The Good Samaritan and the Grotto

Dear Diary,

Robert pulled up by the mailbox this morning, his pickup shining from the dew. Mini wagged her whole little self when she saw him. Sister Mary Claire and I climbed in, and I sat in the middle with Mini between us on my lap. The windows were a bit foggy, and the heater hummed softly while we rode the gravel road to St. Mary’s for Holy Mass.

Father LeRoy read from the Gospel of Saint Luke about the Good Samaritan. He said that loving God and loving our neighbor are really the same thing, and that mercy is the proof of true faith. “Do this and you shall live,” he said, looking right at us as if he wanted each heart to take those words home.

On the way back, Robert didn’t say much at first, but after a while he said, “Seems like being a neighbor ain’t about fences, is it, Sister?” She smiled and answered, “It’s about the heart that crosses over them.” We all laughed a little, and Mini gave a happy bark like she agreed. Robert dropped us off at the mailbox again, gave a wave, and said he’d bring over some kindling next time around.

Later in the afternoon, I went with Mini down to the grotto cave. The air was cool and still, and the little stream whispered near the grotto steps. I lit a candle before Our Lady and tried to recite the Blessed Virgin Mary from memory. Mother most pure… Mother most chaste… The words echoed softly against the stone walls. I asked the Blessed Mother to help me love my neighbors the way her Son taught in today’s Gospel—to stop when others walk by, to be gentle even when no one sees.

Mini rested by the candlelight, eyes half closed. For a moment, it felt as though mercy itself filled the cave like warm air after rain.

Evening Prayer

Dear Jesus, help me to love You with all my heart, and to see You in everyone who crosses my path.

Let me be kind, like the Good Samaritan, and gentle, like Your Mother at the grotto.

Amen.




Love,

Kathy

Faith Like a Mustard Seed

Dear Diary,

It was 63 degrees this morning, bright and cool with the scent of dried corn in the air. When Robert’s pickup stopped at the lane, Sister Mary Claire and I climbed in, and Mini scrambled right up after us. Sister sat by the window, Mini and I in the middle, and Robert started down the gravel road toward St. Mary’s.

The radio was already tuned to Bishop Barron’s Sunday Sermon. His voice came clear and gentle through the hum of the engine as he spoke about faith—how even if it’s only the size of a mustard seed, it can do great things. He said faith grows when we trust God in the ordinary moments of life and serve Him without seeking reward.

By the time we reached the churchyard, the mist had lifted and the bell was ringing. Father LeRoy’s homily was on the same Gospel. He said that when we do what is right and humble ourselves before God, that’s when faith takes root deep inside our hearts.

On the way home, Sister said, “Kathy, Bishop Barron and Father LeRoy both spoke of faith as something living—it grows by use.” Robert nodded and said, “That’s what keeps a person steady when the wind blows the other way.” Mini gave a soft yawn and rested her head against my arm.

When we reached the mailbox, Robert stopped and waved as we climbed out. The pickup rattled down the road, leaving only a trail of dust behind. The fields were golden and quiet, and I thought again about that tiny mustard seed—so small, yet filled with all the strength of heaven.

Evening Prayer:

Dear Lord, help my faith to grow, even if it begins as small as a mustard seed. Teach me to trust You in the little things and to serve You gladly each day. Let my heart rest steady in Your care. Amen.

Love,

Kathy

Blessed Are the Eyes That See

Dear Diary,

It was already 70 degrees when Robert pulled up at the end of the driveway this morning. Mini barked once as if to say she was ready for Church, and Sister Mary Claire climbed in with her little Gospel book already open. On the way, she read today’s passage from Saint Luke — about the seventy-two disciples returning full of joy because even the demons obeyed them in Jesus’ name. Jesus told them not to rejoice because of that, but because their names were written in Heaven.

Sister said softly that it’s easy for us to feel proud when something goes right, but the true joy is belonging to God — that’s what Jesus meant. Then she smiled and read again the part about how God reveals Himself to the childlike. She said that doesn’t mean being childish, but trusting and humble, like children who listen with open hearts.

At Mass, Father LeRoy’s homily made it even clearer. He said Jesus was rejoicing because the disciples were beginning to understand that everything good comes from the Father through Him. “The wise and the proud,” Father said, “often miss Heaven’s simplest gifts — the ones seen best through childlike eyes.” I thought about that during Communion and wondered if maybe that’s why I notice small things — like the light in the grotto, or Mini’s quiet sighs — and feel God there.

This afternoon, the air turned warm and golden, so Sister and I decided to visit the cave while we could, before the weather turns cold like the radio said it would. Inside, the air was cool and smelled of earth and pine needles. The light in the grotto was especially lovely — a thin beam of sunshine slipping through the crack above and falling right on the little statue of Our Lady. It made the stone sparkle and the trickling water look alive, as if Heaven itself were breathing into that small corner. Sister said it reminded her of the Holy Spirit finding His way into every open heart, no matter how hidden. I just sat there, feeling wrapped in that light.

Mini lay beside me with her chin on my shoe, watching the glow move across the walls. It was one of those moments that felt full — like we were seeing something precious that prophets and kings longed to see.

Evening Prayer:

Dear Jesus, thank You for this gentle day and for showing Yourself in ways a child can understand. Keep my heart small enough to see You, and write my name forever in Heaven. Amen.

Love,

Kathy

Robert's Promise

 

Dear Diary,

This morning the air was cool, just 63 degrees, and Robert picked us up in his truck for Holy Mass. Sister, Mini, and I climbed in, and Mini curled up at my feet as we rode along the gravel road.

At Church, Father LeRoy read from the holy Gospel according to Luke. Jesus spoke of Chorazin and Bethsaida and how they had not turned their hearts to God, even after mighty deeds. Father explained that when we hear the Word and see God’s goodness, but turn away, we risk losing the greatest gift of all—our closeness to Him. He said we are blessed here at St. Mary’s, for even in our small church we hear His Word each day, and that is something we must never take for granted.

On the ride home, Sister said that the Gospel teaches us to listen with our hearts. Robert nodded and added that he sometimes feels God speaking through the land and the chores, and it’s up to him to answer by living rightly. His words stayed with me as the truck rumbled along the gravel road.

At the end of the driveway, Robert let us out and promised to bring a little firewood over next time. I thought of Father’s homily and how listening to God means answering with love. Robert’s promise seemed like just that—hearing God in his heart and answering with kindness toward us.

Evening Prayer

Dear Jesus,

Help me to always listen with my heart when You speak.
Let me never turn away from Your Word, but treasure it as the greatest gift.

Keep our home in Your peace tonight.

Love,

Kathy

The Birthday Girl

Dear Diary

This morning Robert gave us a ride to church. The pickup was warm and cheerful, but when we arrived, the church itself looked dark and still, even though there were cars outside. Sister and I wondered if maybe we were early or if something was wrong. We walked up the steps, pushed open the heavy door, and Sister reached for the switch.

The moment the lights flicked on, the whole church filled with voices singing “Happy Birthday!” to me! My eyes filled right up with tears, and I felt the biggest little smile spread across my face. Mini let out two quick barks, then sat down firmly on my foot — her way of showing me her love and saying, “This is my girl!”

