If you've glanced through a window at the Mosakowski Gardens over the past
couple of weeks, you might've spotted a bunch of workers absolutely decimating the earth with hardcore machinery. If the noise disturbed your classwork, my bad. But hey, it's for a worthy cause, I promise!

         To most St. Mary’s students, the war in Ukraine is something vague and far away, but to five girls attending the school the awful events in Eastern Europe are much more personal.

During a rainy night at my mami’s childhood home, I sweat in the room that I’ve situated myself in just three weeks ago. I feel so large on the bed with its red sheets and deflated pillows, and the heat doesn’t help with that. Despite the whir of the fan desperately trying to keep me cool while I lie completely still, the humidity of Bonao – a city in the center of the Dominican Republic – surrounds me like an uncomfortable hug.

I am what you would call a cradle Catholic. Basic, I know. I was baptized at three months old. As a child, I went to church with my family every Sunday. I have attended Catholic school since the age of 4. When I was in second grade, I received my First Holy Communion. Once I did so, I became an altar server. I could recite nearly every Bible fact because I wanted to be the smartest in my class. I sang in the choir at Mass because I loved music and thought I had a beautiful voice. I was an altar server because my sisters did it before me and my friends with me. To be involved in church was not only our culture – it was cool. Faith and charity weren’t really reasons for my participation in church; I mainly did so to show off or entertain myself. I did believe in God, but I didn’t think of religion as a big deal.