited friends in a small Kansas town. “We loved every minute – small- town values and a slower pace of life,” Karen said.

She and Tully were convinced a smaller town would serve them well. Their hunt began around the same time they began homeschooling. Something new felt possible.

They found a Catholic hybrid school on a 100-acre farm and fell in love.

“Our oldest was 11, and if we wanted her to feel like she grew up in the country, we needed to make the move soon,” Karen said.

The Wyatts now live on 52 sprawling acres set down a winding country road – complete with cows, chickens, a donkey, a horse and a big, fenced-in garden. Their ranch is an hour from
downtown Dallas.

“Our new life feels worlds away, a turn-back-time lifestyle mostly spent outdoors with very little screentime,” said Karen, a member of St. William Catholic Church in Greenville, Texas. “Days pass slower. We spend hours on the porch watching the most beautiful orange sunsets. Another blessing is the satisfaction we’ve found in physical labor – working in the garden with our hands, feeding our chicken and cattle, building fences and chicken coops. Our children approach their chores with a heart of joy rather than obligation.”

Karen shares her country life on Instagram (@thewyattfarm) and urges others to consider a similar move – even on a small patch of land – to embrace a slower live steeped in Catholic
values.

“We’ve learned that, when you feel peace to follow the Lord’s plan, He provides for every need,” she said. “Placing our lives under his direction and literally taking a leap of faith was the best feeling we’ve known. The rewards have been tenfold. Our marriage, our children, our daily life all reflect his hand guiding us toward goodness.”

—

Christina Capecchi is a freelance writer from Inver Grove Heights, Minn.

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A mother understands.

From the outside, Edith Rosenbaum was bursting with beauty and promise, 32 and a rising star in fashion. Her job was glamorous, working as a Paris correspondent for Women’s Wear Daily, an American fashion publication. She covered couture openings and penned a column that appeared on the front page, offering her impressions of the latest trends and the biggest personalities in the Paris fashion scene.

But her mother knew that Edith felt unsettled, rattled by a car accident she’d been in.

A frivolous gift might be just the ticket – something to induce laughter – so she bought Edith a toy pig made of paper mâché and covered in animal skin. With its black and white fur, it looked life like, and when its tail was wound, the pig played a popular song called The Maxixe.

Music, her mother said, can chase away your troubles.

Edith embraced the gift, vowing to keep it with her always.

It felt like a good-luck charm when, shortly later, she was packing for her voyage on the Titanic, the largest ship ever built. Edith loaded 19 trunks of expensive apparel along with her toy pig. Her own little mascot.

When the Titanic crashed into an iceberg and panic spread, Edith stayed calm. She locked up her trunks but made no attempt to evacuate.

She was staying put.

“Don’t worry about me,” she insisted.

A sailor came along and spotted the bundle in her arms. Presuming it to be a baby, he tossed the pig in lifeboat 11.

“I’ll save your baby,” he barked.

An instant later, Edith jumped in with her pig.

“I never would have left the ship,” she would later recount, if the sailor hadn’t taken that initiative. “When they threw that pig, I knew it was my mother calling me.”

Boat 11 was overloaded, carrying 70 people – the largest number of occupants on any lifeboat launched that cold, starry night. As it rowed away from the sinking ocean liner, Edith surveyed her fellow travelers: crying babies, restless toddlers, frightened children.

The inky sky enveloped them – not a trace of moon, not a single cloud. It would be seven hours before the Carpathia would rescue them.

Edith knew what to do: She wound the pig’s tail.

The crying instantly halted. She passed the pig around, letting each child pet it and wind its tail.

What a contrast to the mournful wailing that rang out on the Titanic – a rollicking carnival song that called to mind balloons, magicians and acrobats. The sound of hope on a lonely night.

Edith would live to be 95 and share her survival story. Her pig remains at the National Maritime Museum in London.

That improbable turning point on the Titanic – the pig that saved Edith’s life – reminds us that God works in and through other people. We are one body in Christ, and we do not stand alone.

We can count on that as the cold settles in and new challenges arise. Look for the little gifts that come from above and pass through other hands along the way. “We know that all things work for good for those who love God” (Romans 8:28).

And given the chance to help another – a neighbor, friend or stranger – we too can be the hands and feet of Christ. An act of service, a stuffed animal. A handwritten note, a loaf of pumpkin bread, a sincere compliment. It may seem small, but it could just be the nudge needed to get on the lifeboat.

Christina Capecchi is a freelance writer from Inver Grove Heights, Minn.

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My next-door neighbors have been packing up to move for the last month. The empty nesters are downsizing, and I’ve watched their weeks-long purge with a mix of horror and admiration.

High-school letter jacket?

Give.

Handmade desk?