It was such a surprise that I hardly knew what to do but bow my head. I felt so very loved, right there in the house of God.

Today’s Gospel reading was from Matthew 18:1-5, 10. Jesus told His disciples that whoever wants to be the greatest in Heaven must become like a child. He even placed a child in their midst to show them.

When Father LeRoy stood to preach, he paused and looked toward me. His voice was warm as he said, “Today Our Lord calls a child into the midst of His disciples, and how fitting it is on Kathy’s birthday. She is one of our own little ones, and through her joy and trust we are reminded of what the Kingdom of Heaven looks like. The angels who watch over every child surely rejoice today, for in Kathy we glimpse the simplicity and love Christ asks of us all.”

I felt my cheeks burn red, but my heart swelled with gladness. For a moment I thought of all the little ways I could keep my heart childlike — helping Sister, playing with Mini, and whispering prayers to Mary. Maybe those are the very things Jesus loves most.

Evening Prayer

O dear Jesus, thank You for this birthday, for Father LeRoy’s words that wrapped my heart in Your love, for the surprise of the parish singing to me, for Mini’s two happy barks and her warm little paws, and for the blessing of being Your child.

Keep me always small in my own eyes, but great in Yours through love and trust.

Amen.

Love,

Kathy 

Breakfast at the Breakfast Club

Dear Diary,

Robert picked us up this morning in his pickup, saying 54 degrees was far too cold for walking. Sister Mary Claire agreed, and I was glad when he pulled up by the mailbox. The truck was already warmed, and Mini hopped right in as if she had been waiting all along. I tucked close to Sister while Robert drove us to St. Mary’s.

At Mass, Father LeRoy preached on today’s Gospel where Jesus said, “Foxes have dens and birds of the sky have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to rest his head.” Father explained that Jesus wanted us to know following Him takes real commitment. It’s not about being comfortable or waiting until everything in life is settled. It’s about trusting Him first, before all else.

Father said it’s easy to say, “I’ll follow You tomorrow, Lord,” but tomorrow never seems to come. We can’t look back at what we’re leaving behind, like someone who starts plowing a field but keeps turning around. The rows would be crooked. To follow Jesus, we must keep our eyes forward, steady on Him, just like Robert keeps his eyes on the gravel road so the truck doesn’t wander.

After Mass, Robert drove us over to the Breakfast Club. The cousins had the griddle hot and ready, and soon our table was filled with fried eggs, thick slices of toast, and steaming coffee with Kalona cream. Mini curled under the table, her ears sharp as if she hoped for a dropped crumb. Hayden came by with a wink, saying the yolks looked like sunshine on a plate, and Caleb refilled our cups. Sister laughed that no one could ever leave the Breakfast Club hungry.

As I buttered my toast, I thought about what it means to give up everything to follow Jesus. I don’t have much, but sometimes I still catch myself worrying over the little things—like missing out on some fun or wishing for more comforts. Sister reminded me gently that those little worries aren’t worth clinging to. When we keep our eyes on Jesus, we never really lose anything at all. Instead, He fills us with more than we could ever imagine. That made me feel light inside.

Evening Prayer

Dear Jesus, thank You for calling me to follow You. Help me not to look back, but to keep my eyes on You, like straight rows in the field. Give me courage to put You first, even when it’s hard. Amen.

Love,

Kathy

Morning at Camp Littlemore Farm

 

Dear Diary,

This morning it was 52 degrees, crisp and cool, as we all walked back to the farm from Holy Mass. The air smelled of damp earth and the fields readying for harvest. Mini trotted happily between us, her little bottom wagging with each step. Father LeRoy walked with Sister Mary Claire, and Robert and I followed close behind.

Sister said she was glad Father and Robert could come for breakfast, since the hens have been laying more brown eggs than we can use. We all laughed as I told about gathering another basket full just yesterday.

When we got home, Sister warmed the bread in the oven and poured fresh coffee, and I helped by beating the big golden yolks with Kolona whipping cream. Soon the table was set, and we all sat down together. Father LeRoy said no one could ask for a better start to the day than farm eggs, Sister's homemade Wonder Bread, and coffee with cream thick enough to sit on top.

As we ate, Sister spoke about the Gospel. Jesus was on His way to Jerusalem, but the Samaritan village wouldn’t welcome Him. James and John wanted to call fire down from heaven, but Jesus rebuked them and went on. Father nodded and said the Lord’s way is peace, not anger. Robert added that it means we don’t waste our time trying to fight people into faith—we just keep walking forward, like Jesus did, steady toward God’s will.

I thought about that while buttering my bread. It reminded me of the hens—if one nest is already taken, they don’t fight about it, they just move along to the next. No fussing, just going on. And Mini, wagging under the table, only cared about being near us, not about who said no to her. I want to follow Jesus like that—peacefully, without complaint.

Evening Prayer

Dear Jesus, thank You for the gift of Your peace. Help me to walk forward with You and not grow angry when things are hard. Teach me to welcome others with kindness and to trust You always. Amen.

Love,

Kathy

Jesus saw Nathanael

Dear Diary,

It was 61 degrees this morning, cool enough that Sister Mary Claire pulled her shawl a little closer on our walk to St. Mary’s. Mini trotted ahead with her proud little strut, like the show dog she thinks she is. Father LeRoy read the Gospel about Nathanael, and I thought it was strange that Jesus already knew him before they ever met.

On the walk home, I asked Sister how that could be. She said Jesus knows each of us that way, even before we are called. “He sees the good in us, just as He saw Nathanael under the fig tree,” she explained. I asked if that meant He saw me under the mulberry tree where I like to sit with Mini. Sister laughed and said yes, even there. She said Jesus loves when we are honest with Him, like Nathanael who had no duplicity.

The sun felt warm on our backs, and the gravel crunched underfoot. Sister told me that following Jesus means trusting that He will show us “greater things” in our lives, even little ones like keeping the cave snug for winter or helping Father LeRoy with church tasks. I liked that. It makes me feel like our small chores are part of something bigger.

When we reached our drive way, Mini gave one last shake of her ears and darted ahead, and I whispered to myself, “Rabbi, you are the Son of God.” It felt like the best way to finish the morning.

Evening Prayer:

Dear Jesus, thank You for seeing me and loving me as I am. Help me to be truthful in all things and to follow You with a heart that trusts. Show me the greater things You have planned. Amen.

Love,

Kathy

Sunday Sweep

 
Dear Diary,

Sister Mary Claire and I went to Mass last night, so today was spent at home, and we listened to Bishop Barron’s homily on the little Swiss radio. He reminded us of Pope Benedict’s words—that the Church does three things: it worships God, it spreads His word, and it serves the poor. Then he said the Gospel about the rich man and Lazarus is meant to bother us. Are you indifferent to the sufferings of the poor? What are you doing, concretely, to help them?

Sister said gently that helping doesn’t always mean something big. Sometimes it’s just sharing what you have, or stopping to listen when someone is lonely. She said even a cup of warm soup or a kind word can be love enough to keep someone from feeling forgotten.

The rest of the day we cleaned the cave. Clifford’s heavy wooden door made all the difference—it kept the autumn breeze and leaves outside, so we could sweep and dust without everything blowing back in. Sister polished the prayer corner until the little grotto sparkled, and I tidied the shelves. Mini darted in and out with her airplane ears, carrying sticks as if they were treasures, proud to be part of the work.

