Today the temperature took a tumble clear down to minus 15 degrees, and it felt like the whole world got hushed up and told to stay put. Everything was called off—no Church, no travel, no going anywhere—just a stay-at-home day where you listen to the stove and the wind and try to keep things alive and warm.
Right away I carried firewood indoors and filled the wood box heaping, like I was building a little wall of safety right in the kitchen. I kept thinking about Robert and his generous nature, and how he makes sure we’re never caught short. Because of him, we were warm and safe, even when the cold tried to boss the whole farm around.
I brought Omelette inside, too. She was so sweet and calm, like she understood the rules of a bitter day. I kept her close while Sister Mary Claire and I watched the clock and planned our little dashes outside. Because the hens can’t be forgotten on a day like this.
And Mini helped us every time.
Every two hours, I’d pull on my coat and mittens, and Mini would come bouncing up like she was saying, “I’m ready! I’m on duty!” Sister would open the door just quick, and Mini and I would run out together—straight to the henhouse like a little rescue team. The cold air bit hard, and the snow squeaked under our boots, but Mini didn’t care. She trotted right beside me, nose up, ears alert, and when I crouched to gather eggs, she stood watch like a tiny farm guardian.
Sometimes I had to laugh because she looked so serious out there, like she was counting eggs with me. Then we’d hurry back in, and Sister Mary Claire would shut the door fast and brush the snow off my shoulders, and Mini would do a quick happy circle by the stove like she’d just completed an important mission.
Since we couldn’t go to Mass, Sister Mary Claire said, smiling, that she would fill in for Father LeRoy today. We sat down with our daily meditation and read about how Jesus lived at Nazareth and “was subject” to Mary and Joseph.
Sister explained it so I could understand: that Jesus is the Lord of everything, but He chose to obey anyway—cheerful and quick and loving—like obedience was His hidden work, the way we do chores without anyone clapping for us.
She said the prettiest part was that it wasn’t just “doing what you’re told”—it was Jesus giving His whole heart to it, to please His Heavenly Father.
And she told me something I’m going to try hard to remember: that real obedience brings a kind of peace, because you can say, “I am where God wants me, doing what He wants me to do.”
So I tried to live it today in small ways—getting up right away when it was time to check the hens, not fussing, not dragging my feet, and offering my little will to God like a warm gift instead of a stubborn stone. Even those quick runs with Mini felt like part of it—like my small obedience could be tucked right in with Jesus’ hidden days.
The rest of the day settled around the stove and the ticking clock and the radio weather updates, with the wind moaning outside like it was looking for a crack to sneak through. But our home felt steady. Sister kept the fire going, I kept the wood coming, Mini kept helping with every egg-gathering dash, and Omelette kept blinking at us like she was thankful for every warm minute.
Tonight, before bed, I’m making my resolution simple: In all my actions, I will try to unite myself with the obedience of Jesus.
Evening Prayer:
O Jesus, hidden and humble at Nazareth, help me to obey with a willing heart. Keep our home warm and safe tonight, bless Robert for his goodness, and watch over our hens in this hard cold. Bless Mini for her faithful little help, and let me be where You want me, doing what You want, with peace. Amen.
Love, Kathy
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