Give.

Barbie clothes sewn by Grandma?

Give.

Almost everything had to go. There was no longer space or, it turns out, need. They’ve raised their kids, retired from their careers. So they handpicked recipients for special items that no longer serve them and donated the rest.

Yesterday, when the moving truck pulled up, their garage became the graveyard for the final bits: a wooden Santa, a large clock, potting soil and a box labeled “rags.”

That’s what it had come down to: the rags.

I could see a lightness in the wife’s face. Sure, the past month had been grueling – endless sorting, boxing, lifting, lugging. But she had eliminated all the unnecessary stuff in her life and, with it, a tremendous psychological weight.

She is ready for the next chapter, and she has put in the work so she can travel lightly.

I want to do the same. I just don’t know if I’m ready.

For guidance, I’ve been reading Laraine Bennett, the Catholic author best known for her writing on temperaments. Laraine’s latest book explores the spiritual underpinnings of our consumerist culture. It draws inspiration from St. Therese of Lisieux, who wrote: “Happiness has nothing to do with the material things that surround us; it dwells in the very depths of the soul.” It is titled: “The Little Way of Living with Less: Learning to Let Go with the Little Flower.”

The book begins with Laraine’s account of selling almost everything to move to Germany with her husband and two young children. They settled in an old farmhouse with a tiny kitchen and miniature stove. Their American-size box spring wouldn’t fit through the stairs, so they made do with a mattress on the floor and fleas from the barn animals next door.

“This discomfort opened up a space where there was a possibility of spiritual awakening, an encounter, a surprise,” Laraine writes. “God is the God of surprises, Pope Francis says. But when you are too comfortable, too content with the status quo, you rarely step out of your cozy cocoon to encounter the surprise.”

In lieu of the frantic Christmas shopping she’d witnessed in the U.S., the young mom participated in a neighborhood tradition: hiking through snowy woods to a mountaintop where snow began to fall just as St. Nicholas appeared, with bishop’s miter and staff in a horse-drawn carriage.

“When our hearts are filled with our earthly loves, our creature comforts and our material possessions, we have less room for God,” Laraine writes.

Ultimately, we need very little. But the line between want and need has never been blurrier in the age of Amazon. We buy for so many reasons: because we can, because it brings a momentary thrill or distraction, because it was recommended by an influencer.

It can be difficult to examine our motives, especially when the period from idea to acquisition spans a matter of seconds.

This year I’ve tried to slow that down. What I discovered is that sometimes – embarrassingly – I already had the thing I was about to buy, or something similar. I could get by.

Before a party, I could dig through my “Rainy Day Bin” and find a gift that would suffice. I’ve become more honest about the recipient’s needs. I picture a cluttered house and busy schedule and opt, instead, for a handwritten card paired with a jar of honey or box of tea.

Buying less isn’t fun, but I can feel virtue building – patience, prudence, peace. It feels good to be resourceful, more easily contented.

I want to travel lightly, unencumbered, with my arms and heart open wide, ready to be surprised.

Christina Capecchi is a freelance writer from Inver Grove Heights, Minn.

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There’s something about girls and horses.

Call it a sweeping generalization, sure, but it often holds true. While boys dream of faster forms of transit – racecars, rocket ships – girls prefer to amble along on a four-legged friend. While boys fantasize about making the major leagues, girls harbor another ambition: to one day own a horse.

Every summer, horse camps fill up with girls. They are drawn to the massive, mystical mammals, somehow sensing that a form of therapy is available on their backs. Preteen troubles can be smoothed out with a curry comb.

This June I observed a horse camp in rural Minnesota, where suburban girls donned boots and jeans, not a cellphone in sight. Each girl was assigned to a horse for the week, and no sooner were the pairings announced did that horse become hers.

All was well with the world. After 51 weeks of longing – of remembering and dreaming and waiting – this was the week where dreams and reality aligned.

The Caldecott-winning illustrator Susan Jeffers turned that longing into art with her 2003 book “My Pony.” It chronicles a girl’s wish a horse, which her parents cannot afford or lodge. Instead, she draws pictures of a dappled mare named Silver, then fantasizes about riding it through the woods in the moonlight.

“My earliest memories are about wanting a horse,” Jeffers writes in the author’s note at the end of the book. “But what to do with all that longing?”

Her answer is unflinching.

“I think if I had gotten my wish for a horse, I may not have found my love for drawing,” she writes. “My pencil and paints became the vehicle to my life of fantasy horses. My pencil seemed fueled by the desire to be with those exquisite animals.”

The absence of horses made space for the art that became a fulfilling career. The horses would come. As an adult, Jeffers rode horses daily – just as surely as she drew.