Sister said even cleaning the cave can be a prayer if we do it with thankful hearts. I thought of Lazarus—how cold the ground must have been for him—and I whispered to God that if anyone ever came by our cave in need, we would welcome them in.

Evening Prayer

Dear Lord,

Keep me from being blind to others who are hurting.

Teach me to share what I have, however small,

and to love with both my hands and my heart.

Bless Clifford’s door that keeps us warm,

and bless Mini, who keeps us smiling.

Amen.

Love,

Kathy

A Solid Door for Winter

Dear Diary

This morning at Holy Mass Father LeRoy read from the Gospel of Luke where Jesus told His disciples that the Son of Man would be handed over to men. They didn’t understand, and Sister Mary Claire explained on our walk home that sometimes God hides the meaning of things until we are ready to understand. She said the disciples’ hearts were not ready yet, but Jesus wanted them to remember His words so that when the time came, they would know it was all part of God’s plan.

As we walked, Mini trotted ahead, sniffing every dried leaf in the ditch, her little bottom wiggling as happy as ever. The air was chilly, and I could feel that fall is giving way to cold days. Sister said the seasons remind us of God’s timing too—there is a right season for everything, even for understanding.

When we reached home, Clifford, the handyman Sister found, was already busy at the cave. He is a tall man with broad shoulders and rough hands, the kind of hands that have fixed many things. His overalls were worn but neat, and he had a way of working steady without a lot of talk. Clifford built a solid wood door for the entrance, with strong hinges and a latch, so the wind won’t whistle in this winter.

He stood back and gave a nod when the door shut tight and sure. “That’ll hold up just fine for you girls,” he said with a quiet smile. Sister sighed and told me later, “No one else could have done it.” I thought that was true. The cave already feels snugger, as if John Hathaway himself would be glad for such good work.

I felt a peace, knowing the cave will be ready for winter nights, with the fire’s glow and the prayers we will offer there.

Evening Prayer

Dear Jesus, thank You for Your words, even when I don’t understand them right away. Help me to trust like the disciples, and wait for the time when You will make things clear. Bless Sister Mary Claire, Clifford for his sturdy door, and little Mini who keeps me smiling. Keep us warm and safe in Your love.

Amen.

Love,
Kathy

The Lending Library

Dear Diary,

This morning’s Gospel reading was about when Jesus asked His disciples, “Who do the crowds say that I am?” They gave different answers—John the Baptist, Elijah, or another prophet. Then He asked them, “But who do you say that I am?” Sister Mary Claire told me this is the most important question of all, because each of us must answer it for ourselves. Peter said, “You are the Christ of God.”

Jesus then told them He would suffer, be rejected, and killed, but rise on the third day. Sister explained that even though the cross was heavy, it was His way of showing perfect love for us, and that Easter morning is always promised after Good Friday. I tried to keep that in my heart as we walked home together.

This afternoon I finished typing up the little booklet called Farm Blessings. It was a very old mimeographed copy from the convent at Hawarden, Iowa, which closed long ago. Now it is neat and ready for the shelf, and I have made it number 8 on my library list. I hope the neighbors will like borrowing it from the Little Lending Library at the end of the driveway.

Evening Prayer

Dear Jesus,

I believe You are the Christ of God.

Help me to follow You with a brave heart, even when the way is hard.

Bless our home, our farm, and everyone who passes by the library box.

Amen.

Love,
Kathy

The Path of Mercy

Dear Diary,

This morning at Holy Mass, Father LeRoy read from the Gospel of Luke (9:51-56). It told how Jesus set His face toward Jerusalem, and when some people in a Samaritan village would not welcome Him, James and John asked if they should call down fire from heaven. But Jesus turned and rebuked them, reminding them that His way is mercy, not punishment.

On our walk home, Sister Mary Claire explained that sometimes it is easy to want to strike back when someone doesn’t like us or refuses to listen. But Jesus shows us a better way—He keeps moving forward with patience and love, leaving the anger behind. I asked if that meant we should just let people be unkind to us, and Sister said no, but we should never let unkindness make our own hearts bitter.

The sun was warm on the road, and the cornstalks rattled in the little breeze. Mini trotted ahead, her ears perked and her little bottom wiggling. She dashed into the ditch after a grasshopper, and Sister laughed, saying Mini was showing us how not to get distracted from the path. I liked that thought—that staying close to Jesus is like keeping to the path, even when noisy things along the way try to pull us aside.

When we reached home, I felt glad that Jesus was so gentle with His disciples, because I often need to be reminded not to be quick to anger too.

Evening Prayer

Dear Jesus,

Thank You for teaching me the way of mercy.

Help me to be patient when others are unkind

and to keep walking with You on the right path.

Bless Sister Mary Claire and little Mini, and keep our home in Your peace tonight.

Love,
Kathy

Sent Forth

Dear Diary

This morning after Holy Mass, Sister Mary Claire and I walked home from Church. The cornfields stood tall and waiting, and the only sound for a long while was our footsteps on the gravel. Then the silence was broken by the harsh chop of a farmer cutting corn silage. Mini jumped in surprise and even howled at the clattering machine, her little Corgi voice trying to compete with the noise. We both laughed, and Mini quickly looked humbled when the sound swallowed her up.

Father LeRoy’s homily had been on the Gospel of St. Luke, where Jesus sent out His apostles with nothing but faith and His blessing. Sister Mary Claire explained as we walked that Jesus wanted them to trust God completely, not in money or belongings, but in His care. “They were to bring the peace of Christ to each house,” she said, “and if they were not welcomed, they were to let it go and move on.” I thought of how brave that must have been, to step into strange towns with nothing but your voice and the Gospel.

Sister told me that we too are called to be little apostles—maybe not in far-off villages, but right here in our own country parish. She said when we carry kindness, forgiveness, and God’s Word, it’s the same mission the Twelve were given. I held that close in my heart all the rest of the way home.

Evening Prayer

Dear Jesus,

Help me to be brave like the apostles.
Teach me to trust You more than anything I own,
and to bring Your peace to everyone I meet.
Bless Sister Mary Claire, Father LeRoy,
and the farmers working in the fields.

And please keep Mini safe from all the loud noises.

Love,
Kathy

Sister's Explanation

Dear Diary 

This morning after Holy Mass, Sister Mary Claire and I walked home down the gravel road with the sun warm on our shoulders. The fields all around us are filled with ripening corn, and Sister said the farmers are anxious for the harvest. You can almost feel the waiting in the air.

I asked Sister about the Gospel, because it puzzled me when Jesus said His mother and His brothers are those who hear the word of God and act on it. It almost sounded like He wasn’t thinking of His own Mother. Sister smiled and said, “Kathy, Our Blessed Mother is the first of all those who heard God’s word and kept it. She said ‘yes’ with her whole heart. Jesus isn’t putting her aside — He’s making the family bigger. He is telling us that everyone who listens and obeys God’s word becomes His family too.”

That made me glad, to think that by trying to listen to God and do His will, even a farm girl like me could be counted among His brothers and sisters. Sister said the Word of God ripens in our hearts like the corn in the fields, if we let His love shine on it and tend it with prayer.

