The Final Lessons of the Little Flower

Dear Diary,

Advent is here, so it’s a good time to finish the Little Flower story and start thinking about my own resolutions, just like the Little Flower did. Sister says even small resolutions matter, and we can carry them in our hearts whether we write them down or not.

🌸 The Final Lessons of the Little Flower 🌸

Thérèse grew braver as she got older. Even though her sisters left one by one for the convent, she learned to trust Jesus more than her worries. She offered Him tiny things each day — small kindnesses, quiet sacrifices, and patient moments — and that became her “Little Way.” She showed that even ordinary girls can love God in the smallest moments. By the end of her childhood, she belonged to Jesus completely, like a little flower lifting itself toward the sun.

So for this first Monday of Advent, here is my resolution:

I will try to make my heart ready for Jesus by giving up little things and doing small sacrifices with love.

Things like not rushing my chores, or helping Sister before she even asks. Little things — but Sister says they open my heart wider for grace.

Love,

Kathy

First Sunday of Advent

DEAR DIARY,

This morning Robert picked us up for Church, and it was only 14 degrees. The pickup was already warm inside, and Robert greeted us in his cheerful way. Mini sat between Sister Mary Claire and me, happy for the warmth and the ride.

When we reached St. Mary’s, the church felt nearly as cold as outside. Before Mass began, Father LeRoy stepped to the stove and put in a large piece of wood, giving it a firm push so it would catch quickly. Soon the warmth drifted through the pews, and Mini settled at my feet, content as could be.

Father’s homily matched so closely with what Sister Mary Claire showed me from her meditation book for religious sisters. Both talked about rising from sleep—not just getting out of bed, but waking up our hearts so we don’t miss Jesus coming to us during Advent. Father said grace can work like springtime even in winter, stirring new life if we let it. I liked thinking about something quietly growing in my soul while everything outside is frozen.

After Mass, we found out something special—a press photographer from Sioux City had come to write a little article about Advent Sunday in a small Iowa parish. Sister said it isn’t often anyone from a city paper drives this far just for our church. Father LeRoy let the photographer take his picture near the pulpit. It wasn’t really in Father’s nature to pose, but he gave a kind smile anyway. I think he did it because he wanted people to know how important Advent is, even in the smallest places.

On the way home, Sister Mary Claire said she hoped our hearts would stay like little lamps for Jesus—steady, warm, and ready.

My Resolution:

During this holy Advent, I want to practice the little sacrifices that make my heart softer and more ready for Jesus. I want to stay awake inside and not grow lazy in my prayers, so His grace can grow in me like a tiny springtime.

Love,

Kathy

Jesus, the Model of Religious was written by a Religious of the Congregation of St. Charles Borromeo and translated from the German by a Sister of Notre Dame. It was published in 1925 by Frederick Pustet Co., Inc., in New York and Cincinnati.

Part 4 – Thérèse and the Gentle Love That Filled Her Home

 

Dear Diary,

Sister Mary Claire and I just got back from Church. It was only 24 degrees, and our breath looked like little clouds in the cold air, but Robert had the pickup running and warm for us. Mini hopped right in and settled between us like a little queen on her throne.

Once we got home, we finished our chores quickly—feeding the hens, checking on Omelette in her cozy nest, and warming the kitchen with a little fire. Then Sister said it would be the perfect afternoon to write the next part of the Little Flower story. I agreed right away. The whole farm felt extra quiet, like everything was wrapped in soft winter stillness, and I wanted to sit at my desk and keep writing.


Love,

Kathy

🌸 Part 4 – Thérèse and the Gentle Love That Filled Her Home 🌸

Thérèse’s childhood was wrapped in love — the kind of love that makes a child trust without fear. Her papa, Louis Martin, called her his “little queen,” and her mama, Zélie, watched over all her daughters with a heart full of courage and tenderness. Even though she worked hard making lace, she always guided her girls toward God.

The Martin home was simple and prayerful. Morning and evening, they prayed together. They learned to offer little sacrifices — giving up what they wanted, helping without being asked, or being cheerful when things didn’t go their way. Everything, even small things, could become a gift to Jesus.

But when Thérèse was just four years old, sorrow visited their house. Her mother grew ill, and though Thérèse didn’t fully understand, she felt something sad and heavy in the air. She clung to her mother more than ever.

One August morning, Zélie Martin went to Heaven.

The whole house felt changed. Louis gathered his daughters close and told them their mother was watching over them. The older sisters tried to be brave, and little Thérèse looked toward Heaven, wishing she could run straight into her mother’s arms.

Yet even in this sadness, God planted something beautiful in her small heart — a seed of deep trust. Thérèse began to understand that Jesus could hold her in His arms the same way her mother once had, and this trust would grow into her “Little Way,” the simple path she would one day share with the whole world.

Little Thérèse Grows in God’s Garden

Dear Diary,


I’m at my little desk this morning looking out the window, I can see Mary’s shrine in the distance. That little sight is enough to steady me, so I’ll go on now with little Thérèse’s story.

When the long-awaited day finally arrived and permission was given, Thérèse entered the Carmelite convent with a heart full of joy. She had wanted this since she was very young, and now the dream God placed inside her was unfolding. She stepped into Carmel at fifteen, not with fear, but with a quiet, steady trust — like a little bird finding its nest at last.

She knew Carmel meant sacrifice. It was not a place for grand achievements, but for hidden love. Thérèse believed that holiness wasn’t found in doing great things, but in doing small things with great love. So she promised Jesus she would give Him everything — the smallest chores, the smallest smiles, even the little moments when her heart felt tired.

Her new life had a simple rhythm: prayer, silence, work, rest, and then more prayer. She swept floors, tended to the sacristy, helped the older sisters, and did all sorts of tiny unnoticed tasks. She learned quickly that the loveliest sacrifices were often the ones no one else saw. She wanted to stay small and unnoticed, pleasing only Jesus.

She loved the convent’s quiet. She said the silence felt like Jesus Himself was holding her heart. Even when another sister misunderstood her or corrected her sharply, she offered it to Jesus, trying her best not to defend herself. These were the small moments where her Little Way began to bloom.

But even in Carmel, her heart carried sorrow. Her dear father — the “King” of her childhood — began losing his memory and slipping into confusion. Thérèse couldn’t care for him physically, but she carried his suffering inside her soul. Every tiny sacrifice she made became a prayer for him.

At the same time, she grew stronger in spirit. She learned to depend completely on God instead of on her own efforts. She tried never to waste a single moment, believing that even picking up a fallen pin with love could save a soul. Everything became an offering.

Céline, her closest sister and best friend, longed to join her in Carmel someday. Thérèse wished for it too, though she placed even that desire in God’s hands. She believed that trusting Him in the littlest ways was a path straighter than any she could make for herself.

