Monday's Resolution

In a small town where time moved slowly and the summer air was always filled with the scent of lilacs, there was a room in the old Marlowe House that held more than just memories. The room, with its two single beds and the Sacred Heart watching over, was where the Marlowe twins, James and Clara, grew up.

The wallpaper, patterned with tiny blue flowers, had faded over the years, but still held the echoes of childhood laughter and whispered secrets of two souls in harmony. The beds, now neatly made with care, once were ships sailing the high seas, fortresses in grand battles, and safe havens from stormy nights.

James had left for the war, promising Clara he'd return. She would sit by the window, gazing at the stars, whispering prayers to the Sacred Heart for his safe return. The room stood as a silent witness to her solitary vigil, the wooden floors creaking gently as if in comfort.

Years passed, and the room, unchanged, waited. When at last James returned, worn but unbroken, the room embraced them both. It was a place where they could step back into the innocence of their youth, if only for a moment. The Sacred Heart, a symbol of enduring love and protection, continued to watch over the Marlowe twins, just as it had done all those years ago, in the room that witnessed the depths of sorrow and the heights of a joyous reunion.

Resolution:  I will resolve to pray throughout the day to the Sacred Heart of Jesus.

Spiritual Bouquet: Years passed, and the room, unchanged, waited. When at last James returned, worn but unbroken, the room embraced them both.

Sunday Sermon - January 28

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As the three Beanwalkers Anna, Michael and Liz sit enclosed in the new warmth of their home, the winter winds whispering at the windows, they tune into Bishop Barron's sermon, a spiritual tradition that transcends the seasons. The same message that resonates in the stillness of their living room is accessible to all, It is as simple as clicking on the soundbar provided above. There, the same sermon that inspires the Beanwalkers, with its profound reflections from Deuteronomy and the Gospel, can be shared, fostering a sense of community and faith that reaches beyond the snow-clad frozen waters of Indian Creek. Have a Great Sunday!

Chapter 2 - Message From The Past

On the second day of bean walking, the sun rose with the same ferocity as the day before, promising nothing but heat, humidity, and the unwelcome company of sweat bees for Anna, Michael, and Liz. They met at the edge of the soybean fields, their silouettes casting long shadows in the early light, a silent acknowledgment of the day’s toil that lay ahead.

As they walked the familiar rows along the Indian Creek, the air thickened with heat. It wasn't long before the monotony of the task set in, the endless sea of green around them punctuated only by the persistent thrum of insect wings.

It was Liz who broke the rhythm of their silent work. She stooped to clear a clump of weeds and discovered a crumpled, faded piece of paper. "Phyllis," she read aloud, the name written in a hand from a different time. The note, though battered by weather, spoke of love and faith, a timeless message that resonated with the three friends.

Their eyes turned together to the old house that stood guard over the fields. Its windows were broken, a testament to the many storms it had faced. The note must have slipped from one of those forlorn gaps, they reasoned, carried by the wind to land at their feet.

As the day’s work continued, the heat relentless as ever, they found their thoughts returning to Phyllis. Had she, too, felt the oppressive heat as they now did? Had she, too, found comfort in her faith? The connection to the past, to Phyllis, and her note, brought a new dimension to their labor.

When the sun reached its zenith and their shadows shrank beneath them, they found a shared strength. The message on the paper was a balm against the harshness of the day, a reminder that their work in the fields was part of a larger, enduring tapestry of life and faith.

By the time they made their way to the creek for their end-of-day ritual, the water seemed to welcome them more warmly. The note from Phyllis had changed something intangible in the air. They jumped into the creek, not just to find relief from the heat but to honor a tradition of hard work and faith that linked them to the generations before. The water, like the message, was a reminder that even the most grueling tasks could be sanctified by love and the human spirit.

Chapter 1 - Walking the Beans

Under the sweltering summer sun of northwest Iowa, near the meandering path of Indian Creek, three teenagers trudged through the dense rows of soybeans. Anna, Michael, and Liz were tasked with pulling the stubborn cockleburs and sunflowers that threatened the crop. The heat was relentless, the humidity clung to them like a second skin, and the persistent buzz of sweat bees was a test of patience.

As they wiped beads of sweat from their brows, Michael grumbled about the never-ending field and the scorching sun above. “This is the worst,” he sighed, tugging at a particularly resistant weed.

Liz, shielding her eyes against the sun’s glare, interjected with a faint smile, “Remember the story from Bishop Barron's Sunday Sermon? About Jesus and the vineyard?”

Anna, who had been silently cursing a sunflower’s deep roots, paused and leaned on her hoe. “How does that help us now?” she asked, skepticism plain in her voice.

Liz continued, undeterred, “Well, Jesus told this parable about workers in a vineyard. No matter what time they started, they got the same reward. It wasn’t about the hours or the heat; it was about answering the call to work, doing something with purpose.”

Michael snorted, “We’re just pulling weeds.”

“But that’s just it,” Liz pressed on. “We’re tending to the earth, caring for the plants that feed us. Maybe we can think of this as our vineyard. We’re called to care for it, and in doing so, maybe we can find some joy, even in the heat and among the sweat bees.”

