My Morning Light

Dear Diary

Tuesday, Feast of St. Mary Magdalene

This morning at Mass, we heard the Gospel about Mary Magdalene finding the tomb empty. She was the first one there—before the sun even rose. She must have been so sad and confused, and when she saw someone near the tomb, she didn’t even recognize Him at first. But then Jesus said her name: “Mary.” That’s what changed everything. Just hearing her name in His voice brought her heart back to life.

After breakfast, Sister Mary Claire and I went down to the cave with Mini, who trotted along in her usual proud way but was happy to curl up at our feet once we sat down inside. The cave felt especially still today, and even the stream at the grotto seemed quieter than usual.

We brought along the little German prayer book again—the one Sister’s dear nun friend had given her when we were in Switzerland. It once belonged to a girl named Florine from Berchtesgaden. We think she was about my age, maybe with braids like mine and a quiet, thoughtful heart. Her book is handwritten and full of soft, careful prayers. Some of the pages are decorated with tiny flowers and colorful borders. Sister said it was surely made with love.

Today we translated one of the most beautiful prayers yet. It’s called My Morning Light Prayer, and it goes like this:

🌼 My Morning Light Prayer
from Florine’s Prayer Book.

Dear God,

You are my God, and I love You with all my heart.
When I wake up early, You’re already there,
like a soft light in my room.
I praise You, Lord,
and I want to carry Your name with me all day.
Please send Your Holy Spirit to stay close,
so I can bow my head and worship You
with all the love and mercy
You’ve given to me.

Amen.

Sister said that Florine must have prayed this before school, before chores, before everything—just like Mary Magdalene showed up early at the tomb, while it was still dark. That made me think: maybe the world is full of girls like Florine and Mary, quietly loving Jesus in the early hours while everyone else is still asleep.

And maybe He’s still calling names today. Maybe if we listen closely enough—in the cave, in the field, in the quiet—we’ll hear Him call ours too.

Love,

Kathy