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
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