Mini gave us plenty of laughter along the way, darting back and forth across the road, then leaping at grasshoppers with her ears out like wings. She rolled in the dust until her coat was all powdered, then popped up again looking so proud of herself that we couldn’t help but laugh.

Evening Prayer

Dear Jesus, help me to always hear Your word with an open heart, and to act on it with love. Let me belong to Your family forever. Amen.

Love,
Kathy 

Shining Like Mr. Donnelly

 

Dear Diary,

On our walk home from Church this morning, Sister Mary Claire told me more about today’s Gospel. Jesus said that no one lights a lamp and then hides it under a bed, but puts it on a stand so that others may see the light. Sister said it means our faith isn’t something to be kept secret—it’s supposed to shine out, to help guide others.

Then she spoke about Mr. Donnelly, whose memorial service was just yesterday. She said he lived this Gospel better than anyone. He didn’t just keep his faith tucked quietly away—he shouted it out, almost like he was yelling it from the rooftops, so the whole world would know. Sometimes people laughed at him for being so bold, but Sister said that’s exactly what Jesus wanted: for us to let His light show, not hide it.

I thought about how Mr. Donnelly always shook everyone’s hand at the church door, and how he read the Scriptures so strong and clear that it felt like he was talking right to you. His lamp was never hidden, and because of that, so many of us could see the light of Jesus better.

The creek beside us made its steady song, and Mini trotted along happily, her ears flopping with every step. Sister said softly, “Kathy, that’s how you and I should live, too—never hiding the light God gives us, but letting it shine so others may see.” I held on to that thought as the sun lit up the road ahead, and I prayed I could be just a little bit like Mr. Donnelly—bright and brave in faith.

Evening Prayer:

Dear Jesus, thank You for giving us the gift of faith. Help me not to hide it but to share it, like Mr. Donnelly did, so that Your light may shine through me.

Love,

Kathy

“The Feather and the Flowing Creek”

Dear Diary,

This Sunday afternoon, Sister Mary Claire and I carried our basket down to the bank of Indian Creek for a picnic. Mini trotted along ahead of us, her little legs quick over the pebbles, and we spread our blanket near the water’s edge. The sun sparkled on the creek like it was covered with tiny silver coins, and the breeze was cool and gentle.

After we had our sandwiches and Sister poured us lemonade from the jar, she set up the little radio so we could listen to Bishop Barron’s sermon. Today, he spoke about the second reading, where St. Paul tells us to pray for everyone — even kings and those in charge. Bishop Barron said this is because God wants every single soul to be saved, and there is one Mediator, Jesus, who gave Himself as a ransom for all.

Sister explained it to me slowly, saying, “Kathy, it’s like St. Paul is reminding us that prayer is not just for our own needs but for the whole world. And when we pray, we join ourselves to Jesus, who brings our prayers before the Father.” I thought about that while Mini laid her head on my lap, and it made me feel so small but also so close to something very big — like being part of God’s family everywhere.

Then, right in the middle of our picnic, something wonderful happened. A soft owl feather floated down from the sky and landed on our blanket. I picked it up ever so carefully. Though it had come from a full-grown owl, I could still see in it the baby beauty of the owlet it once was. That thought made it all the more precious to me. I told Sister that I would keep it safe, not in my hat with the other feather, but in a place where I could care for it like something alive and tender.

When it was time to pray, the sounds of Indian Creek became part of our prayer too. The water kept moving past us, steady and sure, making its own rhythm like a hymn. The ripples and gurgles filled the spaces between our words, reminding me that God’s grace flows on just the same — always moving, always giving life.

Evening Prayer:

Dear Jesus, thank You for being the one Mediator who brings us close to God. Help me remember to pray for everyone, not just myself, so that all may come to know Your truth. Keep my heart quiet, peaceful, and filled with love.

Love,

Kathy

“Seeds of the Heart”

 

Dear Diary,

This morning at Holy Mass, Father read the Gospel about the sower and the seed. On the walk home, Sister Mary Claire explained it to me so I could understand. She said the seed is like God’s word, and every heart is a different kind of soil. Some don’t let the seed stay, some let it wither, and some let the weeds choke it out. But the good soil is the heart that listens, loves, and keeps God’s word alive.

I thought about how much I want my heart to be that good soil, the kind that lets the seed grow strong and full of fruit. Sister said even if the world has rocks and thorns, if we hold tight to Jesus, His word will always grow in us.

Mini trotted along beside us, her ears spread wide like little wings, and I thought how she seems to take in every sound and smell. Maybe I can be like that too—alert, listening, and ready for God’s word.

Evening Prayer:

Dear Jesus, plant Your word deep in my heart and keep it safe from all that would harm it. Let me be good soil for You, bearing fruit in patience and love.

Love,

Kathy

Mary's Little Office

 
Dear Diary,

Today was filled with prayer. Sister Mary Claire prayed aloud the Little Office of the Immaculate Conception, and I listened with all my heart. Her voice was gentle and steady, almost like a song, and the words felt like they were filling up the whole room with light. I wished so much to pray it, too.

When I told Sister, she said, “Why don’t you take John Hathaway’s printer’s plate in the cave for inspiration, and draw Our Blessed Mother? Then we can hang your picture in the bedroom and use it when we pray together.”

So Mini and I went down to the cave. I brought my art pad and pencil, and I set myself near the light where I could see the Blessed Mother’s figure from the plate. Then I began to sketch. Slowly, the lines began to take shape — her robe, her folded hands, and the quiet way she seems to shine.

I worked all afternoon, with Mini curled nearby, happy to just be close. By evening, I could see Our Lady starting to appear on the page. I know it is only the beginning, but I think Sister will be glad. And I love the thought of kneeling one day with her before the picture, lifting our prayers together.

Evening Prayer:

O Mary, my Mother, bless my drawing tonight and let it bring us nearer to your gentle heart. Teach me to pray with joy and trust, and lead me always closer to your Son.

Love,

Kathy 🌿

 
Dear Diary,

Today was filled with prayer. Sister Mary Claire prayed aloud the Little Office of the Immaculate Conception, and I listened with all my heart. Her voice was gentle and steady, almost like a song, and the words felt like they were filling up the whole room with light. I wished so much to pray it, too.

When I told Sister, she said, “Why don’t you take John Hathaway’s printer’s plate in the cave for inspiration, and draw Our Blessed Mother? Then we can hang your picture in the bedroom and use it when we pray together.”

So Mini and I went down to the cave. I brought my art pad and pencil, and I set myself near the light where I could see the Blessed Mother’s figure from the plate. Then I began to sketch. Slowly, the lines began to take shape — her robe, her folded hands, and the quiet way she seems to shine.

I worked all afternoon, with Mini curled nearby, happy to just be close. By evening, I could see Our Lady starting to appear on the page. I know it is only the beginning, but I think Sister will be glad. And I love the thought of kneeling one day with her before the picture, lifting our prayers together.

Evening Prayer:

O Mary, my Mother, bless my drawing tonight and let it bring us nearer to your gentle heart. Teach me to pray with joy and trust, and lead me always closer to your Son.