Inside the convent walls, something beautiful unfolded. Her confidence in God grew, her kindness deepened, and her heart became lighter — not because her days were easy, but because she offered every small difficulty to Jesus. The sisters began to notice her gentle patience and purity of intention, even though she never drew attention to herself.

The little flower was blooming quietly in the hidden garden of Carmel, watered by sacrifice and warmed by God’s steady love.

The Little Queen - Part 2

 

Dear Diary,

This afternoon after my chores, I sat down again with my St. Thérèse book. It was so quiet in the house that I could almost hear the little pops from the stove in the next room. Mini settled herself right under my chair, and I felt ready to keep going with Thérèse’s story.

This part is about the sorrows that came into her life after her mother died, and how God began teaching her to love Him even through tears. I want to write it softly, because it feels like I’m holding something delicate.

Love,

Kathy

Kathy’s Gentle Retelling — Part 2 

After the Martins moved to Lisieux, their new home at Les Buissonnets slowly filled with peace again. But even in peaceful places, a little heart can feel lonely, especially a heart like Thérèse’s, which loved deeply and noticed everything.

Her father often took her with him on quiet outings, giving her small adventures that helped heal her sorrow. Sometimes he brought her fishing. Thérèse had her own little line but was more interested in the soft grassy bank nearby. She would wander off a bit, sit among the flowers, and fall into a kind of gentle dreaming. She said she didn’t even know she was praying — her heart just lifted itself to God without words. The wind spoke, and distant sounds from the town floated to her, making her feel a kind of tender sadness, as though the world was only a place one passed through on the way to Heaven.

When she was six or seven, she saw the sea for the first time, and it struck her with a wonder she never forgot. She stood so still, watching the wide blue stretch into the distance. As the sun set, it left a golden path across the water. Thérèse sat by her sister Pauline, who told her the shining path looked like God’s grace leading souls to Him. Thérèse imagined herself as a tiny boat with a white sail, wishing only to glide straight across that golden path to Heaven. She promised Jesus she would keep her eyes fixed on Him, no matter what storms came.

But before she could reach that golden shore, she had to pass through a cold winter of trials.

The first was the hardest: her “little mother” Pauline, the sister who taught her lessons, comforted her, and became like a second mother after Zélie’s death, announced that she was entering the Carmelite convent. For Thérèse, it felt like losing her mother all over again. She loved Pauline so dearly that the separation cut deeply. But even through her tears, Thérèse knew that God was calling Pauline, and she wanted to be brave for Him.

When she received her First Communion, something beautiful happened. She said it was like Heaven opened and poured itself right into her soul. She felt loved in a way she had never felt before, and she promised Jesus that her heart would always be His. She spent the rest of that day reading the Imitation of Christ, trying to hold onto the sweetness of the moment. And at Benediction that evening, she felt Jesus rest upon her soul so gently that she never forgot the grace of it.

But where grace shines bright, suffering sometimes follows. After her First Communion, Thérèse fell into years of scruples — fears that she had offended God even in the smallest things. Her tender conscience became a weight she didn’t know how to carry. She tried so hard to please Jesus that she frightened herself, believing He was displeased with her when He wasn’t. These years were heavy for her, and she wrote later that she lived like a little bird trembling under a storm cloud.

Then, like the sudden lifting of a veil, Jesus healed her heart in an instant. Two years after her First Communion, she experienced what she called her “conversion.” In one moment, the fears that had held her captive fell away. She said it was as though Jesus bent down from Heaven and touched her soul, making her courageous and strong. From that day, she stopped relying on her own efforts and trusted in God’s mercy instead.

She began reading good books again, choosing the ones that helped her love God more simply. She realized that holiness wasn’t about doing great things, but doing small things with great love. She tried not to waste any moment, because she wanted every little action to be a gift for Jesus.

As she grew, something beautiful bloomed in her heart — a longing to give her entire life to God. She wanted to enter Carmel like Pauline. But she was still young, only fourteen, and people told her it was too soon. Still, she felt the call quietly but firmly, like sunlight drawing a flower upward. She believed Jesus was asking for her whole heart, and she could not turn away from Him.

When she finally told her father, she found him sitting in the garden one evening. The sun was making gold on the tops of the trees, and the birds were singing their last songs of the day. She sat near him and began to cry softly, resting her head on his chest as she told him everything. Her father listened with love and sorrow mixed together, but also with a noble heart. He understood that God was asking for his youngest daughter, and though it hurt, he wanted to give her freely.

To show his joy, he picked a tiny white flower from the garden and handed it to her. He told her it reminded him of her soul — delicate, simple, and belonging entirely to God. The broken stem meant God would soon gather her for Himself.

But even with her father’s blessing, more obstacles rose. The parish priest said she was too young. The Bishop wouldn’t decide. So Thérèse resolved to ask the Holy Father himself on a pilgrimage to Rome.

When she knelt before Pope Leo XIII, the guards tried to hurry her along, but she held fast. Through tears she asked permission to enter Carmel at fifteen. The Pope touched her cheek kindly and said, “If God wills it, you shall enter.” Those words filled her with peace, though he did not give the permission himself.

At last, after much waiting and praying, permission came. Her father took her to the convent on the appointed day, giving her his blessing even though his heart was breaking. Thérèse kissed her sisters, especially dear Céline, and stepped joyfully into Carmel, taking the name Sister Thérèse of the Child Jesus.

And so, the quiet dream she had since childhood began its tender unfolding.

https://youtube.com/shorts/Q7qeY9TnedM?si=AGwQnKBtYsvOKc8S

The Little Queen

Dear Diary,

I’m starting the first part of little Thérèse’s story tonight. As I read, it feels almost like meeting her for the very first time — a tiny girl loved by God from the moment she opened her eyes. I want to write it all down gently so I don’t lose any of the sweetness.

Love,

Kathy

Thérèse Martin was born on a cold January day in 1873, in the French town of Alençon. Her parents, Louis and Zélie Martin, were the kind of people who wanted to give everything to God. Before they married, each had tried to enter religious life — Louis with the monks on the Great Saint-Bernard mountain, and Zélie with the Sisters of Charity — but God had other plans. He wanted them to serve Him together.

When they married, they prayed with all their hearts for children who would love God. God answered so generously — nine times. Four of their little ones went to Heaven in their infancy, and five daughters remained. All five grew up wanting to give their lives to Him. The youngest, their last baby, was Thérèse — instead of the strong boy they had hoped would become a missionary. Instead, God gave them a different kind of missionary, a very tiny one.

From the moment she came into the world, Thérèse was welcomed like a gift from Heaven. In the Martin family, they called her the Little Queen. You can almost hear the softness of that name — as if everyone saw something bright and delicate in her even as a baby.

