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

Prayer for a Special Favor

Dear Diary,

Today Sister Mary Claire showed me a little prayer book that once belonged to her dear friend, Sister Flavia, who has gone to Heaven. The cover was specially made, with an old buffalo nickel as the snap. Its date is worn away, yet the smithy shaped it with a perfect curve that makes the book feel even more treasured.

Sister says the prayers inside are powerful and very special, and I believe her. Holding it feels like keeping a small piece of Sister Flavia’s faith close by. Before bed tonight, I will turn to one of the Prayers for a Special Favor.

Love,

Kathy

Mary's Birthday Party

 

Dear Diary

Today was the Blessed Virgin Mary’s birthday! Sister Mary Claire and I wanted to do something special, so we baked cupcakes together in the kitchen. The smell of vanilla filled the whole house, and Mini kept looking up at us like she was hoping for crumbs. I sprinkled blue sugar on the tops and Sister added little white roses, just like the ones in the picture we saw.

When the cupcakes cooled, we carefully carried them down to the cave. Mini trotted along beside us, and I tucked my brown hen Omelette into her sling, so she wouldn’t miss the party either. At the grotto, where the statue of Mary stands so quietly, we set the cupcakes on a plate. We sang “Happy Birthday” in a soft voice, just for her. I imagined all of heaven joining in.

It felt so warm and holy, like Mary herself was smiling at us in that hidden place on the bank of the Indian Creek. Afterward, Sister and I shared the cupcakes with one another, and even gave Mini a tiny bite without the frosting. Omelette just clucked happily in her sling.

It was such a simple birthday party, but in my heart, it felt like we were right there in Nazareth, celebrating with the Holy Family.

Evening Prayer

Dearest Mother Mary, happy birthday! Thank you for saying yes to God and for bringing Jesus to us. Please watch over me, Sister, Mini, Omelette, and everyone I love. Help me to grow in faith, to be gentle, and to always remember to bring joy where I can.

Love, Kathy

Sunday Sermon

 

Dear Diary,

This morning Sister and I went to Holy Mass at St. Mary’s, and it felt like we got a double dose of what following Jesus really means. Father LeRoy gave his homily, and then later we listened to Bishop Barron’s words on the same Gospel. Both were so strong and clear, like being shaken awake.

The reading was from St. Luke, chapter 14. Jesus told the crowd that anyone who wants to follow Him must be willing to give up everything—even family and even their own life. At first, my heart jumped when I heard it. How could I not love Sister, or Mini, or even Omelette my hen? But Father explained that Jesus isn’t asking us to stop loving them—He’s asking us to love Him first, and to hold nothing back. Bishop Barron said it’s like shock therapy, and I think he’s right. It shakes me into realizing that following Jesus isn’t just about obeying the rules, but giving Him everything, even the deepest part of my heart.

After Mass, as we walked home down the gravel road, Sister said it’s like learning to carry our crosses. It isn’t always easy, but when we give ourselves fully to Jesus, He gives us back even more than we let go of. That made me think of how the cave by Indian Creek was once just a dark, empty place, but when I gave it to Jesus and Mary in my prayers, it became my secret sanctuary.

Evening Prayer:

Dear Jesus, thank You for showing me what true discipleship means. Help me not to be afraid of giving You everything, even when it feels hard. Teach me to put You above all things, so that my love for Sister, Mini, and all my dear ones will be even more true. Lead me on Your path and let me never grow tired of following You.

Amen.

Love, Kathy 

My Secret

Dear Diary,

This morning I tucked myself away in the cave by Indian Creek, my little secret place, and spent the whole time writing an introduction for Chapter 2 of The Virgin Mother. The candle flickered on my desk, and Mini curled herself into a ball at my feet, keeping me company as I wrote.

The introduction says the whole world once waited for Mary, even before she was born. God promised she would come, and the prophets kept speaking about her, because through her Jesus would be given to us. I thought about that promise while sitting in the stillness of the cave. Its walls, carved out long ago in the glacial age, feel like they were waiting too—holding their silence until someone like me would come along and whisper prayers inside.