Love,

 
Dear Diary,

Today was filled with prayer. Sister Mary Claire prayed aloud the Little Office of the Immaculate Conception, and I listened with all my heart. Her voice was gentle and steady, almost like a song, and the words felt like they were filling up the whole room with light. I wished so much to pray it, too.

When I told Sister, she said, “Why don’t you take John Hathaway’s printer’s plate in the cave for inspiration, and draw Our Blessed Mother? Then we can hang your picture in the bedroom and use it when we pray together.”

So Mini and I went down to the cave. I brought my art pad and pencil, and I set myself near the light where I could see the Blessed Mother’s figure from the plate. Then I began to sketch. Slowly, the lines began to take shape — her robe, her folded hands, and the quiet way she seems to shine.

I worked all afternoon, with Mini curled nearby, happy to just be close. By evening, I could see Our Lady starting to appear on the page. I know it is only the beginning, but I think Sister will be glad. And I love the thought of kneeling one day with her before the picture, lifting our prayers together.

Evening Prayer:

O Mary, my Mother, bless my drawing tonight and let it bring us nearer to your gentle heart. Teach me to pray with joy and trust, and lead me always closer to your Son.

Love,

Kathy 🌿e="font-size: xx-large;">Kathy 🌿

Picnic by the Creek

Dear Diary,

Today’s Gospel was about the sinful woman who washed Our Lord’s feet with her tears and dried them with her hair. At first, I did not understand why Jesus seemed more pleased with her than with the Pharisee who had invited Him.

Later, Sister and I carried a little picnic down to the bank of Indian Creek, just in front of the cave. Mini bounced along, her short legs busy in the grass, and I carried the basket. Inside were sandwiches with thick slices of ham, a jar of pickles, hard-boiled eggs from our hens, and an apple pie Sister baked early this morning. Sister even tucked in a red-checked cloth to spread on the ground, just like the ones you see in old farm magazines.

We sat close to the water, where the creek bubbled over the rocks and made a soft sound, and Mini lay nearby waiting for a crumb or two. As we ate, Sister explained the Gospel. She said that the Pharisee did all the right things on the outside—inviting Jesus, setting the table—but his heart was not filled with love. The woman, though a sinner, showed her sorrow and her love so deeply that Jesus forgave her. “Love makes the difference, Kathy,” Sister said, “for when you know how much you’ve been forgiven, you can’t help but love even more.”

I thought about that as I broke a piece of pie crust and gave it to Mini. She wagged her bottom so hard it looked like she might tip over. It made me wonder if even little kindnesses, when given with love, are pleasing to Jesus.

The afternoon drifted away gently, with the sound of leaves in the breeze and the scent of apples and creek water mixed together. I felt as though Our Lord was smiling at our little picnic.

Evening Prayer:

O dear Jesus, help me to always show You my love, not only in words, but in the small things I do each day. Forgive me when I fall, and teach me to forgive others. May my heart always stay soft and full of gratitude, like the woman who kissed Your feet. Amen.

Love,

Kathy

Ripening Corn

Dear Diary,

This morning’s Holy Mass was quiet and peaceful. Father LeRoy read the Gospel about people who act like children in the marketplace—saying they played the flute and no one danced, and sang a dirge but no one wept. I didn’t quite understand what Jesus meant, but Mini sat so still beside us during the reading, like she was trying to understand too.

On the walk home, I asked Sister Mary Claire about it. She tucked my braid behind my shoulder and said Jesus was showing how some people just refuse to be pleased. They don’t listen to God’s messengers—no matter how they come. If someone is too serious, they say he’s strange. If someone is joyful, they say he’s too wild. But really, they’re just closing their hearts.

Sister said that wisdom isn’t loud—it shows itself in the lives of those who follow what is true and good. That’s what Jesus meant when He said, “Wisdom is vindicated by all her children.” We don’t have to explain everything if we’re living it.

We walked a little slower than usual, just listening to the breeze in ripening cornfield and watching Mini’s ears fly out like airplane wings as she listened too. Sister Mary Claire was praying her Rosary softly, and I didn’t want the walk to end.

Evening Prayer:

Dear Jesus,

Please help me to listen to Your voice, whether it comes in joy or sorrow. Teach me to follow You even when others don’t understand. I want to be one of wisdom’s children. Thank You for this day, for Holy Mass, for Sister Mary Claire, and for Mini, who always walks with me.

 
Love,

Kathy

September Fields and the Gospel of Life

 

This morning we walked to St. Mary’s with the cool September air all around us. The cornfields were whispering in the breeze—tall stalks now turning their autumn shades, the ears heavy and bowed like they were in prayer. Sister Mary Claire said the farmers will be watching the skies now, hoping no strong wind comes to knock the stalks down before the corn can be picked. Mini trotted along, happy as could be, sniffing the road edges where goldenrod and asters still bloom.

At Mass, Father LeRoy read from the Gospel of Luke about Jesus raising the widow’s son at Nain. I thought about how sad the mother must have been, walking behind her boy’s coffin. Sister squeezed my hand during the reading. Father LeRoy told us in his homily that Jesus’ pity shows us how much His heart cares for us—that even in our darkest sorrow, He draws near, speaks life, and gives us back what seemed lost. He said we should see in this miracle a promise: that Jesus will also raise us on the last day, and that no grief is too great for Him to comfort.

On the walk home, Sister Mary Claire told me, “Kathy, it’s almost like the cornfields themselves are preaching this Gospel today. The stalks look bent low, ready to fall, but when the harvest comes, there will be new life in the kernels they hold.” I thought about that, and it made me smile. Jesus’ touch brings life, just like the harvest brings food and seed for the next season. Mini barked as if she understood too.

Now the sun is slipping down behind the barn roof, casting long golden light across the fields. The crickets are singing their September song. I feel thankful that God has visited His people, just as the Gospel said, and that He is always near us here at Camp Littlemore.



Evening Prayer:

Dear Jesus, thank You for showing us Your pity and Your power. Help me remember that You are always close when I feel sorrow. Bless our harvest, our family, and all who are lonely tonight. Let me always glorify You with joy.

Amen.




Love,

Kathy

Our Lady of Sorrows

Dear Diary,

This morning at St. Mary’s, Father read the Gospel where Simeon told Mary that Jesus was “destined for the fall and rise of many” and that a sword would pierce her heart. On the way home, I asked Sister Mary Claire what that meant. She said it was a prophecy of the day Mary would stand at the foot of the Cross, watching her Son suffer and die. Her love was so deep that His pain became her own, and it pierced her heart like a sword.

Mini trotted proudly beside us, her little ears held high, looking as if she could guard us all the way home. Sister told me that because Mary’s sorrow was joined so closely to Jesus’ suffering, the Church calls her Our Lady of Sorrows. She said that title helps us remember Mary’s faithful love, even when her heart was breaking.

We walked the rest of the way quietly, and I tried to picture Mary at the Cross. It made me want to love her more, because she stayed near Jesus when almost everyone else had run away.

Evening Prayer

Dear Jesus, thank You for giving us Mary, Our Lady of Sorrows. Help me to remember how she stood with You in Your suffering, and how she understands my own little sorrows too. Keep me close to her pierced heart, and bless Sister and little Mini tonight. Amen.

