Dear Diary,
We waited up by the mailbox this morning, just as the sun was beginning to reach over the tops of the trees. Mini sat between me and Sister Mary Claire like a little sentry, ears perked and ready. The gravel road was still damp from the night’s dew, and it smelled earthy and clean.
Robert came rattling down the road in his pickup like always, with a wave and a cheerful, “Morning, girls!” Mini jumped in as soon as the door opened—she already knows she’s part of the church-going crowd.
At St. Mary’s, everything was quiet and simple. The Gospel reading was from Matthew 11, and it was one of those readings that feels a little heavier, like Jesus is speaking not just to people back then—but to us now, too.
“Woe to you, Chorazin! Woe to you, Bethsaida!” Father LeRoy read aloud.
“For if the mighty deeds done in your midst had been done in Tyre and Sidon, they would long ago have repented…”
He talked about how Jesus wasn’t just scolding—but grieving. Grieving the way people can see miracles with their own eyes and still not change their hearts. Father said, “We must ask ourselves: Have I let Jesus’ works in my life truly convert me—or have I grown used to His presence?”
That made me still inside. I thought about all the quiet ways Jesus has come near lately—morning Mass, the beauty of the sanctuary cave, the carved walnut door John Hathaway made, the peaceful walks with Mini and Sister. Jesus has been in our midst in a hundred quiet ways. But have I always noticed? And when I do notice, do I change? Or just go about the day like it’s any other?
The ride home was peaceful. Sister Mary Claire was quiet, watching the fence posts pass by through the truck window. Robert sang a little under his breath, and Mini laid her head on my lap as we bumped along the road back to the farm.
I want to remember today’s Gospel not as something scary, but as a kind of gentle warning from Jesus. A wake-up call to keep my heart soft and my ears open—to never get too used to grace, or take it for granted.
Evening Prayer
Dear Jesus,
Thank You for Your mighty deeds, even when they come in small ways—like a kind word from Sister, or the hush of the Church before Mass begins, or the quiet beauty of the grotto. Help me not to overlook You or let my heart grow dull. Let me be one of the ones who notices You and turns back—who repents, even in little things, and walks toward You with love.
And thank You for Robert’s pickup rides and the peace You give along the way.
Love,
Kathy
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