Dear Diary,
This morning was 39 degrees and windy, which made it feel much colder than it sounds. The wind pushed at our coats as we waited, and I tucked my chin down deep into my scarf. Robert picked us up as usual and right on time, and we were grateful not to have to walk in that sharp wind on Ash Wednesday.
At Church, Father LeRoy spoke about the ashes and how they are not just a smudge on our foreheads, but a reminder that we belong to God and must turn our hearts back to Him. The meditation said that Lent is not only about giving things up, but about giving our hearts more fully to Jesus. It said that we must remember how small we are without Him — like dust — but also how loved we are, because He breathed His life into us.
When Father pressed the cool ashes on my forehead, I felt very quiet inside. I thought about how quickly things pass — winter, childhood, even warm days. And I thought about how I want my love for Jesus not to pass, but to grow.
On the ride home, the truck rocked a little in the wind. Sister Mary Claire said Lent is like standing steady when the wind blows — holding onto Jesus instead of complaining about the weather. I liked that.
This evening I decided to give up hot chocolate. I do love it, especially on cold nights like this. Sister smiled softly when I told her and said she thought that would be a good thing for her to give up too. We both laughed a little, knowing how we warm our hands around those mugs.
I told Mini she didn’t have to give up one single thing — not even the bone broth topping on her breakfast. She wagged her little bottom as if she understood perfectly. I think dogs already live simply and gratefully, which is something I should learn.
The house feels plainer tonight without the thought of hot chocolate, but also a little brighter inside my heart. A small sacrifice, but I am offering it with love.
Evening Prayer
Dear Jesus,
As the ashes rest lightly on my forehead, let Your love rest deeply in my heart.
Help me to give up small comforts with a glad spirit,
And to hold fast to You when the winds blow cold.
Make this Lent a time of quiet growing,
So that by Easter my heart will be warmer than any cup of cocoa.
Amen.
Love, Kathy
At breakfast, I pulled a folded slip of paper from my pocket and showed Sister Mary Claire the quotation I had written down from Father LeRoy’s homily:
“O Jesus, my Love, at last I have found my vocation. My vocation is to love. In the heart of my Mother the Church, I will be the Love.”
Mini lay quietly near my chair, listening in her own way.
“I love how it sounds,” I told Sister, “but I don’t quite understand it.”
Sister read it slowly and said, “St. Thérèse is telling Jesus she finally understands what God made her for. Not something loud or grand — but love.”
She explained, “The Church is like a living body. Some people are like hands that help, feet that go, voices that teach. But the heart is hidden, and it keeps everything alive. Thérèse wanted to be that heart — praying, loving, doing little duties with great love — so warmth could reach the whole Church.”
“So my vocation can be love too?” I asked.
Sister smiled. “Yes, Kathy. Love in ordinary things is never small.”
Evening Prayer
O Jesus, my Love,
Teach me to love You in small, faithful ways.
Make my heart gentle and steady,
And let my love bring warmth to Your Church.
Bless Sister Mary Claire, Father LeRoy, and Mini tonight.
Keep us close to You.
Amen.
Love,
Kathy
Dear Diary,
Today I read something St. Thérèse once said:
“Jesus, Jesus, if it is so sweet to desire love, how sweet will it be to possess it, to enjoy it for all eternity?”
I kept thinking about it while Mini was sitting beside me. She had her little chin resting on my knee, looking up at me the way she does when she wants to be close. She doesn’t always jump or bark. Sometimes she just leans. She just wants to be near.
And I thought — maybe that is what St. Thérèse means.
Even when I only want to love Jesus better, there is already something warm inside. It’s like when Mini waits at the door for Sister to come home. She isn’t with her yet, but her tail (well… her little bottom) wiggles anyway because she knows love is coming.
If it is already sweet just to long for Jesus, just to whisper His name and wish to be closer — then how sweet will it be when we are truly with Him? Not just hoping. Not just reaching. But resting in Him forever.
Sometimes my heart aches a little because I know I don’t love Him as much as I should. But maybe that ache is not a bad thing. Maybe it is like Mini pressing closer when she wants to be held — a sign that I was made for more closeness than I have right now.
If wanting Him feels this gentle and hopeful, then Heaven must feel like finally being gathered up and never having to wait again.