Love,

Kathy

Exaltation of the Holy Cross

 

Dear Diary

This morning, before Church, Sister Mary Claire and I listened to Bishop Barron’s homily on the little radio. He spoke about the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross. At first I thought the Cross was only something sad and painful, because it was used for punishment. But Bishop Barron said that the very thing that seemed scary and terrible became the sign of Jesus’ love. The early Christians didn’t hide the Cross but lifted it high, because through it Jesus saved us.

Sister Mary Claire told me that when I look at the Crucifix above the altar, I should remember that God can make even hard things shine with love. She said Saint Paul wanted to know only “Christ crucified,” because that is where God’s love is shown most of all.

During Mass, Mini sat up straight beside me in the pew, her ears in airplane mode, as if she too was looking up at the Crucifix. I felt like she understood in her own way that it was something holy. I whispered “thank you, Jesus” for loving us so much.

Evening Prayer

Dear Jesus,

Thank You for loving us on the Cross.

Help me carry my little crosses with love, and keep my eyes on You, always.

Love,

Kathy

All Souls

 

Dear Diary,

This afternoon I slipped into the cave with Mini and rummaged through John Hathaway’s old box of books. Most are heavy and solemn, but one caught my eye—it was about All Souls. The words were deep and a little frightening, yet Sister Mary Claire always says that sometimes the harder books carry treasures for us if we are patient.

I stretched out on the cot in the little prayer room, the stone walls cool around me, and began to read. It spoke of how every person must die, rich or poor, and how the Holy Souls in Purgatory long for our prayers. Father LeRoy has spoken of this before, but the way the old book told it made me feel as if the souls themselves were whispering: “Have pity on us, you our friends, for the hand of the Lord hath touched us.”

After reading, I must have drifted off, because soon I was dreaming. In my dream, I was kneeling right there in the cave and around me rose many pale, gentle figures. They looked sorrowful, like they were caught between worlds, waiting. They did not frighten me. Instead, I felt such tenderness for them, like lost children looking for home. My prayers felt like tiny candles, and with every whispered “Hail Mary” the darkness around them grew lighter.

When I woke, Mini was curled at my feet, her little body warm against the stone floor, and the candle I had lit had burned low. I took out my tablet and tried to sketch what I saw in my dream—the souls all around me while I prayed. The drawing helps me remember the feeling, like Heaven itself was near and listening.

I think I will keep that picture safe in my diary. Whenever I look at it, I’ll remember to say a prayer for the Holy Souls, so they will not feel forgotten.

Love,

Kathy

ALL SOULS SERMON

“Have pity on me, have pity on me, at least, you, my friends, for the hand of the Lord hath touched me.”

There is just one thing on earth that is absolutely universal, and that one thing is death. There is one sorrow that finds a home, at some time or other, in every human bosom, and that one sorrow is sorrow for the dead. Yes, “it has been appointed unto all men once to die,” and, neither human prudence nor human power can stay the execution of that dread decree. Our path through life may be a pleasant one; it may be strewn with every flower which a fallen world has ever yet preserved, but, at some place upon that road, a grave is dug by the decree of God, and that grave shall one day claim us. Who of us, looking round, can fail to perceive the awful universality of death? The throne is not hedged round so securely, but that death at the appointed time breaks through and leaves it vacant. Riches cannot bribe it, poverty is not too lowly to claim its notice, and so it comes that all men die. But by some strange perversity, the very commonness of death makes its awful significance less heeded. It is only when it touches us closely; it is only when it lays its hand on lives that had been closely bound up with our own; it is only when the near and dear have been its victims; it is only then, we feel the awful reality of death, and then the common sorrow comes to us and makes our houses desolate.

But when those we loved have come to die; when the parting has taken place that gives to death a bitterness which else it would not have; when we long in vain for the well-remembered greeting of the now cold hand, and the music of a voice that has gone silent, can we bring ourselves to believe that all is over between our dead and us. Can we bury our dead out of our sight; stand sorrow-stricken beside the lifeless form; wait till the last sod has been heaped upon the grave; shed one, the saddest tear of final parting; and then, go back to mix again with the busy world, and believe that we have no more to do with the departed?

Oh! surely not. There is something in our hearts that protests against such a conclusion. It would be doing violence to the very nature that God has given us, to believe that human friendship and human love reach only to the grave, and cannot pass beyond its shadow; that they are flowers so frail that death’s cold touch can wither them for ever; to believe that even the mysterious power of death can break the mystic bond that, in the first and greatest of the commandments, binds the love of our fellow-creatures with the love of God Himself. Our very instincts—and after all these are but dim foreshadowings of mighty truths—compel us to look beyond the grave, to see through all its shadows the traces of another world, and to brighten by the hope of a future meeting, the gloom which the death of those we loved had flung upon our hearts. Nor could we feel even this to be enough. It would be but poor consolation, after all, to live through the weary years upon a hope, and to feel all the while, until the future actually came, that our connection with our departed brethren had absolutely ceased; to feel that, though love and friendship might bloom again in a brighter land, yet, that for the present they were dead, and could make no sign.

The heart would look for more than this. Its very affection would prompt it to seek a means to bind together the world in which it still remains, and that mysterious world beyond the grave, whither the dead have gone, and to which the living are hourly speeding. It seeks to be assured that love and friendship can reach beyond the grave, and do good service; that kindly offices of charity need not cease because one soul still remains in the flesh, and the other has departed to the unseen land. And lo! faith has made these wishes and these hopes, a living reality. The loftiest intellect could only conjecture, the fondest heart could only wish, that these things were so, but the Church of God, drawing forth from the treasury of faith the sublime dogma of the Communion of Saints, has revealed these wonders to the simplest intellects.

She tells us that there are two worlds—the world of matter and of sense—and the world of spirits. The world around us which we see, and feel, and hear, and the world to come which can be reached only by the gate of death. She tells us, too, that as in this our world there are different states, so, there are different states in that other world as well. She tells us that the state of any individual in the world to come, depends precisely on the condition of his soul when death has summoned him before the judgment seat of God. If the soul, at death, be in the state of mortal sin, it is lost for ever. Of such as these we need not speak. They have fought and lost, and their loss is irreparable and eternal. They have passed for ever from the Communion of Saints. For them, for evermore, no hope may spring in any heart; for them, for evermore, no prayer may go before the throne of God.

But to those who die in the state of grace salvation is secure. Their fight has ended in victory, and for them is an immortal crown. But knowing, as we know, that into the unveiled presence of God nothing that is defiled can enter, knowing that such is the Infinite Holiness of God, that the slightest stain excludes us from the enjoyment of the beatific vision, and knowing moreover that few can hope to pass without defilement from a world where the Holy Ghost has declared that even the “just man falls seven times,” we are naturally led to ask what is the lot of such as these in the world of spirits. Again, we know that though mortal sin may be remitted, as to its guilt and as to the eternal punishment it deserved, yet there remains a temporal penalty, and we can easily conceive a man passing from this life before complete penance has blotted out the debt. Here, then, are two classes: what shall be the lot of those when death has claimed them; shall they go into the glorious presence of their God? Surely not, they are not yet purified. Shall they, then, go into everlasting fire? No; God is faithful to His word, and only to deadly sin has He attached the awful punishment of hell. Where, then, shall their lot be cast?