It felt like being part of that same hope the prophets carried for Mary. Just as the earth held this cave safe for me, God held the promise of Mary safe for the world until the right time came.

I smoothed my paper, dipped my fountain pen, and tried to write as if my words could join in that waiting. Maybe one day, when I read my pages again, I’ll remember how it felt—like the creek flowing just outside, steady and sure, while inside, hope was flowing through me.

Evening Prayer:

O Blessed Mother, just as the world once waited for you, let my heart wait for Jesus with the same hope. Keep me steady in your quiet way, like this cave has kept its silence all these years.

Love, Kathy

New Wine in New Skins

Dear Diary

This morning at Mass, Father LeRoy read from the Gospel of St. Luke about Jesus speaking to the Pharisees. They had asked why His disciples did not fast as the others did. Jesus told them that when the Bridegroom was with them, it was a time of joy, not fasting. He also spoke about not pouring new wine into old skins, or patching an old cloak with a new piece of cloth.

After Mass, Father LeRoy explained in such a kind way that Jesus was saying His coming was something new and fresh, and it could not be bound by the old ways. He told us that sometimes we must let go of the worn-out things in our lives, so that the new gift of Christ can have room to grow. Sister Mary Claire whispered to me that it’s like how springtime brings tender green shoots, not stiff dried stalks.

When we walked home, Mini trotted ahead and greeted a little stripped gopher by the driveway. Omelette was waiting for me by the coop, clucking so proudly, as if she had listened to Father too. Sister laughed and said even Omelette might understand the new wine better than some people.

Later we went down to Indian Creek. Shaggycoat had been busy, piling sticks higher and higher into his dam. Mini barked at him, but he only slapped his tail in the water. Omelette rode in her sling, looking about as if she owned the world. I sat on the big rock, thinking how Jesus wants my heart to be like a fresh new wineskin, ready to hold His love.

Evening Prayer

Dear Lord Jesus,
Thank You for being the Bridegroom of our souls.
Help me to welcome Your love,
and not cling to anything that displeases You.
Make my heart fresh and new each day, like Shaggycoat’s dam that is always being built stronger,
and like the clear flowing creek that never grows tired.
Stay with me tonight, Lord,
and bless Sister, Father LeRoy, Mini, Omelette, and all Your creatures.

Amen.

Love,
Kathy

Casting a Line and Trusting Jesus

Dear Diary,

This morning after chores, I carried my little pole down to Indian Creek with Mini trotting along behind me. The sun sparkled on the water, and the grass along the bank bent in the breeze. I dropped my line in and waited, thinking about today’s Gospel.

Father LeRoy read the story of Jesus telling Simon Peter to lower his nets after fishing all night and catching nothing. Simon listened, even though it seemed hopeless, and suddenly the nets were bursting with fish! Father said this shows how powerful obedience is when it’s joined with trust in Jesus.

As I watched the ripples spread across the creek, I thought about how my life feels small—just me, Sister, Mini, and Omelette—but Jesus can make small things into something big if I listen and follow His word. Sister Mary Claire reminded me that being “a fisher of men” doesn’t mean I need boats and nets, but to live kindly, so others see Christ’s light through me.

Mini barked when the bobber dipped, and I laughed as I pulled up a little fish, shining and silver in the sun. I let it go back into the creek, but I felt like Simon Peter for just a moment, surprised at what happens when you trust.

Evening Prayer

Dear Jesus,

Help me to cast my heart like a net,
Ready to catch Your love and share it.
Make me brave like Simon Peter,
To follow You wherever You lead.
Bless Sister, Mini, and Omelette tonight,

And let me rest in Your care.

