Dear Diary,
This morning it was 34 degrees, and Robert picked us up as usual and right on time for early Mass. Sister Mary Claire kept Mini tucked close for the ride, and we all watched the fields slide by, gray with cold, as we headed toward St. Mary’s.
On the way to church we spoke about today’s meditation from The Circling Year. It was about the moment when Our Lord stood before the high priest and one of the servants struck Him across the face. I tried to imagine it — Jesus standing there with His hands bound, His eyes lowered, and everyone around Him shouting and accusing Him. The servant struck Him even though Jesus had done nothing wrong. Yet Our Lord did not become angry or shout back. Instead He answered calmly and gently, saying, “Why strikest thou Me?”
During his homily Father LeRoy explained that this shows us the wonderful meekness of Jesus. He told us that if anyone had the right to defend Himself, it was Our Lord, the King of Heaven. But Jesus chose patience instead. Father said sometimes we complain when we are corrected or when someone says something unkind to us, yet Jesus endured insults and suffering without anger. He said the meditation teaches us how strong real gentleness can be.
Father also spoke about the part where false witnesses accused Jesus. Our Lord kept silent through many of the accusations. Father LeRoy said this silence should make us think about how quickly we try to defend ourselves. Sometimes, he said, the holiest thing is to stay quiet and trust God, and to let our hearts stay with Jesus instead of trying to win every little argument.
On the ride home Robert said Lent is a time to keep our eyes on Jesus, especially when He was treated unfairly and still loved people anyway. Sister Mary Claire nodded and held her Rosary quietly, and Mini rested her chin on the seat between us as if she was listening carefully to every word.
Tonight the house is quiet, and I am thinking about the Sacred Face of Jesus that was struck for love of us.
Evening Prayer
Dear Jesus,
When You were struck, You did not strike back.
When You were accused, You did not shout.
You were gentle and steady, even when it hurt.
Please make my heart more like Yours.
Help me to be quiet inside when I want to fuss, and to stay close to You when things are hard.
Bless Sister Mary Claire, Robert, and dear little Mini, and keep our home safe through the night.
Amen.
Love,
Kathy
Dear Diary,
This morning felt soft and early, like the world was still rubbing its eyes. Robert picked us up as usual and right on time at the mailbox, and we all squeezed in together—Sister Mary Claire, Mini, and me—ready for early Mass. Mini sat properly between us like she always does, part of our little trio.
At Mass, Father LeRoy brought today’s meditation from The Circling Year right into his homily. He explained how Our Lord calls us not just to believe in Him quietly, but to follow Him bravely—especially when it costs us something. He said that Lent is like walking behind Jesus on a narrow road. Sometimes we want to step off to the side where it’s easier, but love keeps us close behind Him. Father’s voice grew gentle when he reminded us that even small sacrifices, offered with love, are beautiful to God. I thought about that very hard.
After Mass, Robert surprised us by turning toward town instead of home. We ended up at the Breakfast Club in Littlemore! All four cousins were there—Hayden, Caleb, Sasha, and Max—busy as could be. The place smelled like coffee and warm syrup.
Caleb himself served the waffles, tall and golden on our plates. And then he said something that made my eyes widen. He churned the butter himself! He even imported the churn all the way from England. Imagine that—an English butter churn in Littlemore! He brought out a pat of butter shaped neatly from his own butter form, and when it melted over the hot waffles it tasted fresh and rich and almost sweet. Wow. It was such a treat.
When we were leaving, Caleb handed us a whole stick of his butter to take home. We thanked him kindly, but next time we will not accept it without paying. Good butter and good work deserve it. Still, what a generous heart.
The ride home was peaceful. The sun was climbing higher, and the roads looked brighter than they had in the early morning. Mini rested her chin on Sister’s lap, perfectly content. I kept thinking about Father LeRoy’s words—that love follows close behind Jesus, even on narrow roads. Maybe today that narrow road is simply being grateful and trying to do better tomorrow.
Tonight, the butter is in our icebox, and my heart feels warm.
Evening Prayer
Dear Jesus,
Help me to follow close behind You, even when the road feels narrow or hard.
Bless Father LeRoy, and bless Robert for always bringing us safely to Church.
Bless the four cousins and especially Caleb for his kindness and his butter churn from England.
Teach me to give generously and to receive gratefully.
And may everything I do tomorrow be done for love of You.
Amen.
Love,
Kathy
Dear Diary,
All morning I could hardly settle myself because Chapter Nine was waiting for me. I wanted to read it in the cave — in my own little grotto — where the words about Lourdes seem to breathe better somehow.
It was still a chilly 27 degrees, so I bundled up in my coat and wool cap and filled a small sack with sticks. As I walked the worn path toward the cave, I imagined I was like little Bernadette along the Gave River, gathering bits of wood before she ever knew Heaven would touch that rocky place. The cold made it feel almost real — as if something important might happen.
Inside, the cave was quiet and gray with winter light. I knelt and set the sticks into the small stove Robert installed last fall. I’m so thankful for that stove. Soon the fire caught, and a soft crackling began, warming the stones and my stiff fingers. Mini curled close beside it, her little red-and-white body tucked neatly, ears alert but peaceful.
Then I opened Chapter Nine.
This was the chapter where the Lady appears in such splendor. The book described her standing above the grotto rock, clothed in white that seemed to shine without hurting the eyes, a blue girdle at her waist, and a rosary of white beads falling from her hands. The light around her was gentle but glorious — not like sunlight, but something purer. I could almost see it flickering against the stone walls of my own cave.
When the book said Bernadette fell to her knees in awe, I felt my own heart kneel. I looked up at the rough stone ceiling of our cave and imagined that same holy brightness filling it. For a moment, the firelight danced along the rocks, and I thought how easily Heaven could choose a poor, simple place to show its beauty.
Mini lifted her head and looked at me as if she sensed the quiet had grown deeper.
I thought about how Our Lady chose a little girl, not a queen or scholar. She chose a cold grotto, not a palace. That makes me feel that perhaps she does not mind my small cave along Indian Creek. Perhaps she even smiles at it.
When the light outside began to fade, I closed the book slowly. I pressed it to my chest and thanked Our Lady for coming to Bernadette — and for letting me read about it here, beside a little stove in Iowa.
