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
Dear Diary,
Today is the Feast of Our Lady of Lourdes, and all day it felt like my thoughts kept drifting toward a grotto and a little stream. Even the cold air outside seemed quiet, like it was holding its breath. I kept thinking how Our Lady chose a poor, sickly girl—Bernadette—someone the grown-ups didn’t take very seriously. And still, Heaven came to her anyway.
This evening Robert treated Sister Mary Claire, me, and Mini to his very favorite old movie, The Song of Bernadette. He brought his projector and a real movie reel, and when he turned it on the room filled up with that soft clicking sound, like a tiny train going somewhere far away. Robert looked as happy as if he had brought us a whole feast.
The movie tells how Bernadette Soubirous, a simple girl from Lourdes, sees a beautiful Lady in white at the grotto of Massabielle. Bernadette doesn’t try to sound important—she just says what she saw. And because she won’t change her story to make people pleased, she gets questioned and teased and pushed around. But she stays gentle and firm. The Lady asks her to pray, and to do penance, and to tell the priests. Then that little spring begins to flow, and people come with their sufferings and their hopes, and some of them are healed. The saddest parts were when nobody believed her, and the sweetest parts were when Bernadette prayed anyway.
When the film ended, we sat very still for a minute. Sister Mary Claire’s eyes looked shiny in the lamplight, and Robert quietly rewound his reel like it was something precious.
Later, when it was time for bed, I couldn’t stop seeing a picture in my mind—so clear it felt like a memory. I imagined Mini and me down at Indian Creek, sitting on a mossy rock at the water’s edge. My hands were folded, holding my rosary, the beads slipping softly through my fingers. Mini sat close beside me, very still, her ears lifted and pointed the same way my heart was pointing. Across the creek, in the gentle glow, I imagined Our Lady of Lourdes—white and peaceful—standing as if the woods themselves were praying with her. The water shone like it was catching light from Heaven. And in my imagining, neither Mini nor I felt afraid. We just looked and looked, like children who finally found what they were longing for, even if we couldn’t explain it.
I think that is what the Feast felt like today: Our Lady reminding the world that she comes to the low places—the rocks, the cold streams, the quiet corners—and she invites us to pray there.
Evening Prayer
Our Lady of Lourdes,
please help me to be simple like Bernadette—truthful, brave, and gentle. Teach me to pray even when no one understands me. Bring Your Son close to our little home, to Sister Mary Claire, to dear Robert, and to faithful Mini. If there is anything sick or scared in my heart, let Your love be a healing spring.
Amen.
Love,
Kathy 🌹
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| Click on Mini to Enlarge |
Dear Diary,
This morning Robert picked us up as usual and right on time in the pickup, with the cold still holding tight to the fields. Sister Mary Claire and I sat close together, and Mini stood with her paws braced, ears alert, like she always does when she knows we’re going to church. I hadn’t read today’s meditation yet, so I didn’t quite know what to expect, but I had a feeling it would be a serious one.
Father LeRoy’s homily turned out to be a lot of food for thought. He spoke about how Jesus asks us not just to listen, but to let His words change us, even when they unsettle us or make us see ourselves more clearly than we might like. Father said the Lord isn’t trying to confuse us—He’s trying to draw us deeper, past easy answers and into trust. That made me sit very still in the pew. I kept thinking about how often I want things explained neatly, when maybe Jesus wants me to sit with the question instead.
On the ride home, I told Sister and Robert that my head felt full, like when you’ve read something important but don’t quite know yet what to do with it. Robert said that was probably a good sign. Sister helped by putting it into simpler words, saying that Jesus was asking for honesty of heart more than clever thoughts. Mini leaned against my leg the whole way, which somehow made everything feel steadier.
When we got home, Sister invited Robert in for coffee, and he stayed for a piece of mincemeat pie with fresh whipping cream. The kitchen felt warm and kind, and it was nice to hear everyone talking easily again. Mini sat very politely and was rewarded with a small dollop of whipping cream, which she accepted as if it were a great honor. It felt like one of those days where thinking hard and resting gently both belonged together.
I am grateful for days like this.
Evening Prayer
Dear Jesus, thank You for Your words, even when they stretch my thinking and my heart. Thank You for Father LeRoy helping me understand, and for Sister and Robert helping me feel peaceful again. Help me keep what You taught me today and live it quietly and faithfully. Please bless our home and everyone who shared our table. Amen.