Love, Kathy

The Virgin Mother

I. Let us go back in thought before time was. Nothing exists but God; outside His eternal Being all is silent; it is the silence of nothingness. God has not yet moved from His unalterable repose. He has not yet launched the stars into space. He has not established the earth on its foundations. He has not yet pronounced that all-powerful fiat which will bring order out of chaos, dispel the darkness, divide the waters, cover the land with herbs and plants, and fix in the firmament those shining lights which are to preside over day and night. He has not produced any living soul, neither the fishes that swim in the sea, nor the birds that fly in the air, nor the reptiles and animals that dwell on the land; nor that being who is to command the fishes in the sea, the birds of heaven, the reptiles and animals on the land, man—the king of creation; man who is to bear on his brow and yet more in his soul the image and likeness of his Creator.

Nothing exists but God, for God has not yet created the world. But the decree of creation is eternal, like its Creator, and creation in its fulness already exists in the mind of God. And foremost in this eternal thought Christ, inseparable from His Mother, presents Himself: Christ, the first-born of every creature; Mary Mother of Christ, the first-born of women. For the Church puts into her mouth those beautiful words of the Proverbs: The Lord possessed me in the beginning of His ways… The depths were not as yet and I was already conceived… Before the hills I was brought forth.

Chapter One - Part 1

The Power in His Word

Dear Diary,

This morning Omelette surprised us with the biggest egg yet—a double yolker! Sister Mary Claire fried it up in the skillet, and we split it between us. Mini begged so sweetly, with her ears back and her little bottom wagging, that Sister let her taste a bit too. We laughed together, thankful for such a fine breakfast.

At Mass, Father LeRoy read from the Gospel of St. Luke. It told about Jesus teaching in the synagogue and rebuking a demon with such authority that everyone was astonished. Father said that when Jesus speaks, even unclean spirits must obey, because He is the Holy One of God. He told us to remember that the same Jesus is close to us now—His word still has power to cast away the dark things in our hearts.

Sister Mary Claire explained that Jesus’ authority doesn’t just come from words, but from who He is: God’s Son. She said that whenever I feel afraid, I can whisper His name and trust He will guard me. That made me feel peaceful, like having a lantern in the dark.

On the way home, we could see the water tower rising above the Church. A lantern has been rigged there with a pulley so it can be lifted high at night. Its glow falls across the words painted in white: All for Jesus. Even on the blackest nights, when the stars are hidden and the road feels lonely, that shining message can be read. I thought of it as Father spoke of Jesus’ authority—the way His light reaches into the darkest places, and nothing can stand against Him.

Mini trotted beside us, happy as can be, and I thought about how news of Jesus spread everywhere long ago—and how I want my own life to spread His goodness too.

Evening Prayer

O Jesus, Holy One of God,
Lift my heart as the lantern is lifted high.
Shine Your name over the dark road,
So that all may read: All for Jesus.
Keep Sister, Mini, and me safe tonight,
And let my small life glow with Your light.

Love, Kathy

A Light Along the Way

Dear Diary

This morning Father LeRoy’s voice filled St. Mary’s with such warmth, even though the sky outside was dim and gray. He told us that when life feels uncertain, we are not to be troubled, because God lights our path one step at a time. He said that like lanterns in the dark, we are only shown enough light to take the next few steps, but that is all we really need.

Sister Mary Claire leaned down and whispered that faith is not about seeing the whole road, but trusting that God walks with us as we go. I liked that. Mini seemed to nod as if she understood too, sitting right by my shoes, her little ears twitching when the church bell rang.

On the way home, the gravel was still wet from the night’s rain, and puddles shone with little reflections of the sky. Mini leapt over each puddle like a circus acrobat, which made Sister and me laugh. Father LeRoy walked a ways with us, carrying his hat in his hand, and he told us he prays every evening for his parishioners by name. That made me feel safe and very loved.

Now as I sit by the lamp with Mini curled up on my lap, Sister is reading softly, her voice like a lullaby. The day has ended gently, like a candle burning low.

Evening Prayer

O Lord,

Lead me kindly through the dimness of this day’s end.
Though the night stretches long, I will not fear,
For Your light shines enough for my next step.
Keep my heart steady when shadows grow,
And guide me home until the morning breaks. 

Love, Kathy