Tonight I prayed this:
Evening Prayer to Our Lady of Lourdes
Dear Blessed Mother of Lourdes,
You who stood in light above the rocky grotto, please stand quietly in my heart tonight.
Make my soul simple like Bernadette’s, bright with faith even in cold and ordinary places.
Help me to pray the Rosary as you held it in your gentle hands.
Watch over Mini, Sister, and our little farm, and keep us close to your Son, Jesus.
Amen.
Love,
Kathy 💙
Dear Diary,
Today felt like a true Sunday—quiet, bright, and set apart. After Mass, we came home and kept the day gentle. The chores were only the necessary ones, and then Sister Mary Claire let the house settle into that peaceful Sunday stillness. Mini stayed close, following us from room to room like she always does, as if she knew it was the Lord’s Day too.
Later, we turned on the radio and listened to Bishop Robert Barron. I love how he explains things, because he makes big words feel plain and true, like you can hold them in your hand. He talked about how, on this Second Sunday of Lent, the first reading about Abraham and the Gospel story of the Transfiguration fit together like two parts of one lesson.
Bishop Barron said God made us to go out from ourselves—not to stay curled up in our own wants and worries, but to step out and see how wide and beautiful God’s world really is. He said Abraham had to leave what was familiar and safe and go where God led him, even without knowing the whole plan. And then, up on the mountain, Peter, James, and John saw Jesus shining in glory for a moment—almost like God let them peek at what is truly real and bright, so they would have courage for what was coming.
Bishop Barron explained that the more a person clutches onto their own way—wanting to stay comfortable, wanting to be in charge, wanting things to go just how they like—the smaller their heart gets. But when you let go, when you stop grabbing and hanging on to everything, you actually become more alive. He said that is part of what salvation is—Jesus saving us by pulling us out of our cramped little self and leading us into something bigger.
I thought about that for a long time. I know what it feels like when I’m holding on too tight—when I’m stubborn, or wanting my own way, or feeling sorry for myself. It makes my insides feel crowded. But when I say, “Alright, Jesus, I’ll trust You,” it feels like stepping into fresh air.
Bishop Barron even said that salvation has something to do with adventure—not adventure like running away, but adventure like following God when you don’t know the whole road yet. Like Abraham. Like the Apostles coming down the mountain after seeing Jesus shining, and still having to walk into hard days with trust.
Tonight I want to try letting go of my little “me-first” ways, even if it’s only in small things. Maybe that is how you start becoming more alive.
Evening Prayer
Dear Jesus,
Help me to come out of myself and follow You with a brave heart.
When I want to cling to my own way, teach me to let go.
Let Your light shine in my life the way it shone on the mountain.
Bless Sister Mary Claire, and bless dear little Mini.
Keep us faithful through Lent and close to You always.
Amen.
Love,
Kathy
Dear Diary,
It was 22 degrees today, bright and biting cold. Sister Mary Claire and I spent most of the day catching up on housework and chores. There were floors to sweep, dishes to wash, and everything to put back into order. It felt good to be busy, even if my hands were a little pink from the cold water.
All through the day I kept thinking about today’s meditation from The Circling Year—how Jesus allowed Himself to be taken and did not resist, even when His friends scattered in fear. He stayed steady and obedient. While I worked, I tried to remember that. Sometimes I want to hurry or complain, but Jesus bore far more and did it quietly.
When it was time for Vigil Mass, Robert picked us up and drove us to Church, and of course Mini came along too. The church felt warm after the sharp air outside. Father LeRoy explained the meditation so clearly. He said real strength is quiet and faithful. Jesus could have defended Himself, but He chose love instead. Father said courage often looks small from the outside, but it is very big in the eyes of God.
After Mass, Robert brought us home, and Sister Mary Claire invited him in for hot chocolate. We had baked Nestlé Toll House chocolate chip cookies earlier, and by then they were all cooled but still sitting neatly on the wire rack. When we lifted the cookies right off the rack, they were perfect—just crisp enough at the edges and soft in the middle. Robert took a bite, smiled, and called them “Baked Right Cookies.” That made us all laugh.
The recipe says to bake them 10 to 12 minutes, but Sister Mary Claire always takes them out at 9 minutes to make them just right. She says you must watch carefully and trust your eyes more than the clock. I think that is true about other things too.
Here is the recipe we used:
Nestlé Toll House Chocolate Chip Cookies
2¼ cups flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 cup butter
¾ cup sugar
¾ cup brown sugar
2 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 package (12 oz.) semi-sweet chocolate morsels
Cream butter and sugars. Add eggs and vanilla.
Mix dry ingredients and combine.
Stir in chocolate morsels.
Bake at 375° for 10–12 minutes (or 9 minutes if you want them just right). Cool on a wire rack.
Tonight I feel thankful for warm kitchens, good teaching, and cookies baked just right.
Evening Prayer
Dear Jesus,
Help me to be faithful in small things and brave in quiet ways.
When I feel tempted to run from what is hard, help me stay near You with trust.
Bless Sister Mary Claire, Father LeRoy, Robert, and dear little Mini.
Keep our home warm and our hearts steady.
Amen.
Love,
Kathy
Dear Diary,
It was 35 degrees this morning and muddy everywhere. The snow is giving way, and the ground has that soft, messy feel where your boots want to stick and slip at the same time. Sister Mary Claire and I met Robert at the mailbox, and Sister carried Mini so she would keep her little feet clean for Church. Mini looked perfectly content in Sister’s arms, like she knew she was being protected from the mud on purpose.
On the way to Church we talked about today’s meditation from The Circling Year. It was about the Garden, when they came to take Jesus, and Peter drew his sword and struck the servant—Malchus—and cut off his ear. I can almost see it in my mind: Peter stepping forward so fast, his heart hot and brave, wanting to protect Our Lord the best way he knew how. Sister said it is a frightening thing, how love can be true and still become rough when it doesn’t listen.