Her childhood was gentle and filled with joy. She grew up with a mind that awakened early, remembering everything with the tenderness of someone who knows how to notice goodness. She recalled summer evenings in the countryside — tall grasses swaying, tiny wildflowers blooming near the path, little streams glimmering like mirrors under the sky. All these small beauties left deep marks on her heart, the kind that stay forever.

Thérèse loved learning about Heaven. Once, when her mother told her how happy the saints were there, she kissed her and said, with all the innocence of a child, “Oh, how I wish you would die, little mother!” She didn’t mean it sadly — she simply wanted her mother to be with God. Children sometimes say things with pure hearts that grown-ups worry over, but Jesus must have smiled tenderly at the innocence of it.

Not long afterward, when Thérèse was just four and a half, her beloved mother died. It left a great ache in her heart. Monsieur Martin decided to move the family to Lisieux so the children could be near their aunt and uncle, who could help care for them. Though it was a great sacrifice to leave his home, he did it for the sake of his daughters, trusting God with everything.

People said that Mr. Martin’s business succeeded so well because he honored the Day of Rest. He would not open his shop on Sundays, no matter what others said. Some told him he would lose money, but instead God blessed him. It reminds me of how Father LeRoy talks about trusting God first, and how everything else falls into place.

With his five daughters — Marie, Pauline, Léonie, Céline, and little Thérèse — he made a new home at a house called Les Buissonnets in Lisieux. At first, the sorrow of losing their mother pressed heavily on all of them. But slowly, light entered again. Les Buissonnets became a place of calm days and gentle beginnings. There Thérèse learned to love God in her own small, shining way, and Jesus and Mary watched over her with special tenderness.

Winter evenings were her favorite. The family would gather close together, and the “Little Queen” always sat upon her father’s knee. She called him her “King,” which is the sweetest thing, and her sisters read aloud from holy books. Her father had a beautiful singing voice, and he would sometimes sing softly until she grew sleepy, resting against him as though she were the safest child in the world.

Every day, after lessons with Pauline, little Thérèse walked with her father to visit Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament. People who saw them — the noble, white-haired papa walking slowly with his small, fair-haired daughter — would often pause and smile. Her father trusted her with alms for the poor, and she gave them with such gentleness that she brought joy to the hearts of those who received them.

Thérèse loved the night sky. She liked to look up at the stars until her heart felt full to bursting. Her favorite was the little line of stars in Orion’s belt. It reminded her of the letter T, and she would say to her father, “Look, Papa — my name is written in Heaven!” And she walked with her head tilted up, holding his hand, too enchanted to watch where she stepped.

Those were glorious days for her — days filled with early grace, innocence, and treasures known only to little ones who love God without even thinking about it.

End of Part 1

Staying Steady With Jesus

Dear Diary, 

This morning the three of us—Sister Mary Claire, Robert, and me—were seated together in our usual pew at St. Mary’s. The church was chilly, and before Mass started, Father LeRoy added wood to the stove. It helped take the edge off the cold, and the quiet crackle behind us made everything feel a little more settled.

The Gospel today was about Jesus telling His friends that one day the great temple would fall, and that there would be wars, troubles, and frightening signs in the world. Father LeRoy explained that Jesus wasn’t trying to scare anyone. He wanted His friends to stay calm, not to follow voices that weren’t His, and to remember that God is steady even when everything else feels uncertain. Sister leaned over and whispered, “Kathy, Jesus wants your heart peaceful, no matter what storms come.” I thought about that for a long time.

At the very end of Mass, Robert slipped out quietly to warm up the pickup and Mini went right along with him, happy to help. By the time Sister and I stepped outside, the pickup was humming and warm, and Robert opened the door for us as usual.

Evening Prayer

Dear Jesus, thank You for the warm places You give us, even on cold days. Help me stay calm and close to You when the world feels troubled. Bless Sister, bless Robert, and bless little Mini. Keep our home peaceful tonight.

Love, Kathy

The Saint Therese Story

Dear Diary,

This morning began softly, with a pale pink sky over Camp Littlemore and a little bit of frost along the fence rails. Mini followed me around with her squeak ball, but even she could tell I had something on my mind. I had started a new book last night—The Life of St. Thérèse—and I couldn’t wait to read more of it today.

I curled up near the stove with my blanket and opened to the pages I marked. Sister Mary Claire said it was the perfect book for these quiet winter days, and she was right. It feels like walking into a warm room full of light. I don’t know why, but every time I read about little Thérèse, I feel like she’s sitting beside me, swinging her feet and smiling shyly.

One part especially stayed with me. I wrote it in my own words so I could remember it:

Thérèse said she loved to look at the stars because they made her heart feel big and full of Heaven. When she saw the little row of stars in Orion’s belt, she thought they looked like the letter T and told her papa, “My name is written in Heaven!” I liked that so much I had to stop reading for a moment. I almost whispered it out loud—because maybe God writes our names in the sky too, in ways we don’t see right away.

I read that part twice. It made me think of the cottonwoods above Indian Creek and the way the branches look like writing when the moon shines through them. Maybe all the world is full of letters from God if I just remember to look up.

Sister Mary Claire said Thérèse’s papa used to rock her gently and sing until she almost fell asleep. I tried to picture that, and it made my heart feel warm. I wondered if Thérèse knew, even as a little girl, that God was weaving something beautiful in her life—like a quiet song only she and Jesus could hear.

Tomorrow I’ll read the next part. I already feel like I’ve met a new friend, someone gentle and brave in the smallest ways. I want to learn how to love God like she did—simply, with a big open heart that sees Heaven even in the tiny things.

Mini is scratching at the door now, hoping for her evening bowl of oatmeal and cream. Sister Mary Claire is humming in the kitchen, and the house smells like wood smoke and comfort. I think Thérèse would have liked it here.

Love,

Kathy

Christ the King Sunday

Dear Diary,

This morning began in the shimmering cold at 28 degrees. Frost covered the grass in a soft whiteness, and Mini hurried back inside after only a moment, shaking her paws like the ground had surprised her.

Sister Mary Claire and I bundled up and walked down to the mailbox, our breath puffing in little clouds. Just as we reached it, we heard the familiar rumble of Robert’s pickup coming up the road. He rolled down the window with his usual cheerful greeting—“Morning, girls!”—his voice warm against the cold air. After we climbed in, he leaned over and scooped Mini up gently, settling her right onto Sister’s lap the way he always does. Mini gave one happy wiggle, then curled herself into a neat little ball.

The pickup heater had things toasty warm, and the windows slowly cleared as we drove toward St. Mary’s. The world outside looked silver and still.

At Mass, Father LeRoy reminded us that today is the Feast of Christ the King and also the very last Sunday of the whole Liturgical Year. He explained that Christ’s kingship isn’t like earthly kings with jeweled crowns—it is the kingship of a Savior who rules from the Cross with mercy. Father said that the Gospel today, where Jesus tells the good thief, “Today you will be with me in Paradise,” shows the true heart of our King. Loving. Merciful. Always remembering us.

