Life of St. Ignatius of Loyola
Oct 4, 2026 · 2 hr 10 min · 24 segments
"Life of Saint Monica" by Frances Alice Forbes delves into the remarkable journey of Saint Monica, a woman of unwavering faith and resilience whose life story continues to inspire. Known for her…
On the sunny northern coast of Africa in the country which we now call Algeria stood, in the early days of Christianity, a city called Tagaste.
Not far distant lay the field of Zarna, where the glory of Hannibal had perished forever.
It was the ambition of Roman Africa, as the new colony had been called by its conquerors, to be, if possible, more Roman than Rome.
Every town had its baths, its theater, its circus, its temples, its aqueducts.
It was forbidden even to exiles as a place of refuge.
Too much like home, said the authorities.
It was about the middle of the 4th century.
The church was coming forth from her long imprisonment into the light of day.
The successor of Constantine, in name a Christian, sat on the imperial throne.
The old struggle with paganism, which had lasted for 400 years, was nearly at an end, but new dangers assailed the Christian world.
Men had found that it was easier to twist the truth than to deny it, and hearsay and schism were abroad.
In the atrium, or outer court of a villa on the outskirts of Tagaste, an old woman and a young girl sat together looking out into the dark shadows of the evening.
For the hot African sun had sunk not long since behind the Numidian mountains, and the day had gone out like a lamp.
They sent him into exile, said the old woman, for his father had been a senator, and his family was well known and powerful.
At that time they dared not put him to death, though later he too shed his blood for Christ.
It was God's will that he should remain for many years to strengthen his flock in the trial.
Did you ever see him, grandmother? asked the girl.
No, said the old woman, it was before my time, but my mother knew him well.
It was when he was a boy in Carthage and still a pagan that the holy martyrs Perpetua and Felicitas suffered with their companions.
It was not till years after that he became a Christian, but it may have been their death that sowed the first seed in his heart.
Tell me, said the girl softly.
It was an oft-told tale of which she never tired.
Her grandmother had lived through those dark days of persecution, and it was the delight of Monica's girlhood to hear her tell the stories of those who had borne witness to the faith in their own land of Africa.
On the sunny northern coast of Africa in the country which we now call Algeria stood, in the early days of Christianity, a city called Tagaste.
Not far distant lay the field of Zarna, where the glory of Hannibal had perished forever.
It was the ambition of Roman Africa, as the new colony had been called by its conquerors, to be, if possible, more Roman than Rome.
Every town had its baths, its theater, its circus, its temples, its aqueducts.
It was forbidden even to exiles as a place of refuge.
Too much like home, said the authorities.
It was about the middle of the 4th century.
The church was coming forth from her long imprisonment into the light of day.
The successor of Constantine, in name a Christian, sat on the imperial throne.
The old struggle with paganism, which had lasted for 400 years, was nearly at an end, but new dangers assailed the Christian world.
Men had found that it was easier to twist the truth than to deny it, and hearsay and schism were abroad.
In the atrium, or outer court of a villa on the outskirts of Tagaste, an old woman and a young girl sat together looking out into the dark shadows of the evening.
For the hot African sun had sunk not long since behind the Numidian mountains, and the day had gone out like a lamp.
They sent him into exile, said the old woman, for his father had been a senator, and his family was well known and powerful.
At that time they dared not put him to death, though later he too shed his blood for Christ.
It was God's will that he should remain for many years to strengthen his flock in the trial.
Did you ever see him, grandmother? asked the girl.
No, said the old woman, it was before my time, but my mother knew him well.
It was when he was a boy in Carthage and still a pagan that the holy martyrs Perpetua and Felicitas suffered with their companions.
It was not till years after that he became a Christian, but it may have been their death that sowed the first seed in his heart.
Tell me, said the girl softly.
It was an oft-told tale of which she never tired.
Her grandmother had lived through those dark days of persecution, and it was the delight of Monica's girlhood to hear her tell the stories of those who had borne witness to the faith in their own land of Africa.
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