Father LeRoy brought that right into his homily. He said Peter’s zeal was real—Peter loved Jesus—but Peter acted before he prayed. Father said that in Lent we are learning the difference between fighting for Jesus in our own way and following Jesus in His way. And Jesus did not praise the sword. He told Peter to put it away. Then, as if His Heart could not bear even one wound in the middle of His own sorrow, Jesus healed the ear that had been cut. Father said that is the lesson: when our temper, our quick words, or our “I’ll fix it right now” spirit hurts someone—even if we meant well—Jesus wants healing, not winning.
On the ride home with Robert, Sister and I kept talking about it. I told her I feel like Peter sometimes, especially when I think something is unfair. I want to jump in and fix it right away, and I feel strong in my mind, like that must be courage. Sister said courage is real, but Lent teaches courage with gentleness. She said, “Kathy, the Lord does not need our sharpness. He asks for our faithfulness.” Mini sat with us like part of the conversation, clean paws tucked up, looking from one face to the other.
I keep thinking about Jesus healing Malchus’ ear—how calm He was, how kind, even while He was being taken away. I want to be like that. I want my love to be more like His.
Evening Prayer
Dear Jesus,
When I feel quick and bold like Peter, please help me to listen first. Put Your gentle hand on my heart before I speak or act. Teach me to love You without sharpness, and to choose healing over winning. Make me brave in the right way—quiet, faithful, and kind.
Amen.
Love,
Kathy
Dear Diary,
Father brought today’s meditation from The Circling Year right into his homily. It said that believing isn’t only something we say—it is something we must live, especially when following Jesus feels costly.
Father LeRoy spoke about the Garden, and how Our Lord let Himself be taken prisoner. Jesus could have stopped it, but He chose obedience and love. Father said Lent asks us to stay close to Jesus in that hour—when fear and confusion come—and not run away in our hearts. He said we can “keep watch” with Jesus by being faithful in small things: choosing prayer, choosing kindness, and returning our thoughts to God when they wander.
During the homily I held the old photograph from Gramma’s prayer book—only now I’m almost sure it is Gramma, when she was a little girl. She looks so much like me in it that it made my heart feel funny, like I was seeing myself in another time. The way she folds her hands, the way her eyes look up—she seems like she’s listening for God the way I try to.
I kept thinking: if Gramma was like me, then maybe she had wandering thoughts too, and still she learned to bring them back. Maybe she had days when she felt afraid inside, the way the disciples must have felt when Jesus was taken away. And maybe she whispered her prayers anyway, holding steady when everything felt uncertain. I imagined her kneeling quietly, loving Jesus, trying not to run away in her heart.
All at once Father was giving the final blessing. Sister Mary Claire tapped my shoulder and whispered, “Time to go.” I startled, then smiled, and slipped Gramma’s photograph back inside the prayer book like a little secret to keep safe. Mini stayed close with us as we walked out, as if she was helping me remember to keep watch.
Evening Prayer
Dear Jesus, as You were taken prisoner for love of us, help me stay close to You and not drift away. Help me live what I believe in the small, ordinary moments. And thank You for Gramma, who was so much like me—please let her prayers help me be brave and faithful too. Amen.
Love,
Kathy
February 25, 1957
Dear Diary,
Robert picked us up at the mailbox on his way to Church, just like always, and before we even reach the corner, we are already speaking about today’s Circling Year meditation. It is about Judas.
It sits heavy with me.
The meditation speaks about how Judas walks with Jesus, hears His voice, sees His miracles, even shares the bread—yet his heart drifts somewhere else. It says how frightening it is that a person can be so near to Our Lord outwardly and yet so far inwardly. Sister Mary Claire says that is what makes the story so serious. Judas does not begin as a villain. He begins as a chosen one.
Robert is quiet for a while and then says that perhaps Judas did not fall all at once. Perhaps it was small choices, small compromises, small loves that grew bigger than his love for Christ. That part stays with me. It makes the whole meditation feel close to home instead of far away in history.
At Mass, Father LeRoy speaks about it directly. He says the tragedy of Judas is not only betrayal, but that he stops trusting in mercy. He reminds us that Peter also falls, but Peter turns back. Judas turns away. Father says Lent is not given to frighten us, but to ask us gently: Where is your heart drifting? He says it very quietly, and it feels like the question lands right inside me.
On the ride home, the fields are wide and wintery, and I keep thinking how easy it would be to look steady on the outside but be wandering on the inside. I do not want that. I want my inside and outside to match.
Tonight the house is still, and I feel grateful for the warning hidden inside this Circling Year. The Church brings us back to Judas not so we can point at him, but so we can look at ourselves. And maybe turn back before it is too late.
Evening Prayer
Dear Jesus,
Keep my heart close to Yours.
If I begin to drift, please call me back.
Do not let small sins grow into something larger.
Give me Peter’s tears, not Judas’s despair.
Help me trust in Your mercy more than I trust in my fear.
Bless Father LeRoy, bless Robert, bless Sister Mary Claire, and bless Mini.
Hold us near You tonight.
Amen.
Love,
Kathy 🌾
Tuesday, February 24, 2026
Dear Diary,
The temperature has moderated, and it was 27 degrees this morning. After the bitter cold, it almost felt gentle. The air still had a sharp edge, but the sky was pale blue and hopeful.
I read today’s meditation from (Click on The Circling Year) before we left. It was about Our Lord in the Garden of Gethsemane, asking His friends to watch and pray — and finding them asleep. That line always makes my heart feel tender: “Could you not watch one hour with Me?” Not angry. Not harsh. Just sorrowful and loving. The meditation said how willing our spirit can be, yet how weak our flesh is. I understand that. I truly want to be faithful, but sometimes I drift or grow comfortable.
Robert picked us up in his pickup as usual and right on time. The engine sounded strong in the cold morning. Mini hopped right in like she belonged to the whole parish. She sat between us, ears perked and eyes bright, watching the fields slide by. The gravel road was firm with frost, and the tires made that steady humming sound I always like.
Father LeRoy met us at Church. During Mass he brought the meditation right into his homily. He said that Jesus did not scold His disciples as a schoolmaster might, but invited them again into prayer. He explained that watching with Christ does not always mean grand sacrifices — sometimes it means staying faithful in small duties, staying awake in spirit, choosing love when we are tired.
He said something that struck me deeply: that Gethsemane comes to each of us in quiet ways — in temptations to give up, to complain, to turn away from prayer. And that even if we fail for a moment, Jesus still turns toward us with mercy.
