Wintersalen Sale
 
 

Special Offers see all

Enter to WIN a $100 Credit

Subscribe to PowellsBooks.news
for a chance to win.
Privacy Policy

Tour our stores


    Recently Viewed clear list


    On the Table | November 9, 2014

    Tracey T.: IMG New Cookbooks for October and November: Potluck Time!



    October/November is a favorite time in our offices. These are the months when scads of cookbooks are released, a deluge of cookbooks, a tornado of... Continue »

    spacer
Qualifying orders ship free.
$15.00
New Trade Paper
Ships in 1 to 3 days
Add to Wishlist
Qty Store Section
25 Local Warehouse Christianity- Catholicism
20 Remote Warehouse Biography- Religious

This title in other editions

My Sisters the Saints: A Spiritual Memoir

by

My Sisters the Saints: A Spiritual Memoir Cover

ISBN13: 9780770436513
ISBN10: 077043651x
All Product Details

 

Synopses & Reviews

Publisher Comments:

Chapter One

Party Girl

I still remember the sundress I was wearing that morning; it was black and short, with little white flowers and a scooped neck. Its thin fabric hung loosely on my frame, thanks to punishing daily workouts and a scrupulously fat-free diet, but I felt uncomfortably warm. Perched on the windowsill of our fourth-floor apartment, I dangled my legs in the fresh air. I couldn’t believe it was late October. Milwaukee was usually chillier by now, already beginning its slouch toward the interminable Wisconsin winter. I felt the sun baking my face and legs, still bronze from dutiful visits to the tanning salon. The bright, hot rays made me squint and squirm. I didn’t want to be here.

I had just come home from the night before and was suffering the start of a monster hangover. My head throbbed and my itchy skin begged for a shower. Tom Petty was wailing from the stereo speakers: I’m tired of myself/Tired of this town. In the parking lot below, I spotted empty beer bottles and stray partiers trudging home from after-hours revelry and drunken couplings.

Behind me, a couple of my still-drunk college roommates were singing and dancing like banshees before the large open windows in our living room. The place stank of stale beer and cigarettes from a party we had thrown the first week of our junior year and from the many rowdy weekends that had followed. Although we were only two months into the fall semester, our brand-new apartment complex already bore vomit stains on its hallway rugs and fist-sized holes in its plaster walls—proof of how most of its student tenants spent their weekends.

I liked this vantage point, looking down from a distant perch. It made me feel removed from the chaos. I always had felt somewhat separate from the campus party scene, even as I indulged in many of its pleasures. I was a scholarship student carrying a near-perfect GPA, on track to land a prestigious summer internship in Washington, DC, and serving as editor-in-chief of the campus magazine. I had a résumé packed with honor society memberships and evidence of a properly raised social consciousness.

As for the Catholic faith that had dominated my life in elementary and high school, well, that had taken a backseat to other priorities. I still considered myself a better-than-average Catholic. Since my freshman year, I had been active in all the right social justice organizations, devoting at least one afternoon or evening each week to busing tables at a nearby homeless shelter or feeding vagrants through a campus meals-on-wheels program. I attended Mass every Sunday. When it came to sex, I abided by the letter of the law I had been taught in my Catholic home—no sex outside marriage—though not its spirit. My true zeal was reserved for more concrete concerns, like obsessing over my body to make sure I stayed thin and fit. Unlike the other party girls who devoured late-night pizzas and hid their beer guts under loose-fitting flannel, I told myself, I was in control.

But lately my pride at compartmentalizing my life so completely—being a good girl on Sunday morning and a wild one on Saturday night—had begun to give way to something new, a dawning realization that I was as immersed in the chaos as anyone. Maybe I was even worse, because I was leading a double life. At least the potbellied partiers down the hall were consistent. They were not spending their lives keeping up appearances and juggling personas, playing the role of perfectionist honor student for one crowd and reckless reveler for another.

Looking back over my shoulder into our apartment, I saw my roommates sprawled on the couch, now drowsy and listless after a long night of carousing. I realized that living with them, and living like them, no longer made me happy. Nor did my relationship with the brooding rugby player who routinely rounded up his friends to meet me at whatever bar my friends and I were patronizing that night. I could not call our random meetings dates, and I could not call him my boyfriend. There were no names for such romantic entanglements, no rules of engagement, and most of the time my friends and I had no idea what to make of the men in our lives. We were unconstrained by customs of courtship or social norms. We could do whatever we wanted. Yet the awkwardness, confusion, and disappointment that marked our encounters with men made me wonder: Was our unfettered freedom just a trap in disguise?

This was not what I had envisioned when I set off for college. I had thought I would spend my Saturday nights discussing Aquinas over coffee and dating the kind of men who send roses, open car doors, and pay for dinner. I ran into a few of those men during my college years, but I had become so inured to the anti-dating ethos of campus life by then that I quickly dropped them and rejoined my friends on the party circuit.

Returning my gaze to the bleak scene beneath my window, I realized how much things had changed—how much I had changed—since I first arrived at my freshman dorm that muggy August move-in day. I had lost something. I didn’t know what it was or how to get it back. I only knew that this aching emptiness in the pit of my stomach had grown unbearable.

Suddenly aware that I was shivering, I swung my legs back into the living room. I stood up, slammed the window shut, and strode past my roommates, now sleeping soundly despite the earsplitting music.

It was time to shower, to eat, to put on something warmer.

It was time for a change.

About the Author

US

What Our Readers Are Saying

Add a comment for a chance to win!
Average customer rating based on 1 comment:

McGuffy Ann Morris, October 21, 2014 (view all comments by McGuffy Ann Morris)
This spiritual memoir is powerful. The author draws the reader in with its very human journey. The challenges she faces are very relatable. As she is dealing with illness and loss, relationships, the draw of motherhood, career issues, and more, she is also trying to find her place in the world.

Ultimately, she turns to her Catholic roots to help sort it all out. Reconnecting with women saints at critical junctures along the way, the author finds a sense of sisterhood. She realizes these very human women faced similar challenges. Each saint struggled with spirituality in a harsh human world, too. Reading the words from their personal journey, she is able to draw inspiration and strength for her own.

This beautiful memoir reads easily and quickly, but leaves you feeling fulfilled. As a woman who was raised Southern Baptist and converted to Catholicism, I could relate to her spiritual journey. This is an important book that I will read again and again.
Was this comment helpful? | Yes | No

Product Details

ISBN:
9780770436513
Author:
Campbell, Colleen Carroll
Publisher:
Image
Subject:
Christianity - Catholicism
Edition Description:
Trade paper
Publication Date:
20140931
Binding:
TRADE PAPER
Language:
English
Pages:
240
Dimensions:
8 x 5.17 x 0.56 in 0.41 lb

Related Subjects

My Sisters the Saints: A Spiritual Memoir New Trade Paper
0 stars - 0 reviews
$15.00 In Stock
Product details 240 pages Image - English 9780770436513 Reviews:
spacer
spacer
  • back to top

FOLLOW US ON...

     
Powell's City of Books is an independent bookstore in Portland, Oregon, that fills a whole city block with more than a million new, used, and out of print books. Shop those shelves — plus literally millions more books, DVDs, and gifts — here at Powells.com.