O Mary, Please Speak to Your Son

Dear Diary,

Tonight I stayed in the cave after supper. The lantern on the little shelf gave just enough glow to see my fingers on the Underwood. The stone walls felt cool, and the air smelled like earth and candlewax. Mini had already made herself a little nest on the quilt by the grotto—her ears flicked when I sat down at the typewriter, but she didn’t bother lifting her head.

It was quiet—almost too quiet—so I started to type.

I didn’t whisper it like a bedtime prayer. I typed it, nice and plain, like I meant every word:

O Mary,

please speak to your Son about me—

and place me right in front of Him.

Then I waited a second. My fingers hovered over the keys. The fire had gone out in the lantern a little, but I still wanted to keep going.

O my Jesus,

show me the Father!

The clack of the keys made a small echo in the cave, like the cave was answering back. Maybe that’s how John Hathaway felt when he wrote his letters here—like Heaven was listening with both ears wide open.

I left the paper in the typewriter. Not because I forgot, but because it felt right. Maybe Our Lady will read it before I do anything else with it.

Love,

Kathy