I looked at the crucifix while he spoke and felt both small and safe at the same time.
Mini behaved beautifully. She curled under the pew and only lifted her head once when someone coughed behind us. I think she was keeping watch in her own little way.
This evening the sky is soft and gray, and the fields are still. Twenty-seven degrees feels almost warm now. I do not want to fall asleep in my soul. I want to stay near Him.
Evening Prayer
Dear Jesus,
Help me to watch with You.
When I grow tired or distracted, gently wake my heart.
Let my small acts of love be my hour with You.
Bless Robert, Father LeRoy, Sister Mary Claire, and dear little Mini.
Keep us faithful and close to Your Sacred Heart tonight.
Amen.
Love,
Kathy
Dear Diary,
Today the temperature never climbed above five degrees, and the wind made it downright dangerous to stay outside for more than a few minutes. The chill is far below zero, and even the trees sound brittle when they sway. So we all stayed put, safe and warm in the cozy living room, with the stove working steady and faithful.
I began the new book The Story of Our Lady of Lourdes, and I could hardly lift my eyes from it. The first chapter tells about the little town of Lourdes in France, tucked near the mountains with a river running through it and an old castle standing watch. It feels like such an ordinary town — mills, narrow streets, simple homes — and that makes my heart stir, because it reminds me that God so often chooses very ordinary places for His greatest wonders.
Mini stayed curled up tight against my side on the rug, her little body warm as a hot water bottle. Every now and then she would lift her head when the wind rattled the windows, but she seemed content knowing we were staying in. I read aloud a few lines to her, and I told her that somewhere far across the ocean, in a quiet town much like our own, something beautiful was about to happen.
It feels special to begin a book like this on such a still and serious winter day. The cold outside makes the warmth inside feel like a blessing. And the quiet makes the story seem even closer.
Love,
Kathy
Dear Diary,
Today was so cold it almost made the air feel crisp instead of just cold. It was 7 degrees this morning, and the world looked stiff and still. Robert wasn’t able to pick us up for Church, so Sister Mary Claire and I were homebound.
But I was grateful all day long, because we had gone to the Vigil Mass, and after Church we spent extra time in front of the Blessed Sacrament. I keep thinking how the church can be warm and quiet even when it’s bitter outside, and how Jesus being there makes everything feel steady—like your heart can come in out of the weather.
Sister Mary Claire read to me from The Circling Year, that faithful old 1925 meditation book that was first written for religious sisters living quietly in the cloister. Sister says it’s like the book was made for people who want to listen carefully. Father LeRoy reads it too, and sometimes he brings its thoughts into his homily, like he’s handing us a lantern for the day.
Today’s meditation was about Jesus going into the desert to fast and pray, and then being tempted. It said Jesus didn’t rush into His great work without first going into silence—almost like He let the Holy Ghost lead Him away from noise so His heart could be strong and ready. Sister Mary Claire said that’s why silence is not just “being quiet,” but a kind of listening. She told me, “Kathy, the desert is a place where God can speak to the heart because there’s less crowding in there.”
The meditation also said temptation itself isn’t sin, because even Jesus allowed the devil to tempt Him. That helped me, because sometimes just having a bad thought makes me feel worried, even if I don’t want it. Sister said, “The important thing is what you do next—do you turn toward God, or do you play with the temptation like it’s a toy?” I thought that was a good way to say it.
It also talked about how the enemy can switch tactics—if he sees someone can resist one kind of temptation, he’ll try to puff them up with pride. Sister Mary Claire looked right at me when she said that, but she wasn’t scolding. She was just helping me watch my own heart.
Mini was a very good girl as usual. She stayed close, followed us from room to room, and curled up like a little warm loaf near the stove. When Sister read the part about “finding strength in silence,” Mini yawned and sighed like she agreed completely. I scratched behind her ears and told her she was practicing the desert life just fine.
Tonight, even though we couldn’t go to Mass this morning, I feel like Jesus still visited us—through the Vigil Mass memory, through the quiet of this cold day, and through the words from The Circling Year that keep pointing the heart back to Him.
Evening Prayer:
Jesus, lead me into the kind of silence where You can speak to my heart. Help me not to fear temptations, but to answer them the right way—by turning quickly to You. Give me strength to practice little mortifications that help me grow, and keep me humble and steady. Thank You for the Vigil Mass, for time near You in the Blessed Sacrament, and for a peaceful home on a seven-degree day. Please bless Sister Mary Claire, Father LeRoy, dear Robert, and sweet Mini, and keep us safe through the night. Amen.
Love, Kathy
Dear Diary,
We went back into the deep freeze today. It was 10 degrees above zero when I first looked out the window, and the snow was falling in flakes so big it seemed they could rest in a coffee cup without even melting.
By evening, Robert picked us up as usual and right on time, and we all went together to Saturday Mass. St. Mary’s was glowing when we arrived. Father LeRoy had the church all warm from the wood that Robert so faithfully keeps bringing.
Father LeRoy based his homily on today’s meditation from The Circling Year. He said Lent is not only about outside things we give up, but the inside places we let God reach. He explained that sometimes our hearts are like frozen ground in winter—hard on top—but life is still there underneath. God does not smash the ground open. He warms it slowly and patiently.
Father said prayer, sacrifice, and small hidden kindnesses are like steady warmth. They soften what has gotten stiff in us—pride, impatience, wanting our own way. And if we feel like we are not changing fast enough, we should not lose heart, because even a snow-covered field is preparing for spring.
We were all glad to get back home, and Mini was especially ready for her supper.
Tonight the snow is still falling, soft and steady, and the farm is quiet.
Evening Prayer
Dear Jesus,
Warm the frozen places in my heart.
Help me to be patient while You work in me.
Teach me to do small kindnesses without being noticed.
And keep our little church warm with Your love.
Love,
Kathy
Dear Diary,
Father LeRoy brought today’s meditation into his homily, and I do not think I shall ever forget it. He spoke about Our Lord in the Garden of Gethsemane and how the sorrow that pressed upon Him was not forced on Him, but chosen. Father said that Jesus willed to feel the weight of our sins. He could have stopped it, but He did not, because love held Him there.
