Friday Morning with Butter & Light

 
Dear Diary,

This morning Sister Mary Claire sliced the last of her soft, homemade white wonder bread, and we toasted it up golden. She set it on a little plate with curls of soft butter and opened the jar of strawberry jam we put up together last spring. The sun came in so kindly through the kitchen window, making everything feel just right.

Omelette gave us another double-yolk egg—so big and warm in my hand when I brought it in! Sister cracked it gently into the skillet, and we each got half. I left the yolk on my plate for Mini, and oh did she know it! Her eyes got all wide, and when I turned just a little, slurp, it was gone. She cleaned my plate like a proper helper and then curled up under the table, satisfied.

While we ate, Sister read us today’s Gospel. It was about how the mother of the sons of Zebedee asked Jesus if her boys could sit beside Him in heaven. At first, I thought that sounded mighty bold of her, but Sister explained that sometimes even mamas misunderstand what Jesus is really asking of us. Jesus didn’t get angry though—He just told them the truth, that they didn’t understand the cost of that kind of glory.

Sister said the important part is when Jesus tells them that greatness isn’t about being first or powerful—it’s about being a servant. That the greatest ones are those who serve others quietly, like He did.

I thought about that while I washed the breakfast dishes. Maybe my “chalice” for today was helping tidy the kitchen or letting Mini have my yolk or thanking Omelette with a handful of scratch feed. It doesn’t sound like much, but maybe it counts in the quiet way Jesus meant.

Tonight, the window’s cracked open wide to catch the southern breeze. It smells like cut hay and something sweet blooming. Mini’s already under the bed, breathing soft and slow, and Sister’s folding her apron before prayers.

Evening Prayer

Dear Jesus,

Thank You for this day of jam and sunlight and warm-hearted chores.
Teach me to be little, but full of love.
Let me carry my cup without spilling,
and find the joy of serving in secret.
I love You always. Kathy

Amen.