There once was an old Indian grandfather telling his grandson a story. He told his grandchild that within every person there are two wolves. There’s the wolf full of fear, anger and greed. And then there’s the wolf full of kindness, joy, and respect.

“The two wolves are always fighting, you see,” the old man told his grandson.

“Well which one wins, grandfather?” the grandson curiously inquired.


After a moment or two the grandfather replied, “Whichever wolf you feed.”

I’ve been going to Church every Sunday since I was a little girl. I’ve listened to thousands of readings, offerings, homilies and gospels. I’ve sung countless hymns that have the tendency to swarm around in my head for the next few hours like the hypnotizing drone of a washer and dryer going round and round before quietly slowing down with a resounding thump. I’ve received the holy sacraments of Baptism, Eucharist, Reconciliation and Confirmation.

Needless to say, I know my Jesus.

But this one homily, about the grandfather and the wolves, forced me to step outside of my Mass-daze and really listen. Like I said before, I’ve been going to Church since I was a little sliver of the girl I would become. Church has been an unspoken constant for my family, even when I was convinced I had more important things to do. My dad, the True Instigator of our obedience to God, is real firm when it comes to religion. He’s always telling us to dress respectfully, to not chew gum or talk during the offering, to sing and to listen carefully to what Father Tom was saying.

So I dressed respectfully, and I spit out my gum. I was silent during the offering and I sang the hymns.

But what I never really did was listen. Of course, I was aware of what was going on during Mass, but somehow it never captured my full attention.

Today I listened. Today I listened to what Father Tom was saying and I understood.