August 2, 1956
Dear Diary,
This morning the prairie looked like a painting God made just for us. The tent flap was open wide and the breeze brought in the warm scent of wildflowers and the cool sweetness of dew-damp grass. Sister Mary Claire and I stepped outside with Mini—who gave one long stretch and her usual little sniff-snort—and the three of us walked out into the tall native grasses that sway like gentle waves. Goldenrod, little bluestem, and Queen Anne’s lace tickled the backs of my knees as I walked in my overalls, and even Mini’s ears bobbed above the flowers now and then like a prairie fox.
Sister pointed to a spray of wild plum blossoms tangled in the edge of the grassland and said, “You see, Kathy, this is what the prairie once looked like all across Iowa.” I reached out and touched one of the blossoms, soft and pale and trembling in the breeze. There was a sacredness to it—like touching something that remembers the past and hopes for the future, both at once.
We sat a while in the warm sun just beyond our little tent. We called it Camp Littlemore, and the sign over the canvas makes it official. But it’s the prairie around it that feels like the real chapel. That’s when Sister opened her book and read us today’s Gospel. It was the story of John the Baptist’s death.
I always feel a chill when I hear it.
Sister said sometimes when you speak the truth, people won’t like it. John was brave, and he told Herod what was wrong—and even though Herod knew it, he was afraid of looking weak in front of his guests. So he did something terrible.
It made me think of how the world sometimes tries to put on shows and forget about what’s right. That birthday party Herod threw probably had music and laughter and rich foods. But underneath it all was fear, and pride, and the power of one cruel whisper from someone who didn’t love truth.
I thought how different that is from this place—this quiet camp on the prairie, where even the smallest flower leans toward the sun, and the breeze sings only what God gives it.
I think John the Baptist would’ve liked it here.
Evening Prayer:
Dear Jesus,
Help me to speak the truth,
not for pride but for love.
Let my words be kind,
my heart be brave,
and my thoughts stay close to You.
Like the prairie grasses You planted,
may I grow tall in Your light
and bend gently to Your will.
All for You, Jesus.
Love,
Kathy
This morning the prairie looked like a painting God made just for us. The tent flap was open wide and the breeze brought in the warm scent of wildflowers and the cool sweetness of dew-damp grass. Sister Mary Claire and I stepped outside with Mini—who gave one long stretch and her usual little sniff-snort—and the three of us walked out into the tall native grasses that sway like gentle waves. Goldenrod, little bluestem, and Queen Anne’s lace tickled the backs of my knees as I walked in my overalls, and even Mini’s ears bobbed above the flowers now and then like a prairie fox.
Sister pointed to a spray of wild plum blossoms tangled in the edge of the grassland and said, “You see, Kathy, this is what the prairie once looked like all across Iowa.” I reached out and touched one of the blossoms, soft and pale and trembling in the breeze. There was a sacredness to it—like touching something that remembers the past and hopes for the future, both at once.
We sat a while in the warm sun just beyond our little tent. We called it Camp Littlemore, and the sign over the canvas makes it official. But it’s the prairie around it that feels like the real chapel. That’s when Sister opened her book and read us today’s Gospel. It was the story of John the Baptist’s death.
I always feel a chill when I hear it.
Sister said sometimes when you speak the truth, people won’t like it. John was brave, and he told Herod what was wrong—and even though Herod knew it, he was afraid of looking weak in front of his guests. So he did something terrible.
It made me think of how the world sometimes tries to put on shows and forget about what’s right. That birthday party Herod threw probably had music and laughter and rich foods. But underneath it all was fear, and pride, and the power of one cruel whisper from someone who didn’t love truth.
I thought how different that is from this place—this quiet camp on the prairie, where even the smallest flower leans toward the sun, and the breeze sings only what God gives it.
I think John the Baptist would’ve liked it here.
Evening Prayer:
Dear Jesus,
Help me to speak the truth,
not for pride but for love.
Let my words be kind,
my heart be brave,
and my thoughts stay close to You.
Like the prairie grasses You planted,
may I grow tall in Your light
and bend gently to Your will.
All for You, Jesus.
Love,
Kathy
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