That thought settled deep inside me.
Father said that when Jesus saw all the sins of the world — past and future — it was like a dark river pouring over His Heart. He even saw ours. Mine. And yet He stayed. Father’s voice grew quiet when he said, “If He grieved so deeply for your sins, how lightly can you treat them?” No one moved in the pews.
The ride home from Church was still and thoughtful. Sister Mary Claire held her rosary softly in her hands, and Mini sat close beside me without fidgeting, which is unusual for her. I think even she felt something solemn in the air.
After dinner I told Sister I needed to walk a bit. She understood.
I made my way down the worn path to the cave. The February air was cold and clean, and the creek moved quietly beneath its thin edge of ice. I wanted to see that everything was in order — the walnut door, my Underwood resting where it belongs, the little grotto with Our Lady. It all seemed steady and faithful.
And then — there was Shaggycoat.
He came up from the water’s edge, slick and busy-looking as ever, but when he saw me he paused, just long enough to look straight at me. It felt like a greeting meant only for me. As if he knew.
How did he know I needed something steady? Something simple? Who would have thought a beaver could lift a girl’s spirits? But perhaps that is how God works. Father LeRoy said Jesus sanctified our sorrow — that He does not waste it. Maybe even small creatures are sent to remind us that life keeps building, keeps repairing, keeps going on.
Shaggycoat never stops tending his lodge. Even in cold water, even when branches break loose. He just keeps at it. There is something holy about that kind of quiet perseverance.
Standing there, I realized that if Jesus bore sorrow for love, then I can bear my small discomforts for love too. Maybe my little contrition can be laid beside His great sorrow like a tiny stick added to a strong lodge.
Mini barked once at Shaggycoat — politely — and then pressed herself against my boots. No tail, of course, but her whole back end wiggled. That made me smile.
I came home lighter than I left.
Evening Prayer
O Jesus, sorrowful in the Garden, teach me to stay with You. When my heart feels heavy, let me not run from it but bring it to Your Sacred Heart. Help me to be faithful in small things, like Shaggycoat with his lodge. And when I forget, remind me gently that You saw me in Gethsemane and loved me still.
Amen.
Love,
Kathy
Dear Diary,
Father brought today’s meditation into his homily for the second day of Lent. He told us the reflections we’ve been hearing come from The Circling Year, and he wove today’s meditation right into his sermon so gently that it felt like it belonged there all along.
He said Jesus did not walk into His Passion like someone forced—He walked forward because He loved us. Father spoke about Him leaving the Last Supper and going into Gethsemane, step by step, choosing love the whole way. When we look at Christ’s suffering as a lesson in love, Father said, it helps us carry our own small crosses—especially the ones that test our patience—without turning hard inside.
On the ride home in Robert’s pickup, the heater hummed softly while the fields lay gray and still. Mini sat warm on my lap, tucked against my coat. Sister Mary Claire said Lent teaches us not to step around hard things, but to walk with Jesus through them. Even shadowy places can grow bright if we let His love in.
Robert said he offers his long workdays for people who are struggling, and that remembering Jesus chose love makes ordinary work feel holy. That made me think about my own quiet sacrifices.
As we turned into the farm lane, I felt calmer. I want to walk this Lent step by step—choosing love, even when it costs something.
Love, Kathy
Dear Diary,
This morning was 39 degrees and windy, which made it feel much colder than it sounds. The wind pushed at our coats as we waited, and I tucked my chin down deep into my scarf. Robert picked us up as usual and right on time, and we were grateful not to have to walk in that sharp wind on Ash Wednesday.
At Church, Father LeRoy spoke about the ashes and how they are not just a smudge on our foreheads, but a reminder that we belong to God and must turn our hearts back to Him. The meditation said that Lent is not only about giving things up, but about giving our hearts more fully to Jesus. It said that we must remember how small we are without Him — like dust — but also how loved we are, because He breathed His life into us.
When Father pressed the cool ashes on my forehead, I felt very quiet inside. I thought about how quickly things pass — winter, childhood, even warm days. And I thought about how I want my love for Jesus not to pass, but to grow.
On the ride home, the truck rocked a little in the wind. Sister Mary Claire said Lent is like standing steady when the wind blows — holding onto Jesus instead of complaining about the weather. I liked that.
This evening I decided to give up hot chocolate. I do love it, especially on cold nights like this. Sister smiled softly when I told her and said she thought that would be a good thing for her to give up too. We both laughed a little, knowing how we warm our hands around those mugs.
I told Mini she didn’t have to give up one single thing — not even the bone broth topping on her breakfast. She wagged her little bottom as if she understood perfectly. I think dogs already live simply and gratefully, which is something I should learn.
The house feels plainer tonight without the thought of hot chocolate, but also a little brighter inside my heart. A small sacrifice, but I am offering it with love.
Evening Prayer
Dear Jesus,
As the ashes rest lightly on my forehead, let Your love rest deeply in my heart.
Help me to give up small comforts with a glad spirit,
And to hold fast to You when the winds blow cold.
Make this Lent a time of quiet growing,
So that by Easter my heart will be warmer than any cup of cocoa.
Amen.
Love, Kathy
At breakfast, I pulled a folded slip of paper from my pocket and showed Sister Mary Claire the quotation I had written down from Father LeRoy’s homily:
“O Jesus, my Love, at last I have found my vocation. My vocation is to love. In the heart of my Mother the Church, I will be the Love.”
Mini lay quietly near my chair, listening in her own way.
“I love how it sounds,” I told Sister, “but I don’t quite understand it.”
Sister read it slowly and said, “St. Thérèse is telling Jesus she finally understands what God made her for. Not something loud or grand — but love.”
She explained, “The Church is like a living body. Some people are like hands that help, feet that go, voices that teach. But the heart is hidden, and it keeps everything alive. Thérèse wanted to be that heart — praying, loving, doing little duties with great love — so warmth could reach the whole Church.”
“So my vocation can be love too?” I asked.
Sister smiled. “Yes, Kathy. Love in ordinary things is never small.”
Evening Prayer
O Jesus, my Love,
Teach me to love You in small, faithful ways.
Make my heart gentle and steady,
And let my love bring warmth to Your Church.