Tonight I will let my heart lean toward Jesus the way Mini leans toward me — quiet, trusting, and sure that love is near.
Love,
Kathy
Dear Diary,
This morning we woke to a half inch of ice laid over everything like clear glass. The trees bowed low and the gravel road shone hard and silver. Church was cancelled, of course. Even Robert’s pickup would have had no business out on that road. So instead, Sister Mary Claire and I wrapped ourselves in blankets and turned on the little radio.
Mini knew right away it was an “inside day.” She trotted from window to window with her ears alert, then curled up near us like a warm little loaf, watching our faces as if she could tell something solemn was happening. Every so often she sighed and pressed her chin on Sister’s slipper, and it made me feel comforted, like she was keeping watch on our quiet.
We listened to Bishop Barron speak about freedom — real freedom — the kind that chooses the good. He quoted Thomas More from A Man for All Seasons, saying that God made animals for innocence and plants for their simplicity, but man He made to serve Him “wittily, in the tangle of his mind.”
That word wittily stayed with me.
Sister said it means God doesn’t want us to love Him by accident or by instinct like birds flying south. He wants us to think. To wrestle. To choose Him on purpose. Even when it’s hard. Even when the road is icy and the world feels stiff and cold.
Mini doesn’t have to decide about goodness the way we do. She just loves and follows and trusts. If Sister stands up, Mini stands up. If we kneel to pray, Mini settles down as if prayer-time has a sound she understands. I watched her and thought: I want my choosing to be as faithful as her trusting — only with my mind and will added in, like Father says, so my love can be a gift I mean to give.
It made the house feel very quiet. Not empty quiet, but solemn quiet — like the Church right before Lent begins. We didn’t rush to fill the silence. We just let it sit with us.
I kept thinking how animals do what they are made to do without deciding. But I must decide. I must use my mind and my will. That feels serious. Almost heavy. But also beautiful — like being trusted with something important.
Maybe that is why Lent is coming. To help us practice choosing well. Choosing prayer. Choosing truth. Choosing love.
The ice outside did not melt all day. It held everything still. And perhaps that was fitting. A stillness before we begin again.
Tonight I want to give God not just my feelings, but my thinking and my willing too.
Evening Prayer
Lord Jesus,
You made me with a mind to seek truth and a will to choose what is good.
Help me not to drift like a leaf but to choose You carefully and bravely.
As Lent comes near, teach me to love You on purpose.
Keep my heart steady even when the road is icy.
Bless Sister Mary Claire, and bless little Mini, and make our home a small, quiet place where we can choose You again. Amen.
Love, Kathy
Dear Diary,
This morning was another slushie day, and it was 36 degrees when we woke up. Everything outside looked half-wet and half-frozen, like the whole world couldn’t decide what it wanted to be. So instead of going in the morning, we went to evening Mass.
Robert picked us up as usual and right on time, and then we all sat together in the front pew—Robert, Sister Mary Claire, Mini, and me—so Robert could keep the wood-burning stove going. I liked hearing the little crackle and pop from the fire while Father LeRoy preached. It made the church feel extra safe and warm, even though my boots were still thinking about the slush outside.
In Father’s homily, he quoted St. Thérèse. He said:
“How sweet is the way of love. Yes, one may fall or commit infidelities; but love, knowing how to draw profit from everything, quickly consumes all that would displease Jesus, leaving at the bottom of the heart only a humble and profound peace.”
Father explained that St. Thérèse isn’t pretending we never mess up. She is saying that when we really love Jesus, we don’t have to sit in the mud of our mistakes forever. Love doesn’t make excuses, but it also doesn’t let us stay stuck. Love runs straight to Jesus with the truth, and then it lets Him clean the heart like a good fire cleans a cold stove—burning up what shouldn’t be there, warming what is, and leaving behind something quiet and steady.
Father said that even our falls can become a kind of lesson, if we don’t turn away in pride. If we fall, we can say, “Jesus, I’m sorry. I’m small. Help me.” And then we can start again—right away. He said the enemy wants a mistake to turn into despair, but Jesus wants it to turn into humility. And humility is peaceful, because it’s honest. It doesn’t pretend to be strong. It just leans on God.