He said the whole Liturgical Year leads us to this point, inviting us to let Christ reign in our hearts and in the way we treat others. “Let Him be King of your choices and your hopes,” Father said softly.

After Mass, the cold seemed sharper, but everything felt clearer too. Mini trotted ahead with her ears perked, as if she sensed the day was special.

Now we’re home again. The quiet tells me Advent is close—just one week away.

Evening Prayer

Dear Jesus, my King, thank You for walking with us through this whole Church year. Reign in my heart and help me begin the new one with hope, trust, and love.

Love, Kathy

My Little Beaver Friend

Dear Diary,

It was 31 degrees this morning, cold but clear, and the sky looked like it might turn sunny. Sister Mary Claire and I walked down to the mailbox with Mini trotting along. Robert pulled up right on time, got out, scooped Mini into his arms, and set her on Sister’s lap. “Good morning, ladies!” he said, and off we went to early Mass.

Father LeRoy read from Luke 20:27–40, where Jesus tells the Sadducees that in the resurrection we will be like the angels—children of God who can never die again. Sister said that Heaven is where everything is made whole and full of God’s love. I liked that very much.

This afternoon Mini and I walked to the cave with a carrot for Shaggycoat. He came out of his lodge when he heard us and took the carrot gently before slipping back inside. Mini wagged her whole bottom at him. Inside the cave I lit a tiny fire and read another bit from The Glories of Mary. It felt quiet and safe as always.

We made it home just before supper, and Sister said she could tell we’d had a good cave visit.

Evening Prayer

Dear Jesus, thank You for Mass today,
for Sister Mary Claire and Robert,
and for the peaceful time in the cave with Mini.
Keep us close to Your Heart tonight
and bless everyone we love.

Amen.

A Bright, Cold Morning

 
Dear Diary,

The sky was so clear this morning that it almost hurt my eyes. All of yesterday’s snow was still lying smooth and white over the fields, and the air was crisp—36 degrees, Sister said. Mini dashed outside ahead of us, leaving tiny corgi footprints that disappeared where the sun touched the path.

At Mass, Father LeRoy read the Gospel about how Jesus entered the Temple and drove out the people selling things.

“My house shall be a house of prayer, but you have made it a den of thieves.”

I could almost hear Jesus saying it right there in St. Mary’s. Father told us that Jesus wasn’t angry the way people get angry, but more like a father protecting his home. He said the Temple was meant to be a quiet place where hearts opened up to God, not a noisy marketplace. Then he said something that made me think: “Every heart is meant to be a little house of prayer too.”

That made me wonder what Jesus might sweep out of my heart—maybe worry, or impatience, or wanting my own way too much. Father said that the people in the Gospel “hung on His words,” and he told us to do the same, especially when the world feels unsettled. I decided I want to try harder.

After chores, Mini and I bundled up and walked down to the cave. The cottonwoods along the homestead were dressed in white lace again. Inside the cave I lit a small fire in the stove, and the familiar crackle made it feel like a secret warm pocket under the hill. Mini took her place right by my feet, ears out like little airplane wings.

I read Part 2 of Chapter 1 from The Glories of Mary. Mary’s kindness in that chapter felt like soft light in the quiet. I tucked the wool blanket around my legs and read slowly so I wouldn’t miss anything. It felt like the perfect place to keep my heart a “house of prayer,” just like Jesus wants.

When the shadows grew longer and the fire turned to glowing red coals, Mini and I headed home, both of us leaving new tracks over the old ones.

Evening Prayer

Dear Jesus,

Thank You for Your strong love that protects Your house
and for showing me today how to keep my heart a place of prayer.
Help me sweep out anything that doesn’t belong to You.

Thank You for the snowy fields, the warm cave
and for Mini curled at my feet like always.
Bless Sister Mary Claire, bless Robert, and bless our little farm tonight.
Keep us close to You and make our hearts quiet and clean.

Love, Kathy

Jesus Wept and so Did the Sky

 

Dear Diary,

Before we were even out of bed this morning, the phone rang on the little table in the hallway. Sister Mary Claire hurried to answer it, and I could hear her say, “Good morning, Robert,” in her gentle voice. A moment later she called back to me, “Kathy, Robert says to look outside!”

I slipped out from under the covers and pushed back the curtain. Everything was white — not just snowy, but blizzard white, with the wind sweeping snow across the yard like waves. I could hardly see the lilacs at all.

Sister hung up the phone and said, “He told us we’d better stay tucked in today. The roads are drifted shut, and he can’t even get his truck started.” Mini peeked out from her tent in the corner, her ears perked. She must have sensed something exciting was going on.

After breakfast, Sister Mary Claire read the Gospel to me — the one where Jesus drew near Jerusalem and wept because the people didn’t understand what would bring them peace. Sister read it slowly, with her voice soft against the sound of the wind rattling the windows.

When she finished, I asked her why Jesus cried. She sat down beside me and said, “Kathy, He loved them so much. But their hearts weren’t ready to welcome Him. Sometimes people turn away from peace without even knowing it.” She smoothed the end of my braid while she talked. “We must try to keep our hearts open, even in the middle of storms.”

Mini climbed partway out of her tent then and gave a tiny yawn. I think she understood a little bit — dogs always seem to know when love is being talked about.

The wind kept blowing around the house, but inside everything felt warm. Sister worked on her sewing while I curled up with my Glories of Mary book. Reading about Our Lady’s tender care for souls made me feel peaceful, even with the storm swirling outside. I liked knowing Mary was close, watching over us.

Tonight we knelt for evening prayer. Sister prayed that our hearts would always stay gentle and open to Jesus, even when life feels blustery. I prayed the same. Mini lay still at our feet, and I felt so grateful for our little home, tucked in safely against the storm.

Love, Kathy

Frost on the Cottonwoods

Dear Diary,

This morning was so chilly that even the Homestead Cottonwoods looked like they were shivering. Their branches were dressed all in frosty white, like someone had dusted them with sugar. If it hadn’t been quite so cold, I would’ve sat there under them with Mini and my wool blanket and started reading right away. But my nose was already turning pink, so Mini and I hurried down the worn path toward the cave.

Inside, it was quiet the way only the cave can be. Not lonely-quiet, but the kind that makes you feel like someone is listening. I spread out my wool blanket on the smooth stone and tucked my legs under it, and Mini curled herself into a little red-and-white ball right at my hip. Then I opened Sister Mary Claire’s Simplified Glories of Mary.

Oh Diary… I can hardly put it down.

The very first chapter made my heart feel warm, even though the cave was chilly. It talked about how Our Lady never turns away anyone who truly wants to begin again—how she’s a mother even to sinners, as long as they wish to change. The saints said she runs faster to help us than any earthly mother could. And it said something I keep thinking about over and over: that if we want to be called Mary’s children, we have to try—really try—to live the way she did, being humble, pure, gentle, and loving.