Bless Sister Mary Claire, Father LeRoy, and Mini tonight.
Keep us close to You.
Amen.
Love,
Kathy
Dear Diary,
Today I read something St. Thérèse once said:
“Jesus, Jesus, if it is so sweet to desire love, how sweet will it be to possess it, to enjoy it for all eternity?”
I kept thinking about it while Mini was sitting beside me. She had her little chin resting on my knee, looking up at me the way she does when she wants to be close. She doesn’t always jump or bark. Sometimes she just leans. She just wants to be near.
And I thought — maybe that is what St. Thérèse means.
Even when I only want to love Jesus better, there is already something warm inside. It’s like when Mini waits at the door for Sister to come home. She isn’t with her yet, but her tail (well… her little bottom) wiggles anyway because she knows love is coming.
If it is already sweet just to long for Jesus, just to whisper His name and wish to be closer — then how sweet will it be when we are truly with Him? Not just hoping. Not just reaching. But resting in Him forever.
Sometimes my heart aches a little because I know I don’t love Him as much as I should. But maybe that ache is not a bad thing. Maybe it is like Mini pressing closer when she wants to be held — a sign that I was made for more closeness than I have right now.
If wanting Him feels this gentle and hopeful, then Heaven must feel like finally being gathered up and never having to wait again.
Tonight I will let my heart lean toward Jesus the way Mini leans toward me — quiet, trusting, and sure that love is near.
Love,
Kathy
Dear Diary,
This morning we woke to a half inch of ice laid over everything like clear glass. The trees bowed low and the gravel road shone hard and silver. Church was cancelled, of course. Even Robert’s pickup would have had no business out on that road. So instead, Sister Mary Claire and I wrapped ourselves in blankets and turned on the little radio.
Mini knew right away it was an “inside day.” She trotted from window to window with her ears alert, then curled up near us like a warm little loaf, watching our faces as if she could tell something solemn was happening. Every so often she sighed and pressed her chin on Sister’s slipper, and it made me feel comforted, like she was keeping watch on our quiet.
We listened to Bishop Barron speak about freedom — real freedom — the kind that chooses the good. He quoted Thomas More from A Man for All Seasons, saying that God made animals for innocence and plants for their simplicity, but man He made to serve Him “wittily, in the tangle of his mind.”
That word wittily stayed with me.
Sister said it means God doesn’t want us to love Him by accident or by instinct like birds flying south. He wants us to think. To wrestle. To choose Him on purpose. Even when it’s hard. Even when the road is icy and the world feels stiff and cold.
Mini doesn’t have to decide about goodness the way we do. She just loves and follows and trusts. If Sister stands up, Mini stands up. If we kneel to pray, Mini settles down as if prayer-time has a sound she understands. I watched her and thought: I want my choosing to be as faithful as her trusting — only with my mind and will added in, like Father says, so my love can be a gift I mean to give.
It made the house feel very quiet. Not empty quiet, but solemn quiet — like the Church right before Lent begins. We didn’t rush to fill the silence. We just let it sit with us.
I kept thinking how animals do what they are made to do without deciding. But I must decide. I must use my mind and my will. That feels serious. Almost heavy. But also beautiful — like being trusted with something important.
Maybe that is why Lent is coming. To help us practice choosing well. Choosing prayer. Choosing truth. Choosing love.
The ice outside did not melt all day. It held everything still. And perhaps that was fitting. A stillness before we begin again.
Tonight I want to give God not just my feelings, but my thinking and my willing too.
Evening Prayer
Lord Jesus,
You made me with a mind to seek truth and a will to choose what is good.
Help me not to drift like a leaf but to choose You carefully and bravely.
As Lent comes near, teach me to love You on purpose.
Keep my heart steady even when the road is icy.
Bless Sister Mary Claire, and bless little Mini, and make our home a small, quiet place where we can choose You again. Amen.
Love, Kathy
Dear Diary,
This morning was another slushie day, and it was 36 degrees when we woke up. Everything outside looked half-wet and half-frozen, like the whole world couldn’t decide what it wanted to be. So instead of going in the morning, we went to evening Mass.
Robert picked us up as usual and right on time, and then we all sat together in the front pew—Robert, Sister Mary Claire, Mini, and me—so Robert could keep the wood-burning stove going. I liked hearing the little crackle and pop from the fire while Father LeRoy preached. It made the church feel extra safe and warm, even though my boots were still thinking about the slush outside.
In Father’s homily, he quoted St. Thérèse. He said:
“How sweet is the way of love. Yes, one may fall or commit infidelities; but love, knowing how to draw profit from everything, quickly consumes all that would displease Jesus, leaving at the bottom of the heart only a humble and profound peace.”
Father explained that St. Thérèse isn’t pretending we never mess up. She is saying that when we really love Jesus, we don’t have to sit in the mud of our mistakes forever. Love doesn’t make excuses, but it also doesn’t let us stay stuck. Love runs straight to Jesus with the truth, and then it lets Him clean the heart like a good fire cleans a cold stove—burning up what shouldn’t be there, warming what is, and leaving behind something quiet and steady.
Father said that even our falls can become a kind of lesson, if we don’t turn away in pride. If we fall, we can say, “Jesus, I’m sorry. I’m small. Help me.” And then we can start again—right away. He said the enemy wants a mistake to turn into despair, but Jesus wants it to turn into humility. And humility is peaceful, because it’s honest. It doesn’t pretend to be strong. It just leans on God.
When Mass was over, Robert smiled at Mini and handed her a little Valentine card. Mini sniffed it like it was very important mail. Then the funniest thing happened—she nosed it open and a little cookie slid out. Her ears popped up so fast they looked like they had springs, and she looked up at Robert like, Oh! This is a very good kind of love. Robert laughed, and even Sister Mary Claire’s eyes got that bright, happy look. I felt warm clear down to my toes.
Tonight I want to remember what Father said—how love can make even the hard parts turn into something useful, if I bring them to Jesus quickly and don’t hide.
Evening Prayer:
Jesus, make my heart learn the sweet way of love. If I fall, help me run back to You fast, without excuses and without fear. Burn away what displeases You, like a warm fire that makes things clean again. Leave in me a humble and quiet peace. Keep Sister Mary Claire, Robert, and dear Mini safe tonight. Thank You for small kindnesses—like a warm stove in church, and a Valentine with a cookie inside. Amen.
