Deep Freeze and Big Snow

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

Joy Beside the Cave

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

 

Second Day of Lent - The Ride Home

 

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

Ashes and Little Sacrifices

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

Sources:  The Circling Year

My Vocation Is to Love

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

Jesus, Jesus

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

Sunday Before Lent — Ice and Freedom

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 

Happy Valentine's Day

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

The Little Pin

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.

Love That Doesn’t Have to Feel Like Anything

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

Robert Brings the Movie

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 🌹

“Food for Thought and Whipped Cream”

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

“Trusting Jesus When the Path Is Slippery”

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

The Circling Year

“Holding Close to the Sacred Heart”

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 💙

Mailbox Pickup & Jesus Prays for Us

Dear Diary,

The yard was muddy today, so Robert picked us up at the mailbox for evening Mass.

Mini came too, of course. She acted like muddy paws were part of her job, and she sat there on her towel looking proud, ears alert, like she was guarding us all the way to church.

At Mass, Father LeRoy based his homily on today’s meditation about Jesus’ pontifical prayer—how Jesus prayed to His Father for His followers. Father said Jesus wasn’t asking that we be taken out of the world, but that we be protected from the spirit of it.

He explained that the “spirit of the world” is when comfort, attention, and getting our own way starts to matter more than God. Father told us Jesus wants our hearts to stay simple and clean—full of faith, hope, and love—and ready to turn away from sin, even from the shadow of it.

Then Father spoke about how Jesus also prayed that we may be one—one family in the Church, one heart and one soul—because our Head is Jesus, and He desires peace and love among His people.

Father said unity doesn’t start with big speeches. It starts with little choices: gentle words, quick forgiveness, doing our duties without dragging our feet, and not stirring up trouble where peace should live.

When we came home, I kept thinking how sweet it is that Jesus actually prayed for us like that—so carefully, so lovingly—before He suffered. It made me want to answer His prayer by trying harder tomorrow.

Evening Prayer

Dear Jesus, thank You for praying for me. Please guard my heart from the world’s proud spirit. Make me love what You love, and help our home and our parish be one—peaceful, faithful, and kind. Amen.

Love,

Kathy

Muddy Mini and Careful Steps

 
Dear Diary,

At Mass, Father LeRoy based his homily on today’s meditation—Jesus’ great prayer before His Passion. Father said Jesus knew His hardest hour was coming, and still He lifted His eyes to the Father and prayed—first to do the Father’s will, and then for His own, because He loves us and wants us kept close to God. Father explained that trusting Jesus isn’t only for bright, easy days. It’s for the days that feel slippery and mixed-up too—when you can’t go where you want, and you have to take careful steps and simply do the next right thing. He said if Jesus could pray with such love on the night before His suffering, then we can offer Him our little troubles and stay close to Him instead of getting fretful.

By afternoon the warm-up really came, and that’s when everything turned messy. The snow went soft and shiny and then it all started to melt at once, and the yard looked like it couldn’t decide if it was winter or spring. Sister told me to stay put except for the chicken house, because the path to the cave was steep and slick and too risky to walk.

Mini, though, had other ideas. She started down the way toward the cave like she was on an important mission, and before I could call her back she slipped and rolled in the soft mud—one whole little tumble, ears and paws and all. That settled it: the cave was officially off limits until things dry up.

Evening Prayer:

Sweet Jesus, thank You for being with me today. When my plans get stopped and everything feels messy, help me to trust You and do the next right thing with a peaceful heart. Keep Sister Mary Claire, Father LeRoy, and our little farm safe tonight, and let Mini rest easy after her warm bath. Amen.




Love,

Kathy

Take, O Lord, Even This Cold Morning

Dear Diary,

This morning felt almost friendly compared to the last few days. It warmed up to 30 degrees, which still sounds cold on paper, but it made such a difference. Everything outside was frozen solid—the ground hard as a board, the water pails crusted over, and the fence rails rimmed with ice—but at least the air was breathable. I didn’t feel like my lungs were cracking when I took a deep breath. Mini stood beside me with her ears up, sniffing the cold like she was checking to see if winter was finally behaving itself.

After a bit, Robert picked us up as usual and right on time. Mini came too, of course, sitting nice and steady like she knows church rides are important business. The truck was still chilly inside, but it warmed as we went along, and it felt good just knowing we were headed to Mass. Sister Mary Claire was quiet, holding the meditation, and I hadn’t read it yet—I just watched the frosty fields go by and wondered what Jesus might ask of me today.