When Mass was over, Robert smiled at Mini and handed her a little Valentine card. Mini sniffed it like it was very important mail. Then the funniest thing happened—she nosed it open and a little cookie slid out. Her ears popped up so fast they looked like they had springs, and she looked up at Robert like, Oh! This is a very good kind of love. Robert laughed, and even Sister Mary Claire’s eyes got that bright, happy look. I felt warm clear down to my toes.
Tonight I want to remember what Father said—how love can make even the hard parts turn into something useful, if I bring them to Jesus quickly and don’t hide.
Evening Prayer:
Jesus, make my heart learn the sweet way of love. If I fall, help me run back to You fast, without excuses and without fear. Burn away what displeases You, like a warm fire that makes things clean again. Leave in me a humble and quiet peace. Keep Sister Mary Claire, Robert, and dear Mini safe tonight. Thank You for small kindnesses—like a warm stove in church, and a Valentine with a cookie inside. Amen.
Love, Kathy
Dear Diary,
After chores, Sister Mary Claire let me dust her little shelf, and she set out her small keepsake box like it was something important and tender. It’s not a fancy box—just a little one she keeps tucked away—but it feels like it holds quiet treasures.
When she stepped into the other room, I peeked inside (not in a nosy way… just in a Kathy way). And that’s when I saw it: a little blue pin with Saint Thérèse on it. It had a soft, worn look, like it had been loved for a long time. I held it carefully in my palm, and it made me feel calm—like when you sit near the fire and everything hushes down.
At Mass, Father LeRoy explained something that stayed in my head all day. He said that when we’re hurting, or tired, or mixed up inside, we don’t have to make big prayers with perfect words. We can just tell Jesus in our heart, “Jesus, I’m here.” And if we can’t even say that—if we’re too worn out—then we can just stay close to Him, and that is love.
I kept thinking about Saint Thérèse in her bed, suffering and not able to sleep, and still turning toward Jesus like a little flower turning toward the sun. She said she didn’t say anything to Him—she just loved Him. And Father said love can be a prayer all by itself, even when there are no words.
When we got home, I asked Sister about the pin, and she smiled the way she does when something is dear to her. She said Saint Thérèse helps her remember that Jesus understands a quiet heart. I asked if I could keep the pin near me for a little while tonight, and Sister said yes.
So I’m going to set it close—like a small reminder that even if I don’t have the right words, Jesus still knows what I mean.
Evening Prayer:
Jesus, sometimes I don’t know what to say.
But I’m here.
Please let my quiet love be my prayer.
Keep me close to You, like Saint Thérèse,
and help me trust You even when I’m tired.
Amen.
Love, Kathy.
Dear Diary,
This morning it was 36 degrees and everything felt wet and soft, like the snow had turned to sponge. The yard squished under my boots. Mini didn’t mind at all—she tested every puddle like it was her job.
Robert picked us up as usual and right on time. The roads were muddy but we made it. Sister Mary Claire reminded me to step carefully so I wouldn’t bring half the farm into St. Mary’s.
Inside church it was warm and quiet, and the sanctuary lamp glowed red. Father LeRoy’s homily followed today’s meditation from The Circling Year: loving Jesus isn’t something we do only when it feels sweet and easy. He said we can’t wait for “warm feelings” to prove our love is real. Real love stays steady even when the heart feels ordinary.
I kept thinking of the little St. Thérèse recipe card with the felt backing—her prayer and that line:
“I do not desire sensible love. If it is sensible to love Jesus, that is enough for me.”
It made me realize I sometimes want prayer to feel like sunshine. But maybe loving Jesus quietly—especially when I feel plain and distracted—is still love, and maybe it even pleases Him more.
On the ride home, Sister Mary Claire said St. Thérèse teaches us to do small things for Jesus without measuring our feelings. Robert said the best farm work is often the unnoticed kind. Mini fell asleep as soon as we got home, muddy paws and all, like she’d been on an important mission.
Tonight I set St. Thérèse’s card on my desk and tried to be glad for quiet love.
Evening Prayer
Sweet Jesus,
Teach me to love You whether I feel it or not.
Let my love be steady like the sanctuary lamp.
Help me do small things with great love,
and be faithful to You in the quiet.
If it is sensible to love You,
that is enough for me.
Amen.
Love,
Kathy