The three stood in silence for a moment, the weight of the story settling over them. A slight breeze rustled the soybean leaves, and it was as if the field itself was listening.

With a renewed sense of camaraderie, the teenagers resumed their work, the task unchanged but their perspective subtly shifted. The story of the vineyard had taken root in their minds, transforming the mundane into something more meaningful. They joked and laughed, the hours slipping by, and though the heat, humidity, and sweat bees remained, a sense of purpose made the day’s labor feel a little lighter.

Resolution: I will be zealous in the work that I must do remembering the story of the vineyard.

Spiritual Bouquet: Why stand here all day idle? Let us go into the vineyard.

A Rose Without Thorns

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In a time sofetened by the echoes of ancient prayers, there was a garden untouched by the woes of the world, where the roses bloomed in perpetual spring. In this divine sanctuary, the Blessed Virgin Mary found her solace, her heart woven into the very fabric of creation.

Each day, as the sun painted the sky with the first light of dawn, Mary would step into the garden, her hands clasped in silent prayer, her spirit in communion with the Divine. The world knew her as the Mother of Grace, her name a soothing balm to the troubled, her presence a fortress of hope to the faithless.

In this picture, she is captured in a moment of profound contemplation, the serenity of her countenance a reflection of her immaculate soul. Her eyes are closed, not in sorrow, but in an inward gaze that sees beyond the veil of the temporal, into the heart of eternity.

As the story goes, it was in this garden that a rose without thorns was found, a symbol of Mary’s own purity and the promise of salvation. And though the image remains still, it speaks volumes of her boundless compassion and the depth of her maternal love—a love that flows ceaselessly, like a gentle stream, into the ocean of humanity’s longing.

Listen to The Voice of God - Bishop Robert Barron

Friends, though the book of Jonah is only a few pages long, there is something inexhaustible about it. It’s a biblical commonplace that God speaks to certain people and gives them missions, as he does with Jonah in our first reading. But God also speaks to us all the time, precisely in the voice of our conscience. Do you listen to the voice of God or not? Do you listen to what your conscience is telling you or not? If you do, you become a vehicle of grace for yourself and for all those around you. If you don’t, chaos ensues.

The Guest Cabin

In the realm of longing and solace, there exists a cabin known only to the hearts of those who seek refuge from the tumult of the world—a place untouched by time and reality, cradled in the embrace of an ancient forest. This cabin is but a whisper of a dream, a construct of yearning for those who wish for a peaceful retreat in the woods, a sanctuary for contemplation and quietude.

The Blessed Virgin Mary, whose statue once graced a convent's courtyard in bustling Boston, is the sole tether to the tangible world. Her figure, now residing in a private collection, stands as a bridge between the dreams of serenity and the chaos of daily life. The statue, real and venerable, is the inspiration for this envisioned cabin in the woods of Littlemore, a place that exists in the minds of the faithful and the weary, the dreamers and the seekers.

In their reverie, they visit this cabin of the mind, where the statue of Mary is a beacon of hope and a symbol of eternal tranquility. Each imagined visit is a pilgrimage of the spirit, a silent prayer for peace. The Virgin's gaze offers solace, her presence an anchor in the dreamt woodland retreat where souls find rest. This cabin, while never crafted by hands, is built firmly in the aspirations of those who believe, a testament to the power of faith and the enduring search for a haven of one's own.

Epiphany Sunday

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On a frosty morning after Christmas, Camp Littlemore was blanketed in a sparkling frost, a white sheen that made the world look as if it were cast in glass. Inside the cozy kitchen, warmed by the crackling fire in the kitchen stove, the children huddled in their woolen sweaters, their noses almost pressed against the cold windowpane.

It was Epiphany Sunday, a day when the tale of the three wise men was fresh in their minds, told by the flickering fire the night before. As they gazed out, the old garage by the elm tree, usually a shelter for the tractor and farming tools, seemed different. A golden glow spilled from its open doors, and silhouettes moved within.

Rubbing the sleep from their eyes, the children looked closer. There, against all reason and reality, stood the three wise men, cloaked in rich reds and deep purples, their crowns glinting in the mysterious light. And in the heart of the garage, nestled in what appeared to be a makeshift manger, was a baby, radiating a soft, heavenly light.

The children, wide-eyed and breathless, watched as the wise men bowed, presenting their gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. The air seemed to hum with an old, sacred song, and the frost on the window bloomed into intricate patterns, like angelic fingerprints.

For a moment, the veil between the then and now, the there and here, seemed to thin, and the story of the Epiphany unfolded before their eyes, as real as the frost and as close as their breath against the glass.

Then, as quickly as it appeared, the vision faded. The garage stood as it always had, silent and still in the cold morning light. But the children at Camp Littlemore knew that something magical had happened, a moment of wonder, a glimpse of the eternal story that lay just beyond the reach of sight, but not beyond belief. They turned from the window, their hearts ablaze with the warmth of the miracle they had just witnessed, a memory to cherish on all the frosty mornings to come.