At church, Father LeRoy’s homily followed the meditation so closely it felt like he was answering the thoughts I didn’t even know how to say yet. He talked about how the prayer “Take, O Lord” isn’t only about giving Jesus the nice parts—our prayers, our good intentions, or the things we’re proud of—but also the cold, stiff parts of our days. He said we can offer Him our tiredness, our impatience, the chores we do when we don’t feel like it, and even the parts of ourselves that still feel frozen. Father said Jesus doesn’t ask us to warm ourselves up first; He asks us to hand everything over, trusting that He knows what to do with it. Sitting there, I thought about the frozen ground outside and how spring will soften it without the earth doing anything at all.

Tonight, as the house settled and the cold pressed against the windows again, I tried to remember that. I don’t have to fix everything before I give it to Jesus. I can just give it.

Evening Prayer

Sweet Jesus,

Take, O Lord, all that I am today—my small efforts, my cold hands, my wandering thoughts, and even the parts of my heart that feel stiff and slow. Teach me to trust You with everything, not just the easy things. Warm what is frozen in me, and help me rest in knowing that You will make something good of it all. Amen.

Love, Kathy

Staying Close to Jesus

Dear Diary,

Robert picked us up as usual and right on time. Sister Mary Claire and I hurried out with Mini, and she hopped in like she’d been waiting for this ride all morning, sitting up nice and proper with her ears alert.

At Mass, Father LeRoy explained that today’s meditation was from Jesus’ words at the Last Supper, when He tells us to abide in His love, and that His joy can be in us, and our joy can be full. Father said “abide” means stay close, like staying near the light when it’s dark, or staying near someone you trust when you feel small. He told us Jesus isn’t offering a quick happy feeling—He’s offering His own deep joy, the kind that comes from living inside His love.

Father LeRoy said the way we stay in that love is by keeping Jesus’ commandments, not like chores we dread, but like loving paths that keep our hearts joined to His. And he said this fits so perfectly with the Eucharist, because Jesus didn’t only talk about love—He stayed with us. He remains in the tabernacle, and He comes to us in Holy Communion, so we can truly remain with Him. Father said every time we come to Mass, we are answering Jesus’ invitation: “Stay with Me. Remain in My love.”

I tried to listen extra carefully, because I don’t want Jesus to offer me His love and joy and have me act like it’s not a big deal. On the ride home, Sister Mary Claire spoke softly about how obeying Jesus isn’t meant to feel like fear—it’s meant to feel like love. Little things, like being patient when chores take longer than I want, or being gentle when somebody is tired, are ways to stay close to Jesus all day.

Tonight, when it got quiet, I remembered Father saying that joy grows when we remain—when we keep coming back to Jesus instead of drifting off. So tomorrow I’m going to try to do my duties with a willing heart, and when I start to feel crabby or hurried, I’ll whisper, “Jesus, help me abide in Your love.”

Evening Prayer:

Dear Jesus, thank You for inviting me to abide in Your love. Please help me stay close to You all day, not just at Church. Teach me to keep Your commandments with love, and to find my joy in You. Help me be kind and patient, even in small hidden ways. Jesus, let Your joy be in me, and make my joy full. Amen.

Love,

Kathy

Good Ground at Littlemore

Dear Diary,

Robert picked us up as usual and right on time, and we rode to church together—Sister Mary Claire and me all bundled up, with Mini sitting straight and proud like she knew exactly where we were going.

At Mass, Father LeRoy talked about today’s meditation—the parable of the sower. He said Jesus isn’t just talking about seeds and soil, but about our hearts. Some hearts are like the hard path, where good things can’t sink in because we’re too rushed or closed off. Some are like rocky ground, where we start out strong but give up when things get hard. Others are like the thorny ground, where worries and little selfish things crowd out what God is trying to grow.

Then Father said something that really stayed with me. He said the good soil isn’t perfect soil—it’s just soil that keeps letting itself be worked on. It gets plowed, turned over, sometimes even hurt a little, but it stays open. He said God does the sowing, but we have to say yes to being good ground by listening, praying, and trying again even when we mess up.

I thought about that all day. I don’t want Jesus’ words to just land on me and bounce off. I want them to sink in and stay. I asked Him to help me be patient when I don’t understand things right away, and to keep my heart soft instead of stubborn.

When evening came, the house felt calm, and I thought again of the sower walking steadily across the field, scattering seeds without holding back. Jesus gives His love like that—freely, even when He knows some of it won’t grow. That made me love Him more.

Evening Prayer:

Dear Jesus, thank You for sowing Your words in my heart today. Please help me be good ground—open, patient, and willing to grow, even when it’s hard. Pull out the weeds in me and help Your love take root. Stay close to me tonight and help me belong to You always. Amen.

Love,

Kathy

“Tended Like the Old Oak”

Dear Diary,

This morning felt cold but hopeful, the kind of cold where you can tell the day is trying to warm up. I stayed inside where it was cozy and watched the window glass turn a little cloudy from the chill. Mini kept sitting up and lying back down again, like she knew it was a church morning and didn’t want to miss a thing.

