“Remembering the Memorial Acclamation” reflects on the once-beloved liturgical phrase “Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again.” This article explores its history, removal from the Roman Missal, and its profound theological meaning — revealing how it unites past, present, and future through the virtues of love, faith, and hope.

One of the most haunting images during the COVID-19 pandemic was the “blackout map” — a grim graphic showing U.S. dioceses turning black as bishops suspended public Masses and lifted the Sunday obligation in the name of public health. Sunday after Sunday, the map darkened, and with it, the heartbeat of the Church’s public worship dimmed.

Like a mirage an old Pontiac slowly lurches forward, unsure if I too am a mirage in this booth.  The Pontiac comes to a halt.  The driver’s a woman, late thirties maybe. Sunglasses, lipstick, funeral-black dress. She rolls down the window and stares straight ahead. She doesn't speak.

I slide open the panel.

“Arm.”

She doesn’t argue. Just shifts in her seat as if rethinking every decision that led her here and slowly stretches out her arm through the window like it’s a toll ticket.

The Diviner hums. One drop of blood, and it begins.

Hidden deep within the shadows of an ancient library lies a book that should never be opened. Its pages breathe with the souls of those who have read it—trapped, consumed, and rewritten into its endless narrative. When Sarah volunteers at the town's crumbling library, she discovers the cursed tome and the enigmatic librarian, Mrs. Carian, whose eyes hold secrets older than the dust on the shelves.

Drawn in by its whispering pages, Sarah soon learns the truth: the book is hungry, and it feeds on those who dare to read. As the lines between reality and fiction blur, Sarah's fate becomes ink on a page—her life rewritten with every turn.

Some stories are meant to be read.
Others are meant to be lived.
And some... are meant to consume you.