Dear Diary,
Today was another cold day (+10 degrees) the kind where your breath turns white the minute you step outside. Robert picked us up for Mass again, but he came a half hour early because he had a load of split ash wood for us. Sister Mary Claire and I thanked him and thanked him, because ash is such good stove wood, but Robert just shrugged it off like it was nothing.
When we got home, we started stacking it right away. Mini supervised the whole thing like a tiny foreman, trotting back and forth with her ears out, watching every log go into place. If I set one a little crooked, she gave me that look like, Kathy… we are building a wall against January. So I fixed it.
At Mass, Father’s message in the homily was about how Jesus stays with us in the tabernacle because He loves us, and how He didn’t want to leave us alone even after He went back to the Father. Father LeRoy said love always wants to be near, and that Jesus chose a way to remain close—quietly—so we could come to Him anytime. He said the tabernacle is not just “where Jesus is,” but also where Jesus is waiting—not like waiting impatiently, but waiting like Someone who is glad when you arrive, even if you come in all bundled up and feeling small.
Father also said something that stayed in my mind: that Jesus, hidden and still, is busy loving us—thinking of our needs, ready to help us, ready to strengthen us. He said when we kneel and whisper even one honest sentence, Jesus can speak back to our hearts—softly—like He knows exactly where the sore spot is inside us. And Father reminded us of that kind invitation Jesus always gives: Come to Me… and I will refresh you.
On the way home, I kept thinking about it while the cold fields slid past the windows. I thought about how the tabernacle is kind of like our stove—quiet on the outside, but full of warmth inside. And I thought about Robert’s ash wood too, because that was a real kindness that came early, before we even asked, and it made our home warmer. Then it hit me that Jesus does that even more—He gives Himself, not just something helpful, but Himself. That’s bigger than a whole truckload of ash.
So today I want to remember two things:
Kindness can be quiet. Robert didn’t make a speech about it. He just did it.
Today was another cold day (+10 degrees) the kind where your breath turns white the minute you step outside. Robert picked us up for Mass again, but he came a half hour early because he had a load of split ash wood for us. Sister Mary Claire and I thanked him and thanked him, because ash is such good stove wood, but Robert just shrugged it off like it was nothing.
When we got home, we started stacking it right away. Mini supervised the whole thing like a tiny foreman, trotting back and forth with her ears out, watching every log go into place. If I set one a little crooked, she gave me that look like, Kathy… we are building a wall against January. So I fixed it.
At Mass, Father’s message in the homily was about how Jesus stays with us in the tabernacle because He loves us, and how He didn’t want to leave us alone even after He went back to the Father. Father LeRoy said love always wants to be near, and that Jesus chose a way to remain close—quietly—so we could come to Him anytime. He said the tabernacle is not just “where Jesus is,” but also where Jesus is waiting—not like waiting impatiently, but waiting like Someone who is glad when you arrive, even if you come in all bundled up and feeling small.
Father also said something that stayed in my mind: that Jesus, hidden and still, is busy loving us—thinking of our needs, ready to help us, ready to strengthen us. He said when we kneel and whisper even one honest sentence, Jesus can speak back to our hearts—softly—like He knows exactly where the sore spot is inside us. And Father reminded us of that kind invitation Jesus always gives: Come to Me… and I will refresh you.
On the way home, I kept thinking about it while the cold fields slid past the windows. I thought about how the tabernacle is kind of like our stove—quiet on the outside, but full of warmth inside. And I thought about Robert’s ash wood too, because that was a real kindness that came early, before we even asked, and it made our home warmer. Then it hit me that Jesus does that even more—He gives Himself, not just something helpful, but Himself. That’s bigger than a whole truckload of ash.
So today I want to remember two things:
Kindness can be quiet. Robert didn’t make a speech about it. He just did it.
Jesus is the quietest kindness of all, because He stays, and waits, and never gets tired of us coming back.
After supper, I went and looked at the wood stack again, just because it felt so comforting to see it there—straight and ready. Mini followed me and sniffed the bottom row like she was checking if winter had any sneaky holes. Then she leaned against my leg for a second, and I thought, Even Mini likes a house that feels safe.
And I decided I want to go to Jesus more—not only when I have a big problem, but also when I just need my heart to be warmed up and put back in order.
Evening Prayer
Dear Jesus, thank You for staying with us in the tabernacle because You love us so much. Thank You for caring about our little needs and our big ones too. Please bless Robert for his kindness, and help me to be grateful without forgetting You are the greatest Gift. Keep our home warm, keep us faithful, and teach me to come to You quickly—like You are truly waiting for me. Amen.
Love, Kathy
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