The Church answers at once, they shall go into a place of temporary punishment, where they may have their venial sins wiped out, and may pay the debt which they owe to the Infinite Justice of God. Such, briefly, is the doctrine of purgatory; a doctrine full of teaching upon God’s justice and God’s mercy, a doctrine so consoling in itself, and so much in accordance with what the nature of the case might have been expected to demand, that when those who deny it, refuse to acknowledge the authority of the inspired word that declares that “it is a holy and wholesome thought to pray for the dead that they may be loosed from their sins,” I can only wonder at their blindness—not judging individuals amongst them—but leaving them to their conscience and their God.

There, in that dark prison, lie the Holy Souls, looking with patient eyes to heaven, awaiting the hour of their release, enduring a punishment so keen that some saints have not hesitated to assert that the pains of Purgatory differ from the pains of hell only in this—that they are not eternal. But yet they have not ceased to be a part of the Church. They have passed from the Church Militant upon earth—one day they shall pass to the Church Triumphant in the glory of heaven. For the present they are members of the Church Suffering in Purgatory. And precisely because they are still members of the Church, we—bound to them by the mystic bond of the Communion of Saints—can assist them by our prayers, no less than we can assist each other; nay, even more, because the efficacy of prayer for one who is still upon earth may be hindered of its effect by the perversity of that will of his which God has left free for good or evil, but in Purgatory, that land of calm and patient suffering, the Holy Souls, confirmed in the possession of sanctifying grace, offer absolutely no obstacle to the efficacy of any intercession that is made in their behalf.

On their bed of fire they can do no more than suffer. They are powerless for themselves. The suffering they endure is quite beyond any conception we can have of suffering. We strive, and strive in vain, to make unto ourselves the faintest image of their torment. Go down to the profoundest depth of any suffering you have ever felt; the suffering of the Holy Souls is deeper still. Sense and intellect are alike tormented. The fire is around them and about them; it pierces through the quivering soul till life itself is agony. Their intense longing for the sight of God brings with it an anguish so keen of hope deferred, that every moment seems one long age of agony till the blessed time be come. They suffer, and they make no sign. Cries were useless there; no tears can quench the fire that torments them; no cry could pierce the barrier that sunders the living from the dead, nor strike upon the heedless ears of men. Their friends on earth could help them if they only would, but their friends on earth are busy with many things. Ah! those on earth who loved them, and whom they loved, have ceased to think of them—they have no device to stir their memory. The sympathy that was once so strong between the two has failed, and faded, and died out, and the suffering souls can make no personal appeal that might awaken it again. They plead by suffering, but too often is their pleading vain, because their suffering is forgotten; and the friends on earth find many a scheme of business and pleasure, nor heed the moan of anguish that, through weary day and lonely night, goes up from the prison of Purgatory. “Have pity on us,” &c.

How have we responded to their cry for help?

Our sorrow for the dead is keen, but, oh! it is not lasting. Memory’s magic pictures grow fainter every day. There may have been a time when we knelt distracted by the death-bed, and deemed that because of the bereavement we were about to suffer earth could never be bright for us again. And then, in the first burst of sorrow, memory was so keen that its keenness was a pain. We seemed for some time to see the face of the dead, and to hear the voice that was gone silent. But it does not last. We go out into the world, and the world supplies us with new thoughts, and the dead friend is remembered but faintly—soon entirely forgotten.

Soon the very name of the dead is not mentioned, save at some very rare interval, and then is mentioned with but a scanty prayer not much deeper than the careless lips. Oh, shame! that it should be so. Is this our boasted friendship; is this to survive the grave; is this the memory that was to be eternal? Our friend lies prostrate in the intensest agony: the means of help are at our hands, and yet we are too cold, too careless, too forgetful, to apply them.

God has left them utterly to themselves; He has, as it were, put it out of His own power to assist them personally. He seems to stand aloof, looking silently down upon their keen but uncomplaining agony. He has, to be sure, with that mercy that knows no limit—He has, even while seeming to exact the uttermost farthing—He has provided abundant, nay, superabundant means for their relief. But He Himself will not apply them. He has left that to us—to us who were their friends and fellows, who loved them, and whom they loved, who stood by tearful and saw them die, who knelt above their fresh graves, and almost swore by the bitterness of our sorrow that we never would forget them—to us it is that God has left the application of the infallible means which He has provided for their relief. And, surely, one would have thought that the agony would be short which kind hearts had power to shorten, and the suffering light when kind hands held the remedy. But, oh! we forget our dead. Engrossed by our own pursuits, we are unmindful of the suffering that is unseen. The world’s voices are in our ears, the world’s distractions in our hearts, and we take no notice of the ceaseless cry of anguish that comes upward from the bed of fire. “Have pity on us,” &c.

At the time when our Blessed Lord walked upon the earth, there was in Jerusalem a certain pool, where the sick and those afflicted with bodily diseases were wont to congregate. At certain times an angel of the Lord came down and stirred the waters, and the sick man who went first into the pool after the visit of the angel, was healed of his infirmity. When Jesus came there, He found a man so infirm that he could not, in the least degree, assist himself, and he had been waiting day after day, for eight-and-thirty years, while others who were stronger than he, or who had friends to help them, went down before him and were healed. Our Lord asked him why he had not availed himself of the blessing which God at times had given to the waters, and he answered in words that are full of deepest and most mournful pathos: “Lord, I have no man who, when the water has been stirred, will cast me into the pool.” Oh! my brethren, in those few words what a story is compressed of the tedious passing of weary years. He had come there a youth, with hope in his heart that he would soon be cured of his infirmity; and many a long year seemed to spread before him, in which he might enjoy his recovered health. But the years passed by, and those who were boys along with him grew to be men, and many a change had passed upon the faces that he knew; many a sunrise did he see in hope, and many an evening closed in the disappointment of the hope deferred that maketh sick the heart; and his hopes were dying out, and his hair was growing gray, when, after nearly forty years, Jesus came and cured him. Oh! my brethren, what a sorrowful story! Eight-and-thirty years of waiting, the certain remedy before his eyes, and none to help him to avail himself of its efficacy. Friends he may have had—one friend he surely had, when his mother held him in her arms—but his mother was dead, and time and the change of life had dispersed his early friends, or, after the manner of the world, in the day of his distress they had forsaken him. In that weary march of lonely years, what want of human feeling that man had witnessed! what cool contempt, what silent carelessness! and we are tempted to exclaim against a city whose annals are disgraced by a story such as this. But pause, before one bitter thought forms itself in your minds, before one word of condemnation rushes to your indignant lips. Stay a little.