Love, Kathy
Dear Diary,
After chores, Sister Mary Claire let me dust her little shelf, and she set out her small keepsake box like it was something important and tender. It’s not a fancy box—just a little one she keeps tucked away—but it feels like it holds quiet treasures.
When she stepped into the other room, I peeked inside (not in a nosy way… just in a Kathy way). And that’s when I saw it: a little blue pin with Saint Thérèse on it. It had a soft, worn look, like it had been loved for a long time. I held it carefully in my palm, and it made me feel calm—like when you sit near the fire and everything hushes down.
At Mass, Father LeRoy explained something that stayed in my head all day. He said that when we’re hurting, or tired, or mixed up inside, we don’t have to make big prayers with perfect words. We can just tell Jesus in our heart, “Jesus, I’m here.” And if we can’t even say that—if we’re too worn out—then we can just stay close to Him, and that is love.
I kept thinking about Saint Thérèse in her bed, suffering and not able to sleep, and still turning toward Jesus like a little flower turning toward the sun. She said she didn’t say anything to Him—she just loved Him. And Father said love can be a prayer all by itself, even when there are no words.
When we got home, I asked Sister about the pin, and she smiled the way she does when something is dear to her. She said Saint Thérèse helps her remember that Jesus understands a quiet heart. I asked if I could keep the pin near me for a little while tonight, and Sister said yes.
So I’m going to set it close—like a small reminder that even if I don’t have the right words, Jesus still knows what I mean.
Evening Prayer:
Jesus, sometimes I don’t know what to say.
But I’m here.
Please let my quiet love be my prayer.
Keep me close to You, like Saint Thérèse,
and help me trust You even when I’m tired.
Amen.
Love, Kathy.
Dear Diary,
This morning it was 36 degrees and everything felt wet and soft, like the snow had turned to sponge. The yard squished under my boots. Mini didn’t mind at all—she tested every puddle like it was her job.
Robert picked us up as usual and right on time. The roads were muddy but we made it. Sister Mary Claire reminded me to step carefully so I wouldn’t bring half the farm into St. Mary’s.
Inside church it was warm and quiet, and the sanctuary lamp glowed red. Father LeRoy’s homily followed today’s meditation from The Circling Year: loving Jesus isn’t something we do only when it feels sweet and easy. He said we can’t wait for “warm feelings” to prove our love is real. Real love stays steady even when the heart feels ordinary.
I kept thinking of the little St. Thérèse recipe card with the felt backing—her prayer and that line:
“I do not desire sensible love. If it is sensible to love Jesus, that is enough for me.”
It made me realize I sometimes want prayer to feel like sunshine. But maybe loving Jesus quietly—especially when I feel plain and distracted—is still love, and maybe it even pleases Him more.
On the ride home, Sister Mary Claire said St. Thérèse teaches us to do small things for Jesus without measuring our feelings. Robert said the best farm work is often the unnoticed kind. Mini fell asleep as soon as we got home, muddy paws and all, like she’d been on an important mission.
Tonight I set St. Thérèse’s card on my desk and tried to be glad for quiet love.
Evening Prayer
Sweet Jesus,
Teach me to love You whether I feel it or not.
Let my love be steady like the sanctuary lamp.
Help me do small things with great love,
and be faithful to You in the quiet.
If it is sensible to love You,
that is enough for me.
Amen.
Love,
Kathy
Dear Diary,
Today is the Feast of Our Lady of Lourdes, and all day it felt like my thoughts kept drifting toward a grotto and a little stream. Even the cold air outside seemed quiet, like it was holding its breath. I kept thinking how Our Lady chose a poor, sickly girl—Bernadette—someone the grown-ups didn’t take very seriously. And still, Heaven came to her anyway.
This evening Robert treated Sister Mary Claire, me, and Mini to his very favorite old movie, The Song of Bernadette. He brought his projector and a real movie reel, and when he turned it on the room filled up with that soft clicking sound, like a tiny train going somewhere far away. Robert looked as happy as if he had brought us a whole feast.
The movie tells how Bernadette Soubirous, a simple girl from Lourdes, sees a beautiful Lady in white at the grotto of Massabielle. Bernadette doesn’t try to sound important—she just says what she saw. And because she won’t change her story to make people pleased, she gets questioned and teased and pushed around. But she stays gentle and firm. The Lady asks her to pray, and to do penance, and to tell the priests. Then that little spring begins to flow, and people come with their sufferings and their hopes, and some of them are healed. The saddest parts were when nobody believed her, and the sweetest parts were when Bernadette prayed anyway.
When the film ended, we sat very still for a minute. Sister Mary Claire’s eyes looked shiny in the lamplight, and Robert quietly rewound his reel like it was something precious.
Later, when it was time for bed, I couldn’t stop seeing a picture in my mind—so clear it felt like a memory. I imagined Mini and me down at Indian Creek, sitting on a mossy rock at the water’s edge. My hands were folded, holding my rosary, the beads slipping softly through my fingers. Mini sat close beside me, very still, her ears lifted and pointed the same way my heart was pointing. Across the creek, in the gentle glow, I imagined Our Lady of Lourdes—white and peaceful—standing as if the woods themselves were praying with her. The water shone like it was catching light from Heaven. And in my imagining, neither Mini nor I felt afraid. We just looked and looked, like children who finally found what they were longing for, even if we couldn’t explain it.
I think that is what the Feast felt like today: Our Lady reminding the world that she comes to the low places—the rocks, the cold streams, the quiet corners—and she invites us to pray there.
Evening Prayer
Our Lady of Lourdes,
please help me to be simple like Bernadette—truthful, brave, and gentle. Teach me to pray even when no one understands me. Bring Your Son close to our little home, to Sister Mary Claire, to dear Robert, and to faithful Mini. If there is anything sick or scared in my heart, let Your love be a healing spring.
Amen.
Love,
Kathy 🌹
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| Click on Mini to Enlarge |
Dear Diary,
This morning Robert picked us up as usual and right on time in the pickup, with the cold still holding tight to the fields. Sister Mary Claire and I sat close together, and Mini stood with her paws braced, ears alert, like she always does when she knows we’re going to church. I hadn’t read today’s meditation yet, so I didn’t quite know what to expect, but I had a feeling it would be a serious one.