Love, Kathy
Dear Diary,
This morning Robert picked us up as usual and right on time — in his pickup, with the heater working hard against the February cold. Sister Mary Claire and I climbed in together, and Mini wiggled herself into our little bundle like she belonged there most of all. The road felt rough and frozen, and I held my prayer book close, thinking about today’s meditation and how Jesus kept calling His apostles back to trust—back to remembering that God provides, even when we feel small and worried.
At Mass, Father LeRoy’s homily fit right into that. He spoke about how easy it is to look at what we don’t have—strength, answers, clear paths—and forget how many times the Lord has already carried us. Father said that when Jesus speaks like that, it isn’t scolding so much as it is love: like He’s trying to lift our chin so we’ll look up again. While he talked, I found myself glancing toward the tabernacle and wishing I could hold on tighter to that kind of trust, the kind that doesn’t shake the minute something turns hard.
And that is exactly what I felt after Mass, because my thoughts went straight to the creek and the cave. The slope down to it is steep, and now it’s a mean mix of mud and ice, the kind that tricks your boots. I kept worrying that I won’t be able to visit Shaggycoat—my beaver friend—or the cave for a while, and it made my chest feel tight, like I was being kept away from something safe and dear. But then Father’s words came back to me: the Lord provides, even when the way is closed for a time. Maybe this is one of those days when trusting Jesus means staying put, even when my heart wants to hurry down a slippery hill.
This afternoon I kept picturing the sun softening everything little by little, and I asked Jesus to help me be patient. If He can hold the whole world in His care, He can surely hold Shaggycoat and our secret place too, until it’s safe again.
Evening Prayer
Dear Jesus, thank You for bringing me to Mass today and for Father LeRoy’s words that helped me remember Your care. Help me trust You when I feel disappointed or worried, and keep me from rushing into danger just because I miss the cave. Please watch over Shaggycoat by the creek, and keep the slope safe until I can visit again. Stay with me tonight and teach my heart to rest in You. Amen.
Love, Kathy
Dear Diary,
This morning the air was 26 degrees, and everything outside felt like it had been held still by a quiet hand. The ground was frozen hard, and even the weeds by the fence looked stiff and silvered. It made me feel peaceful, because it meant there would be no muddy footprints in Church — not mine, and not Mini’s either. She stepped along like a little careful soldier, neat and proper, as if she understood that today was meant to be clean and solemn.
In Church, the world seemed softer. The candles flickered like tiny steady stars, and the hush in the pews felt like a blanket laid over everyone’s shoulders. When Father LeRoy began his homily, his voice didn’t feel like it was only filling the air — it felt like it was reaching down inside me, like a bell that keeps ringing even after you can’t see it swinging anymore.
He spoke about Jesus at the Last Supper, and about the apostles — His own friends — and how He knew they would be afraid. Father said Jesus didn’t stop loving them because they were weak. He looked at them with truth in His eyes, and still He stayed with them. Still He fed them. Still He prayed for them.
And then… I don’t know how to explain it, but I sort of floated away inside my thoughts. It was like I was sitting in the pew, and also somewhere else at the same time.
I could see it — a room lit in gentle shadows, a long table, and Jesus there, not harsh, not angry, but serious in a way that is almost more tender than smiling. His hand lifted as He spoke, like He was trying to gather their hearts back to Him before the night scattered them. The apostles leaned in, troubled and slow to understand, like men who can feel a storm coming but don’t know where to stand.
And in my imagination, Sister Mary Claire and I were across the room, holding on to each other, and I was hanging onto Mini too — the three of us watching, quiet as can be. I felt a little shiver in my heart, not from cold, but from how real it seemed: Jesus loving them so much, and still warning them, because love doesn’t pretend the hard things aren’t coming.
Father’s homily made me wonder about my own bravery. Not the brave that runs toward danger like in storybooks… but the brave that stays close. The brave that keeps loving. The brave that doesn’t disappear when things get frightening inside.
Could I be strong?
Could I be faithful?
Could I stay near Jesus when it would be easier to drift away like smoke?
Tonight, when the house got quiet, I kept thinking of that table and that look on His face. And I decided I’m going to keep my Sacred Heart badge close to me — right on my bedside table — so when I wake up and when I fall asleep, I’ll remember that Jesus is near, and He wants my heart to stay with His.
Evening Prayer:
Dear Jesus,
When I am weak, please be my strength.
When I feel afraid, please be my courage.
Let me stay close to You like a little lamp that won’t blow out.
Teach my heart to be faithful — not all at once, but day by day,
until I can love You bravely.
Amen.
Love,
Kathy 💙