When I read the prayer at the end of the chapter, I whispered it softly because it felt like a secret between me and Our Lady:

“Holy Mother, help me rise from any wrong I’ve done, and hold me close as your child. Teach me to follow your example in humility and love, so that my whole day may belong to God.”

I don’t know why, but that little prayer made me feel braver and smaller at the same time. Like a tiny girl trying to walk in her mother’s footsteps—steps that feel too big, but still worth trying.

Mini lifted her head once, as if she felt something peaceful in the air too. Her ears went sideways like little airplane wings, so I think she knew it was prayer time.

When the cold started sneaking in again, I wrapped the blanket tight around me and we walked home past the frosty cottonwoods. They were still shimmering in the gray morning light, and I wished I could’ve shown Our Lady how pretty they looked.

Evening Prayer

Dear Jesus and sweet Mother Mary,

Thank You for the quiet of the cave today and for the words that made my heart feel warm.

Please help me rise from anything wrong and stay close to You both.

Bless Sister Mary Claire, Robert, and little Mini.

Keep our home safe through the night.

Amen.

Love,

Kathy

The Sycamore Tree Morning

Dear Diary,

This morning the snow was falling thick again, even though it was 39 degrees and too warm for any of it to stick. It came down in big soft flakes that melted the instant they landed, like the sky was practicing for a real storm. Robert picked us up at the end of the driveway, and the pickup was already warm and glowing inside. Sister Mary Claire climbed in first, then me. The wipers worked hard the whole way to church as the snow came faster, swirling across the windshield.

Inside St. Mary’s, everyone shook snow from their coats, and the wood stove made the whole church feel snug. Today’s Gospel was the story of Zacchaeus from Luke 19:1–10. I always love this one—Zacchaeus climbing the sycamore tree just to catch a glimpse of Jesus, not caring one bit what people thought. Father LeRoy said, “Jesus always sees the heart that is searching for Him,” and that made the whole story glow in my mind. Jesus didn’t wait for Zacchaeus to be perfect—He loved him first, and that is what changed him.

After Communion, Father ended Mass quickly because the weather had turned troublesome. The temperature was dropping fast, and the wind was beginning to push the snow into tiny drifts along the steps. Everyone hurried out, pulling scarves tight and heading straight for their cars.

The drive home felt like riding through a swirling white tunnel. Robert let us off at the mailbox, and the wind carried snow right across the road in little waves. We hurried up the walk, holding our coats close.

The afternoon was quiet. Sister dried our coats by the stove, and I worked on my scrapbook for a while. The wind kept whisking around the house, and every so often I’d peek outside to see the drifts getting just a bit deeper.

Evening Prayer

Sister and I knelt at our beds beneath the picture of the Sacred Heart. She prayed that we would be like Zacchaeus—always looking for Jesus, even if we have to climb a “tree” of our own. I prayed that when Jesus calls my name, I can hurry toward Him with the same joy Zacchaeus did.


The wind is still dancing the snow around the yard.

Love, Kathy.

Morning Light

Dear Diary,

This morning I woke up saying a prayer without even thinking. It felt like it floated right out of my dream.

I slid onto my knees and looked up at Mary’s picture on the wall. The early light made her face glow soft and warm. I finished the little prayer that was still resting on my lips:

“My most holy Mother… You have helped me so many times, and sometimes I forget to thank you like I should. But I won’t lose confidence in your kindness. Please look after me today. God made you gentle and strong so you could help me.

Please don’t ever leave me.”

I whispered it slowly, because my heart felt peaceful and full. It made me feel close to her, like she was guiding me right from the very beginning of the day.

Sister Mary Claire was still asleep, and the room was quiet all around us. It felt like Mary and I were sharing a little morning secret of love and hope.

Love,

Kathy

Sunday Quiet

Click on Little Swiss Radio to Listen Now.

Tonight, after supper, Sister Mary Claire and I knelt down beside our beds for our evening prayers. The room was dim and peaceful, and the picture of the Sacred Heart above the bedside table seemed to glow a little in the soft lamplight. I folded my hands and whispered my prayers, and Sister knelt right beside me, her veil falling over her shoulder just so. It always comforts me, kneeling next to her like that.

When we finished, I reached over and turned on my Little Swiss Radio. It made its little crackle—like it has a tiny heartbeat of its own—and then Bishop Barron’s Sunday homily came through, warm and clear. I stayed kneeling on the floor to listen, and Sister sat with her hands folded in her lap, paying such close attention that it made me sit up straighter.

Bishop Barron talked about trusting Jesus in the middle of the storms of life, even when things feel uncertain. His voice always fills up the whole room, like he’s talking right to us here at Camp Littlemore. I held my rosary while he spoke, letting the words sink into my heart just like prayer.

It felt extra special tonight—praying first, and then listening to the homily with Sister beside me, the Sacred Heart watching over us, and my little radio humming gently between the beds. Sometimes I think Sunday evenings must be God’s favorite time, because they always feel extra peaceful.

Love,

Kathy

The Widow Who Never Gave Up

Dear Diary,

Tonight, Sister Mary Claire and I knelt side-by-side at the bedside, just the way we always do after evening Vigil Mass. The room was dim except for the soft lamp glowing under the picture of the Sacred Heart. Sister was still dressed in her full black habit and veil, just as she’d been at church. I could hear the quiet rustle of her sleeves as she folded her hands. My white nightgown brushed the floor, and my braids fell forward when I bowed my head.

We had just come in from the cold, and the warmth of our little room felt like a hug. Mini was already curled up on her rug near the door, half-asleep with her little ears twitching.

As we knelt, Sister began repeating Father LeRoy’s homily from tonight’s Gospel—the story of the persistent widow and the judge who didn’t fear God or respect anyone. Sister spoke softly, like she wanted the words to soak right into my heart.

“Father reminded us tonight,” she said, “that Jesus told this parable to show how we must pray always and never give up.”

I nodded because I remembered how Father stood at the pulpit and told us that God is nothing like the dishonest judge. The widow had to keep bothering the judge just to get justice, but we don’t ever have to bother God—He already loves us and listens to us the very first moment we call out.

Sister leaned a little closer and whispered, “Father said that if even a stubborn judge can finally give in because someone keeps returning… imagine how swiftly and tenderly our Lord responds to His children.”

I looked up at the Sacred Heart picture. The gentle light made it feel almost alive—as if Jesus was watching us pray. I felt something warm inside, like hope settling in.

Sister continued, “Father said God hears the prayers we think are too small to matter. He hears them day and night. But He wants us to stay faithful—even when the answer seems slow.”

I whispered to Sister that sometimes I wonder if my prayers are too simple. She smiled the sweetest smile and said, “No prayer is ever small when it comes from a loving heart. Remember the widow—she didn’t give up. And we mustn’t either.”