Then we heard Robert’s horn.

We bundled up quick, and Sister Mary Claire made sure my scarf was tucked in tight. Mini trotted right along with us, all business. Robert picked us up as usual and right on time in his pickup, and off we went down the road to church with the heater working hard and Mini looking proud to be coming along.

The church looked especially quiet this morning, like it was waiting for us.

During Mass, Father’s homily stayed with me the whole time. He spoke about Jesus being the true Vine and us being the branches, and how the branch has to stay joined to the vine if it wants to live and bear fruit. Father explained that when God “prunes” us, it can feel like little cuts—corrections, disappointments, sacrifices, or having to do something we don’t feel like doing—but it isn’t mean. It’s love. It’s careful love, meant to help us grow cleaner and stronger and more fruitful.

I thought about how sometimes I don’t like being corrected, or when something feels hard or unfair. But Father said those moments can actually be signs that God is paying close attention to our souls, like a gardener who doesn’t forget even one branch. That made me feel calmer inside, like even the hard things have a purpose.

After Mass, Robert took us home. The roads looked pale and wintry, and the fields went by like big quiet blankets. Sister Mary Claire and Robert talked about Father’s homily on the way back. Sister said that staying close to Jesus doesn’t mean doing big, noticeable things—it means being faithful in the small ones, especially when no one is watching. Robert said it’s like farming: you don’t see growth all at once, but it’s happening all the time, and you have to keep tending what you’ve been given.

I listened and looked out the window and decided I want to stay close to Jesus today in my own little way—by doing my chores carefully, by being patient, and by accepting the “pruning” without fussing. Mini sighed and leaned into my coat like she was saying, Yes, that’s the plan.

Evening Prayer:

Sweet Jesus, keep me close to You tonight. Help me to stay joined to You like a branch to the vine, even when things feel hard or confusing. Teach me to accept Your pruning with trust and love, and help me grow good fruit for You in the little duties of my day. Please bless Sister Mary Claire, Robert, and dear Mini, and keep us safe in Your care.

Amen.

Love,

Kathy

The Recipe Box Lesson

Dear Diary,

This morning it was 22 degrees, and the cold felt sharp the minute we stepped outside. Sister Mary Claire and I hurried through chores and then came back in to warm up. While the kettle was starting to sing, I opened Aunt Zora’s recipe box again. I love that box—how it smells like old paper and cinnamon and the kind of cooking that means someone cared.

Tucked between the index cards was a little recipe card, but it wasn’t for food at all. It was one of those “Daily Thoughts” cards, and it even had a St. Thérèse scapular with a felt backing taped on it, like Aunt Zora wanted to be able to hold it close and remember it with her hands as well as her mind. The words on the card said:

“I wish so much to love Jesus to love Him as He has never yet been loved.”

I read it twice, because it sounded so big—like a mountain. But then I thought maybe St. Thérèse wasn’t asking for big, showy things. Maybe she was asking for love that is real, and steady, and small enough to live inside an ordinary day.

Robert picked us up right on time, and in no time at all we were listening to Father LeRoy’s homily which followed today’s meditation, and it fit so perfectly with that little card that it felt like Jesus was pointing at it. Father said loving Jesus isn’t mostly loud words or grand gestures. He said the truest love is often hidden—like a good ingredient in a recipe that makes everything better even if nobody sees it. He called it the “Little Way,” and he said it means choosing love in the small place you’re standing in: in your chores, in your patience, in your speech, in the way you treat the people God has put right beside you.

Right then, Sister Mary Claire noticed my hands were cold and tugged my mitten down snug. I thought, St. Thérèse would call that a “little way” kind of love—quiet and real. And something in me settled, because I understood it better: loving Jesus as He hasn’t been loved yet can start with being gentle and careful in the moment I’m living—not the moment I wish I was living.

All day I kept thinking of that little scapular on its felt backing—soft, simple, and close. It made me want my love to be like that too: not fancy, not noisy, but warm and true. When I had a chance to be impatient, I tried to swallow it down. When I had a chance to be kind, I tried not to wait. Even Mini seemed to be practicing the “little way,” following close and watching everything with her serious helper face.

Tonight I’m putting Aunt Zora’s card back where it belongs, but I’m keeping the words in my heart. I want to love Jesus on purpose—in little ways that only He might notice, and that’s enough.

Evening Prayer:

Sweet Jesus, teach me St. Thérèse’s little way. Help me to love You quietly and truly, and to be gentle with the people You place right near me. Keep me faithful in small things, and help me begin again quickly when I fail. Amen.

Love, Kathy