And now I’ve been given Andrew — the first-called, the quiet companion, and the male counterpart to Margaret, who still lives on in the spirit of faithfulness and grace within me.

This name feels like home. Deo gratias.

On the plus side, my habit dried in under forty five minutes. Even our Holy Father St. Benedict would’ve called that excessive efficiency.

24-hour travel day fast approaching. Three airports. No Kindle. This is how the early martyrs must have felt.

Thank you, friend.

Thank you❤️

He built a church out of contradiction: warrior and monk, exile and saint. Holiness is rarely tidy.

The Holy Spirit blows wild on the western wind. Columba didn’t tame it — he let it carry him to the edge of the world. Today, we don’t just remember a founder. We remember a fire.

My final service will be immediately followed by long-haul solo travel — because nothing says gentle transition like navigating three airports alone with a bag full of books and too many emotions.

I write theology that’s slow, sacramental, and shaped by silence — from an autistic, queer, monastic lens. It’s not loud, but it’s honest.

If you’ve ever felt like there wasn’t space for you at the altar, my Substack is written with you in mind.

For the queer and called, for those who stay at the table even when the Church doesn’t know what to do with us.

We are not a problem.
We are a blessing.

Read here: open.substack.com/pub/sromgosb...

👏🏼