We prayed quietly then. I prayed for Sister and for Mini, for Father LeRoy and Robert, and for anyone who feels like they have to be brave all alone—just like the widow. Sister prayed aloud at the end, asking Jesus to give us steady hearts that don’t grow tired of praying.

When we finished, the room felt peaceful in a way that made me want to stay on my knees a little longer. Sister helped me up, and she tucked one of my braids behind my shoulder with that gentle way she has.

Tonight I learned that prayer isn’t about big words—it’s about not giving up, just like Jesus said.

Love,

Kathy

Being Ready for Jesus

Dear Diary

This morning the world outside looked cold and gray again, with the wind whispering around the house like it was trying to sneak inside. Sister had me bundle up tight, and Mini circled the door with her little bottom wiggling, knowing it was a church morning. We stepped into the cold and hurried down the walk toward the end of the sidewalk where Robert always stops.

Right on time, his pickup rolled up, warm air puffing out when he opened the door.

“Hello, ladies!” he said with his cheerful grin. Sister and I climbed in, and Robert lifted Mini onto Sister’s lap. Mini settled in proudly, like riding to church was her important job. The heater had the cab toasty warm, and the windows were a little fogged as we drove toward St. Mary’s.

The old wire gate at the west field entrance stood still in the cold—big and quiet, like it was frozen in time and just waiting for spring to come around again.

Inside church, everything felt hushed and peaceful. Father LeRoy read the Gospel about the days of Noah and Lot—how everyone was busy living ordinary days until suddenly everything changed. In his homily he said Jesus wasn’t trying to frighten us, but to remind us to live ready—ready with kindness, ready with love, ready to choose God first instead of clinging to things that won’t last. “A heart turned toward Heaven,” he said, “doesn’t fear surprises.” That part made me feel calm inside.

After Mass, Robert was waiting for us again, and Mini hurried toward him like greeting an old friend. The ride home was quick, and when we stepped out the cold hit our faces right away, pushing us back toward the warm house.

The rest of the day we stayed indoors. Sister called it a “no-gallivanting day,” which made me giggle. Mini slept by the stove, warm and snorty. I helped Sister fold towels and later worked in my scrapbook. The windows stayed frosted all afternoon, and the fields outside looked patient and quiet, knowing they won’t wake up until spring.

Now evening is here, and Mini is curled at my feet.

Love,

Kathy

Angel Thoughts on an Icy Morning

This morning the roads were all shiny with ice, so Sister said we’d better stay home. No Church, and honestly I was a little glad, because Mini and I were still warm under the quilt when Sister lit the fire. The fire crackled just right, and Mini stretched out on her side like she owned the whole rug.

After breakfast, Sister read me a meditation about the angels. It sounded scary at first, because it talked about the fallen ones who turned away from God and lost everything good. But Sister stopped and said softly, “Kathy, the point isn’t gloom. It’s to remember how blessed the good angels are—and how much God keeps us close to Him when we choose love.”

So we talked about the good angels instead—the ones who stayed humble and are full of light. Sister said their joy comes from being near God, and that even little acts of kindness pull us closer to that same happiness. I liked that part the most. I imagined my guardian angel sitting by our fire with us, warming his hands like Mini does.

Mini thumped her tail stump when I said that out loud. Sister just smiled.

The day stayed cold and sparkly, but inside everything felt safe and bright. I think the meditation wasn’t really about fear after all—it was about choosing the warm light instead of the cold.

Dear Jesus, thank You for keeping us home and warm today. Help me choose the path the good angels chose—loving, humble, and close to You. Watch over Sister and Mini as we sleep. Amen.

Love,

Kathy

The Kingdom Among Us

Dear Diary,

It was a brisk 31 degrees this morning, the kind that makes your cheeks sting before the sun is up. Sister and I stood by the mailbox, our breath like little puffs of steam. Robert’s pickup came along the road, warm air fogging the inside windows. He stopped beside us, tipped his hat, and said cheerfully, “Hello, ladies!” Then he stepped out to lift Mini up onto Sister’s lap.

At St. Mary’s, Father LeRoy read from the Gospel of Saint Luke (17:20–25): “The coming of the Kingdom of God cannot be observed… for behold, the Kingdom of God is among you.” In his homily, he said that God’s Kingdom is not a faraway place but begins in each heart that loves and forgives. Every kind word and small act of patience makes that Kingdom grow stronger.

When we got home, Sister said, “The Kingdom was right there in that warm pickup, I think,” and smiled. Mini wagged her bottom as if she agreed.

Love,

Kathy

A Morning of Frost and Humility

Dear Diary,

The early winter storm was short-lived, leaving only a dusting of snow in the fence corners and a soft sparkle over the fields. When Sister and I woke, it was 40 degrees—still cold enough for coats and mittens, but gentle compared to yesterday’s sharp wind. Mini stretched and yawned, following close behind as we got ready for Mass.

Robert’s pickup was waiting at the end of the sidewalk, engine humming and the heater had it toasty warm inside. Sister and I climbed in, and Robert lifted little Mini up to settle on Sister’s lap. “There we go, your Sunday passenger,” he said with a grin. Mini looked quite pleased with herself as we started down the gravel road toward St. Mary’s.

At Mass, Father LeRoy read from the Gospel of St. Luke, where Jesus told His Apostles about the servant who, after working in the field, still serves his master before taking his own rest. Father said this teaches us humility—that when we do our duties with love, we shouldn’t look for thanks, only to please God. “The true heart,” he said, “does good quietly and finds joy in the doing.” Sister smiled at me, and I understood what she meant when she often says love makes work light.

After Mass, Robert took the ridge road home, where the sun shone soft and pale over the quiet fields. The rows of corn stubble peeked through patches of snow, waiting for spring. Mini sat between us, her ears perked, watching the world pass by.

Now the lamps are glowing, and the house feels peaceful. Mini is asleep in her blanket by the door, and Sister is finishing her rosary.

Evening Prayer:

Dear Jesus, help me to serve You with a humble and happy heart. Let every little thing I do be for love of You. Bless Sister, Robert, and dear Mini tonight. Amen.

Love,

Kathy

Faith in the Snowstorm

Dear Diary,

The world was buried deep in white this morning. Snow had fallen all night and was still swirling thickly when Sister Mary Claire peeked out the window and sighed. The drifts along the lane were too high for walking, and Robert’s pickup wouldn’t start, so she said, “We’ll stay home today, Kathy. God understands.” Even Mini looked uncertain when I opened the door—a quick sniff, then she backed right up again.

After breakfast, Sister gathered our candles on the table and read the Gospel from Saint Luke aloud. Her voice was soft and clear, filling our little kitchen. Jesus told His disciples to forgive again and again, even seven times in a single day, and to keep faith, even if it’s as tiny as a mustard seed. Sister explained that faith doesn’t need to be big or showy; it just needs to be alive, like a seed waiting for spring. I liked that very much.