Father LeRoy’s homily turned out to be a lot of food for thought. He spoke about how Jesus asks us not just to listen, but to let His words change us, even when they unsettle us or make us see ourselves more clearly than we might like. Father said the Lord isn’t trying to confuse us—He’s trying to draw us deeper, past easy answers and into trust. That made me sit very still in the pew. I kept thinking about how often I want things explained neatly, when maybe Jesus wants me to sit with the question instead.
On the ride home, I told Sister and Robert that my head felt full, like when you’ve read something important but don’t quite know yet what to do with it. Robert said that was probably a good sign. Sister helped by putting it into simpler words, saying that Jesus was asking for honesty of heart more than clever thoughts. Mini leaned against my leg the whole way, which somehow made everything feel steadier.
When we got home, Sister invited Robert in for coffee, and he stayed for a piece of mincemeat pie with fresh whipping cream. The kitchen felt warm and kind, and it was nice to hear everyone talking easily again. Mini sat very politely and was rewarded with a small dollop of whipping cream, which she accepted as if it were a great honor. It felt like one of those days where thinking hard and resting gently both belonged together.
I am grateful for days like this.
Evening Prayer
Dear Jesus, thank You for Your words, even when they stretch my thinking and my heart. Thank You for Father LeRoy helping me understand, and for Sister and Robert helping me feel peaceful again. Help me keep what You taught me today and live it quietly and faithfully. Please bless our home and everyone who shared our table. Amen.
Love, Kathy
Dear Diary,
This morning Robert picked us up as usual and right on time — in his pickup, with the heater working hard against the February cold. Sister Mary Claire and I climbed in together, and Mini wiggled herself into our little bundle like she belonged there most of all. The road felt rough and frozen, and I held my prayer book close, thinking about today’s meditation and how Jesus kept calling His apostles back to trust—back to remembering that God provides, even when we feel small and worried.
At Mass, Father LeRoy’s homily fit right into that. He spoke about how easy it is to look at what we don’t have—strength, answers, clear paths—and forget how many times the Lord has already carried us. Father said that when Jesus speaks like that, it isn’t scolding so much as it is love: like He’s trying to lift our chin so we’ll look up again. While he talked, I found myself glancing toward the tabernacle and wishing I could hold on tighter to that kind of trust, the kind that doesn’t shake the minute something turns hard.
And that is exactly what I felt after Mass, because my thoughts went straight to the creek and the cave. The slope down to it is steep, and now it’s a mean mix of mud and ice, the kind that tricks your boots. I kept worrying that I won’t be able to visit Shaggycoat—my beaver friend—or the cave for a while, and it made my chest feel tight, like I was being kept away from something safe and dear. But then Father’s words came back to me: the Lord provides, even when the way is closed for a time. Maybe this is one of those days when trusting Jesus means staying put, even when my heart wants to hurry down a slippery hill.
This afternoon I kept picturing the sun softening everything little by little, and I asked Jesus to help me be patient. If He can hold the whole world in His care, He can surely hold Shaggycoat and our secret place too, until it’s safe again.
Evening Prayer
Dear Jesus, thank You for bringing me to Mass today and for Father LeRoy’s words that helped me remember Your care. Help me trust You when I feel disappointed or worried, and keep me from rushing into danger just because I miss the cave. Please watch over Shaggycoat by the creek, and keep the slope safe until I can visit again. Stay with me tonight and teach my heart to rest in You. Amen.
Love, Kathy
Dear Diary,
This morning the air was 26 degrees, and everything outside felt like it had been held still by a quiet hand. The ground was frozen hard, and even the weeds by the fence looked stiff and silvered. It made me feel peaceful, because it meant there would be no muddy footprints in Church — not mine, and not Mini’s either. She stepped along like a little careful soldier, neat and proper, as if she understood that today was meant to be clean and solemn.
In Church, the world seemed softer. The candles flickered like tiny steady stars, and the hush in the pews felt like a blanket laid over everyone’s shoulders. When Father LeRoy began his homily, his voice didn’t feel like it was only filling the air — it felt like it was reaching down inside me, like a bell that keeps ringing even after you can’t see it swinging anymore.
He spoke about Jesus at the Last Supper, and about the apostles — His own friends — and how He knew they would be afraid. Father said Jesus didn’t stop loving them because they were weak. He looked at them with truth in His eyes, and still He stayed with them. Still He fed them. Still He prayed for them.
And then… I don’t know how to explain it, but I sort of floated away inside my thoughts. It was like I was sitting in the pew, and also somewhere else at the same time.
I could see it — a room lit in gentle shadows, a long table, and Jesus there, not harsh, not angry, but serious in a way that is almost more tender than smiling. His hand lifted as He spoke, like He was trying to gather their hearts back to Him before the night scattered them. The apostles leaned in, troubled and slow to understand, like men who can feel a storm coming but don’t know where to stand.
And in my imagination, Sister Mary Claire and I were across the room, holding on to each other, and I was hanging onto Mini too — the three of us watching, quiet as can be. I felt a little shiver in my heart, not from cold, but from how real it seemed: Jesus loving them so much, and still warning them, because love doesn’t pretend the hard things aren’t coming.
Father’s homily made me wonder about my own bravery. Not the brave that runs toward danger like in storybooks… but the brave that stays close. The brave that keeps loving. The brave that doesn’t disappear when things get frightening inside.
Could I be strong?
Could I be faithful?
Could I stay near Jesus when it would be easier to drift away like smoke?
Tonight, when the house got quiet, I kept thinking of that table and that look on His face. And I decided I’m going to keep my Sacred Heart badge close to me — right on my bedside table — so when I wake up and when I fall asleep, I’ll remember that Jesus is near, and He wants my heart to stay with His.
Evening Prayer:
Dear Jesus,
When I am weak, please be my strength.
When I feel afraid, please be my courage.
Let me stay close to You like a little lamp that won’t blow out.
Teach my heart to be faithful — not all at once, but day by day,
until I can love You bravely.
Amen.
Love,
Kathy 💙