There is a certain place in the Church of God, a place which you have not seen with the eye of flesh, but which faith teaches you that it exists as really as the places you have walked in, and that you know with the familiar knowledge of everyday experience. It is a land over which hangs a cloud of silent sorrow, of uncomplaining agony, that is voiceless in the intensity of its resignation. And in that silent land of pain lies many a friend of yours whom your heart cannot forget—friends whom you knew once—whose faces, whose smiles, whose voices, were familiar to you in days gone by, who were members, it may be, of the same household, who knelt with you at the same altar—who worked, and prayed, and smiled, and were bound to you by every tie which the kindly charities of nature and of grace can forge. They died; and they are in Purgatory. Stricken are they by no mere earthly malady, but by an agony for which earth has no image nor any name. Consumed are they by no mere earthly fever, but by the fever of a fire that searches their very soul. And you pass by—you, their friends—and you have at your disposal the healing flood of the precious blood of Jesus. You pass by—heedless, or forgetful, or indifferent, it matters little which—you pass by and give no help. You leave the sufferers there, looking up with pain-stricken, wistful eyes to the heaven above, and saying: “O God, we have no friend who, when the healing blood of Thy Divine Son is ready in the Holy Mass to extinguish the flames of our torment, will use it for our relief.” My brethren, condemn, if you will, in what sharp terms indignation may suggest, the heartlessness of the citizens of Jerusalem, but do not omit to compare it with your own, when, either through carelessness or forgetfulness, you neglect to do your part, the part of friendship, the part of charity, to assist the suffering souls in Purgatory.

There is no devotion more acceptable to God, or more conducive to His glory, than the devotion to the Holy Souls. It rests on faith, it works through hope—it is the fragrant flower, the perfect fruit of charity. There is no other devotion better adapted to secure your own salvation. Release one soul from Purgatory, and what do you do? You place in the living Presence of God in heaven a saint, whose gratitude shall never weary, to supplicate in your behalf, till you yourself sit by him at the feet of God. But that is not all. The very means you must adopt to help the souls in purgatory tend, of their own nature, directly to your own salvation.

You pray for them—you, too, gain merit from your prayer; you gain an indulgence for them—to do so you must be in the state of grace yourself, that is, in the way of salvation, your foot upon the very threshold of heaven; you procure a Mass to be said for them—you have, yourself, a share in the superabundant fruit of the Holy Sacrifice. Our dear mother, Mary, is, in a special manner, Queen of this realm of suffering. Do you not think she will help those most, and love them most dearly, who aid her suffering clients? So it is; in the loving economy of God’s Providence, every step we take to assist the Holy Souls, is a step further on our own way to heaven.

And, oh! my brethren, on a night like this—on the eve of the great festival which the Church has instituted for their relief—it needs no words of mine, nor any words to plead the cause of the suffering souls. To-night, they plead themselves. There is not one amongst you whose home death has not sometime visited. Touched into reflection by an anniversary like this, you will look around and see, it may be, a vacant chair that was not vacant once. You miss an old familiar face, and have memories of a voice that mingles no more with the other voices of your home.

Can we not picture the departed, looking up to-night from their bed of anguish, with a gleam of hope in their wistful, sorrow-clouded eyes. Well may they have hope; for, surely there is no one here so heartless as to forget them. The memory of them will come back upon their friends to-night, and the echo of their half-forgotten voices will wake the hearts that loved them to sympathy for their suffering, and to an effort for their release. And surely—an earnest prayer, an indulgence, an application of the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass in their behalf, will prove that they have not been forgotten, and that friendship, blessed by faith, and made strong by charity, can reach beyond the grave. And while your souls are filled with reflections such as these, I give place to them; and in the silence of your hearts it is no longer I, but they themselves that shall cry out, and shall not cry in vain: “Have pity on me, have pity on me, you, at least, my friends, for the hand of the Lord hath touched me.”

That concludes the full sermon on All Souls by Rev. Joseph Farrell.

My Beam First

Dear Diary,

At Holy Mass this morning, Father LeRoy read from the Gospel of St. Luke where Jesus said, “Can a blind person guide a blind person? Will not both fall into a pit?” and about the splinter and the wooden beam.

On our walk home, Sister Mary Claire explained it to me. She said Jesus wants us to stop worrying so much about the little splinters in other people’s eyes, and instead notice the big wooden beams in our own. If we don’t, then we can’t really see rightly. Once the beam is taken out of our own eye, then we can help others with kindness, the way Jesus does.

It made me think how easy it is to notice a small splinter in someone else but forget to look at myself first. I want to try harder to see with clear eyes, not blind ones.

Evening Prayer

Dear Jesus, thank You for today’s Gospel and for Sister Mary Claire helping me understand it. Please help me take away the beams from my own eyes so I can see others the way You do. Keep me from judging too quickly and guide me to be gentle and kind. Watch over our home and all the people in our town tonight. Amen.

Love,

Kathy

Dear Diary,

This morning after Mass at St. Mary’s, Sister Mary Claire and I walked home together, with Mini running circles around us in the cool air. The fall colors seem brighter every day. The maples are glowing red, the oaks turning bronze, and even the sumac along the fence line looks like fire. The cornfields are changing quickly too—the green has faded and the ears hang heavy. The farmers say the frost will come early this year, and that will help dry the corn for picking.

On our walk, Sister explained the Gospel to me. Jesus said we must love even our enemies, and do good to those who may not be kind to us. I asked Sister why we should be nice to someone who mistreats us, and she said it is because that is how we become like our Heavenly Father, who is merciful even to the ungrateful. She reminded me that Jesus gave more than what was asked of Him—His life itself—so we must try to give freely too, without holding back or keeping count.

Sister said the measure we use to give—whether kindness, forgiveness, or mercy—will be the measure poured back to us, pressed down and running over. I thought about that as we passed the cornfield. The ears, so full and heavy, seemed like God’s own “good measure,” ready to spill over with His blessing.

Tonight, as I sit by the lamp with Mini asleep under my chair, I want to remember not to judge too quickly, but to forgive and bless instead. That seems hard, but Sister said if I ask Our Lady to help, she will show me how.

Dear Jesus,

Thank You for this day, for the bright colors of fall and the quiet walk home from church. Help me to love like You do—even when it is hard. Teach me to be merciful, to forgive quickly, and to give without expecting anything in return. Pour into my lap the grace to be more like You, and keep me close to Your Sacred Heart.

Amen.

Love,

Kathy

“Blessings on the Chilly Road Home”

Dear Diary,

This morning the air was chilly, just about sixty degrees, and I wrapped my sweater tight as Sister Mary Claire and I walked home from Mass. Mini didn’t seem to notice the cool air one bit, trotting happily with her thick fur coat. Her little paws clicked on the gravel road, and every so often she stopped to sniff something in the ditch as if she was reading a secret letter from the earth.

On the way, Sister and I talked about the Gospel. Jesus said, “Blessed are you who are poor, for the Kingdom of God is yours.” I asked Sister how people could feel blessed when they are poor or sad. She smiled and told me that Jesus was showing us that heaven’s treasure is far greater than anything the world can give. “Even when people make fun of you for loving Jesus,” she said, “it only means you’re standing with Him and the saints.”

That made me think of the prophets and how they were treated so badly, yet God held them close. It feels a little like carrying a secret joy, one that doesn’t always show on the outside but makes your heart light inside. Sister told me that the poor, the hungry, and the ones who weep will be filled and comforted by God Himself. I looked at Mini bounding ahead and thought that maybe she already understands—living simply, but so full of joy.

The wind nipped at my cheeks, but my heart felt warm walking home with Sister and Mini, with Jesus’ words tucked safe in me.

Evening Prayer

Dear Jesus, thank You for blessing us, not with riches of the world, but with Your love. Keep my heart hungry for You, and help me see joy even in the hard times. Let me walk close beside You, and may Your Kingdom be my treasure always.

Love,

Kathy