The day stayed gray and quiet. The wind pushed snow against the windows, making the world outside look like a dream. I helped Sister with the chicken chores in the afternoon—just enough to gather the eggs and scatter feed. The hens didn’t care for the cold, and Omelette fluffed herself up like a round brown ball. Mini watched from the door, wagging just the tip of her bottom, too smart to step into the drifts.

After supper, Sister read to me again while the stove crackled. I thought of that tiny mustard seed and how it could move a tree if only I believed enough. Maybe faith grows best on quiet snow days like this, when everything else must wait.

Love,

Kathy

The River from the Sanctuary

Dear Diary

It was 22 degrees this morning, and six inches of snow blanketed the countryside like a white comforter, with more still falling thick and steady. The world looked so still that even the trees seemed to be holding their breath. Robert’s pickup pulled up at the end of the walk, already warm inside from the mile drive down from his farm. The heater was humming, and a soft fog clung to the edges of the windows.

Mini made a brave leap into the cab but needed a gentle push from me when her short legs sank into the snow. Sister laughed softly, brushing the heavy flakes from her veil, and Robert said, “We’ll have this place thawed in no time.” Mini curled right between us, her fur still damp and snow-speckled, her eyes half closed from the cozy heat.

The road to St. Mary’s was clean but narrow, with snow still swirling in the wind. Every field we passed lay quiet under the deep white, the fence posts standing like little sentinels. Smoke rose straight up from a few farm chimneys, and I thought how nice it was to live where people still watched out for one another.

Inside St. Mary’s, the stove was snapping and crackling, and the smell of melting snow on our boots filled the air. Father LeRoy read from the Prophet Ezekiel about the river flowing from the temple—how it made the salt waters fresh and brought life wherever it went.

In his homily, Father said that God’s grace is like that river—always flowing, even when we can’t see it, turning every frozen heart into something alive again. “Under every snow-covered field,” he said, “the promise of spring is waiting.” I thought of that as I watched the sunlight try to break through the swirling flakes outside the stained-glass windows, coloring the snow in soft shades of rose and blue.

On the way home, the snow sparkled so bright we had to squint. Robert kept one hand steady on the wheel, and Sister hummed a hymn softly under her breath. Mini was asleep on my lap, snoring just a little. Everything felt peaceful and safe, as though that holy river had reached right into our hearts.

Evening Prayer:

Dear Jesus, let Your grace flow through my soul like the river from Your temple.

Melt what is cold in me, and help me bring warmth and kindness to others.

Bless Sister, Robert, and our dear little Mini tonight.

Amen.

Love, Kathy

Warm Hearts in the Cold

Dear Diary,

Brrrr! This morning the thermometer said 33 degrees, and the north wind came charging down the road like it had business of its own. Sister Mary Claire called it a “biting wind,” and she was right—it felt like a thousand tiny needles pricking at my cheeks. I wrapped my scarf twice around my neck, but Mini still squinted into the gusts as if it might blow her ears right off.

Robert’s old Ford pickup came rattling up the lane, and we hurried out, crunching through the frost. Sister climbed in and Mini leapt straight onto her lap. The heater hummed nicely, filling the cab with warmth and the smell of hay from Robert’s coat. Out the window, the fields were bare—just the brown stubble of corn left behind and a few crows hopping about, looking for what the pickers missed.

At St. Mary’s, the stove was glowing red, and everyone seemed thankful for it. Father LeRoy read from Saint Paul’s letter to the Romans, where Paul sent greetings to all those who had worked beside him—Prisca, Aquila, Mary, and so many others who gave their strength and love to the Church. Father said in his homily that these names remind us that every good work for Christ, no matter how small, is noticed by Heaven. He said the Church isn’t built from stone alone but from hearts joined in friendship and faith, just as Saint Paul’s helpers were his family in Christ.

I liked that thought—that even faraway names, read aloud on a cold morning, can warm us like friends gathered around a stove.

When we rode home, Mini’s nose left little fog prints on the window, and Sister smiled, saying, “Even the smallest one has her part in God’s great family.” Robert chuckled and said, “Then this little one must be the parish greeter.”

Now the wind still howls around the house, but inside it’s cozy. The stove crackles, Mini’s asleep by my feet, and Sister is knitting by the lamp. My heart feels thankful for every friend God’s placed in our path.

Love, Kathy

 

The Children of Light

Dear Diary,

It was another cold November morning, and the frost on the windows looked like tiny stars. Robert’s pickup rumbled at the end of the walk, and Sister Mary Claire called for me to hurry. Mini got her usual lift into the cab, and I climbed in beside her, my gloves stiff from the chill. The heater hummed warmly, and I watched the countryside roll past—rows of heavy, broken corn stalks bending low, the ears of corn all gone, leaving only the sharp stubble shining pale in the light.

At St. Mary’s, Father LeRoy spoke about the steward in today’s Gospel, the one who tried to fix his mistakes after wasting what was given to him. He said Jesus wants us to be clever too, but not in a selfish way—to use our minds and hearts for goodness and truth. “The children of light,” he said, “see things clearly and live honestly before God.” I liked that thought—it felt simple and right.

In the afternoon, when the sun peeked out for a bit, I went down to the grotto with Mini. The air was cold and still, and our breath floated like smoke. Mini followed close as I knelt before Mary’s statue. I prayed the Litany of the Blessed Virgin Mary softly, asking her to help me be one of those “children of light” Father talked about. Mini curled up in the dry grass behind me, and everything felt peaceful and good.

Evening Prayer:

Dear Jesus, thank You for this day and for Mary who listens when I speak from my heart. Help me to be honest, kind, and full of Your light in all I do. Amen.

Love,

Kathy

Our Lady of Loreto (Camp Littlemore)

 

The Crackle of Kindness

 

Dear Diary,

It was another cold morning at Camp Littlemore, the kind that makes your nose tingle when you first step outside. Sister Mary Claire was up early with the stove going, and I could hear the crackle of the wooden pallet she’d cut up with her hand saw yesterday. The smell of the wood burning mixed with oatmeal and toast made the whole kitchen feel extra homey. Mini sat by the stove, her paws tucked under and her eyes half closed, looking as though she was saying her own morning prayer.

When we stepped outside, the frost still covered the steps, and our breath came out in little white puffs. Robert’s pickup was waiting at the end of the walk, engine running warm and steady. He leaned over and waved as we came down. Mini trotted ahead, but the step was too tall, so I gave her a little boost up into the cab. She landed right on Sister’s lap and pressed her nose against the glass, fogging it up with her breath.

The ride to St. Mary’s was quiet except for the hum of the heater and the sound of gravel under the tires. Inside the church, the stove was glowing red-hot, and everyone looked cheerful to be near it. Father LeRoy read from Saint Paul’s letter to the Romans, about how none of us live for ourselves but for the Lord, and how whether we live or die, we belong to Him.