I’ve been thinking about dreams deferred. The end of summer calls them to mind, that bittersweet time when a new year school encroaches on the vast freedom of summer. Did we do all the things? Did we make all the memories?

August brings a reckoning, revealing the gaps between our hopes and realities.

I believe God places dreams on our hearts with purpose. They are not wrong or selfish. They come from the Creator, and their intensity emboldens us, just as they propelled the great artists, explorers and saints.

But some dreams are not meant to be realized today or this year or ever, even – at least not in the way we envision. We cannot know the reasons, but we can trust that God will do something special with the unfulfilled spots in our heart. Something new.

Maybe we’re not ready yet. Perhaps God is quietly preparing us – equipping us through unwelcome trials, leading us to other loves first, introducing us to helpers, teaching us through the waiting.

Father Ron Rolheiser gave a name to the stirrings of the heart: “the holy longing.” They are a sign of a fruitful spiritual life, placing us on the path intended by God. A beginning.

“Long before we do anything explicitly religious at all, we have to do something about the fire that burns within us,” Father Rolheiser writes in his bestselling book “The Holy Longing.”

“What we do with that fire, how we channel it,” he added, “is our spirituality.”

The holy longings are leading us somewhere. And the dreams we cannot realize today may be sweeter later.

“There is a time for everything,” Scripture promises.

As summer gives way to fall, the lush greens fading into ambers and rusts, may we too find peace in the waiting, being patient with the parts that are unresolved, trusting that something beautiful is at work.

——–

Christina Capecchi is a freelance writer from Inver Grove Heights, Minnesota.

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The day began with a brief summer rain, and a chill still hung in the air. I headed to the gym, rolling down my windows and cranking up the radio. Bruce Springsteen crooned “Dancing in the Dark,” the ballad of a listless young man searching for inspiration.

“Man, I’m just tired and bored with myself.”   

As the wind blew my hair and my body shivered from the cold, the words formed in my head: “I want to feel alive.” They had the weight of a New Year’s Resolution set on a birthday, the kind of goal-setting I crave each time I blow out candles. And the goal instantly gave me direction, a compass for the year ahead. 

So much of our modern quest for wellness hinges on good versus bad, indulgence versus deprivation. It is a reward system that never settles itself out, doling out guilt and gold stars in uneasy patterns. 

To seek out, instead, whatever makes us feel more alive — this fills the lungs with air. This feels simpler. No analysis is required; we immediately know the answer. Does it make me feel alive? 

Yes or no. 

And then we proceed. 

It is not hedonistic; it is, in fact, spiritual. It honors the Creator, reverencing the one wild and precious life we are given. It calls to mind ancient words from St. Irenaeus, a great theologian of the Church: “The glory of God is man fully alive.” 

God wants us to live our lives to their fullest capacity. He’s yearning for us to embrace the beauty of creation with the gifts He has given us — strong legs, clear eyes, big hearts, nimble fingers. One part Theology of the Body, one part Carpe Diem.

Presented with an iPhone full of apps, a pair of tennis shoes and a cloudless blue sky, what will we choose? Will it make me feel more alive or numb? 

This approach naturally finds a balance, combining thrills and comforts, requiring discipline while delivering fun. 

Sometimes it points us to a treat — tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich savored on a rainy day. Other times it asks us to resist the couch in lieu of a morning walk. Sometimes it means staying up late to enjoy a fire and fellowship. Other times it means going to bed early because your body needs the rest. 

St. Irenaeus’ mantra replaces all the secular metrics: Am I happier? Am I thinner? More popular? More productive? 

The overarching question: Am I fully alive? Am I glorifying God? 

Summer is the perfect time to pose this question and then enjoy simple childhood delights like walking barefoot in grass. Even if we don’t know the research affirming its health benefits, we know in our hearts: It makes me feel alive. 

I’ve been keeping a running list of the little things that make me feel alive. Some are cozy, like an old quilt paired with a good book. But many involve contrasts that tingle, shocking me awake. Putting on a wet swimsuit. Rising early to read Scripture. Pushing myself to swim a few more laps.

Gretchen Rubin, the bestselling author and happiness expert, has landed on the same path. She famously charted “The Happiness Project,” distilling reams of research alongside personal experiences. Her new book is titled “Life In Five Senses: How Exploring the Senses Got Me Out of My Head and Into the World.” 

In an era of mindless scrolling, Rubin recognized, we have become so numb that the notion of embracing the five senses feels novel. And this season bursts with multi-sensory happiness: the smell of fresh-mown grass, the sound of frogs croaking, the swing of a hammock.

May we soak it all in, feeling the tingle of being fully alive, giving God all the glory.

Christina Capecchi is a freelance writer from Inver Grove Heights, Minn.

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