In his homily, he said that we don’t need grand things to show love for God—only to live each day kindly and patiently, remembering that our lives are His gift. I thought of that as we drove home, with the cold air outside and the warmth still in my heart.

Now the stove crackles again, burning the rest of Sister’s pallet wood, and Mini is curled beside my chair. The house feels safe and peaceful.

Love,

Kathy

Queen of Mercy

Dear Diary,
 
It was 41 degrees this morning, and the countryside looked so still and bare. As Robert’s pickup rumbled down the lane, all I could see were empty fields of corn stubble left behind after the harvest—short, broken stalks sticking out of the brown earth, stretching as far as the eye could see. The wind skimmed low across them, whispering over the frozen ground. It felt like the whole land was resting after its long season of work.

Robert had the heater running, and the cab was warm and humming. Mini sat on Sister Mary Claire’s lap by the window, her nose pressed to the glass, leaving fog circles that faded as quickly as they appeared. I kept my gloves on and watched the fields slip by, feeling thankful for the quiet.

At St. Mary’s, the stove glowed and made the air smell faintly of oak wood. Father LeRoy’s homily today was from The Glories of Mary by Saint Alphonsus de Liguori. He told the story of a woman named Mary who had lived a sinful life and died all alone in a cave. Everyone believed she was lost forever. But just before her death, she turned to the Blessed Mother and prayed with her last breath:

“Lady, thou art the refuge of the abandoned; behold me at this hour deserted by all.”

And the Blessed Mother heard her. Through that single, sorrowful prayer, Our Lady helped her make an act of contrition, and her soul was saved. Later, she appeared shining like the sun to tell how Mary’s mercy had lifted her to Heaven. Father said this shows that Mary is not a faraway queen but a merciful one—her greatest joy is helping souls who seem beyond hope. He said her crown in Heaven will be made of all those she has helped save.

On the drive home, the fields looked lonelier than ever—just acres of corn stubble glinting in the weak sunlight—but somehow they didn’t seem empty anymore. I thought of that woman’s last prayer and how even a single whisper to Mary can be enough.


Evening Prayer:

Dear Mother Mary, Queen of Mercy, thank you for hearing every prayer, even from hearts that seem lost. Help me to trust your love always, and let your mercy shine through the quiet fields tonight.


Love,

Kathy

Waiting for the Seeds of Grace

Dear Diary,

The morning was mild, about 45°, and a soft fog drifted over the corn stubble as Robert’s pickup came to the end of our walk. Sister Mary Claire and I climbed in while Robert reached down to lift little Mini into the cab—she can never quite make the jump herself. The new heater filled the cab with warm air, and we rode the gravel road to St. Mary’s with the windows slowly clearing and the countryside still half-asleep.

At morning Mass, Father LeRoy was full of cheer. Afterward, he told Sister and me that he had started re-reading The Glories of Mary again. He said it feels new every time, like drawing from a fountain that never runs dry. He smiled and quoted St. Augustine, who wrote that even if all the members of men were turned into tongues, they still couldn’t praise her enough. “You see,” he said, “the more you praise Mary, the more there is to praise—because love, when it’s true, keeps growing.”

On the ride home, Robert talked about how he’d soon be moving the cattle closer to the barn for the winter. I looked out the window at the brown, quiet fields. Though they seemed still, they didn’t look empty—only waiting. Waiting for spring, when new seeds will be tucked into the soil again. It made me think of Our Lady, whose heart was always ready for whatever God wished to plant there.

Evening Prayer:

O Blessed Mother, let my heart, like the fields, be open and waiting—ready for the seeds of grace God chooses to sow.

Love, Kathy

A Kindness that Cannot be Repaid

Dear Diary,

It was milder this morning, about 46°, which felt almost warm after the frosty days we’ve had. The gravel road was damp but not frozen, and the air smelled sweet and earthy. Robert’s pickup rumbled up right on time, and Mini gave her little hop of excitement before he helped her into the cab. At church, Father LeRoy already had the wood stove going, and the warmth filled the plaster walls so nicely.

Today’s Gospel reading was from Saint Luke, about Jesus telling the Pharisee not to invite only his friends or relatives to dinner, but to invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. Father LeRoy said that Jesus wants us to give without expecting anything in return—that’s how we share in God’s generosity. He told us that true charity means doing good quietly, for those who cannot repay us, because God Himself will repay in His own time. I liked that. I thought about how Sister Mary Claire always saves a basket of eggs for Mrs. Donovan at the edge of town. She never tells anyone.

Mini stayed perfectly still under the pew between my legs, her warm little body pressed against my shoes. I think she likes the quiet hum of Father’s voice and the soft echo of prayers around her. When we knelt, she shifted just enough to keep her chin on my shoe.

After chores this evening, Sister read a few pages from The Glories of Mary, and Mini snoozed beside the stove. The night feels gentle and peaceful, and I keep thinking about how kindness doesn’t always have to be seen to be real.

Evening Prayer:

Dear Jesus, teach me to give with a happy heart, and to love others the way You do, quietly and kindly.

Amen.

Love, Kathy 

All Souls Day

Dear Diary,

This morning was gray and still, the kind of November quiet that makes your heart slow down and listen. Robert’s pickup was warm as toast—he’s proud of that new heater—and Mini curled up on Sister Mary Claire’s lap for the ride to St. Mary’s. The cornfields looked bare and silvery under the cold sky, and I thought of how everything seems to sleep, waiting for spring.

At Mass, Father LeRoy’s homily was about the holy souls in purgatory—the faithful departed who are being cleansed in God’s mercy before they see Him face to face. He said love never ends at the grave, it only deepens. He spoke about St. Thomas Aquinas too, how he taught that the soul is the “form of the body”—the light God breathes into each of us that doesn’t die when our body does. Sister Mary Claire whispered afterward that it’s like the wick that keeps the flame alive. I liked that. It made me think how prayers are like little sparks sent upward to brighten the souls still waiting.

This afternoon the wind rattled the windows, so we stayed close to the stove. Sister brought out her old hymn and prayer book from Sister Doloretta, and together we prayed the Litany of Loreto for the holy souls. Mini lay at our feet, her chin resting on her paws, as if she understood every word. We prayed slowly, with pauses between the “pray for us,” so each name we remembered might drift heavenward like incense.

After supper, we listened to Bishop Barron’s radio sermon. He said All Souls Day is a feast of friendship—that we pray not out of duty, but out of love, because the Church is one family stretching from earth to Heaven. I thought that was the nicest way to say it.

Evening Prayer:

Dear Jesus,

hold close the souls who wait in Your mercy.
Let our prayers be gentle lights
guiding them safely home to You.

Love,

Kathy