Being Ready for Jesus

Dear Diary

This morning the world outside looked cold and gray again, with the wind whispering around the house like it was trying to sneak inside. Sister had me bundle up tight, and Mini circled the door with her little bottom wiggling, knowing it was a church morning. We stepped into the cold and hurried down the walk toward the end of the sidewalk where Robert always stops.

Right on time, his pickup rolled up, warm air puffing out when he opened the door.

“Hello, ladies!” he said with his cheerful grin. Sister and I climbed in, and Robert lifted Mini onto Sister’s lap. Mini settled in proudly, like riding to church was her important job. The heater had the cab toasty warm, and the windows were a little fogged as we drove toward St. Mary’s.

The old wire gate at the west field entrance stood still in the cold—big and quiet, like it was frozen in time and just waiting for spring to come around again.

Inside church, everything felt hushed and peaceful. Father LeRoy read the Gospel about the days of Noah and Lot—how everyone was busy living ordinary days until suddenly everything changed. In his homily he said Jesus wasn’t trying to frighten us, but to remind us to live ready—ready with kindness, ready with love, ready to choose God first instead of clinging to things that won’t last. “A heart turned toward Heaven,” he said, “doesn’t fear surprises.” That part made me feel calm inside.

After Mass, Robert was waiting for us again, and Mini hurried toward him like greeting an old friend. The ride home was quick, and when we stepped out the cold hit our faces right away, pushing us back toward the warm house.

The rest of the day we stayed indoors. Sister called it a “no-gallivanting day,” which made me giggle. Mini slept by the stove, warm and snorty. I helped Sister fold towels and later worked in my scrapbook. The windows stayed frosted all afternoon, and the fields outside looked patient and quiet, knowing they won’t wake up until spring.

Now evening is here, and Mini is curled at my feet.

Love,

Kathy

Angel Thoughts on an Icy Morning

This morning the roads were all shiny with ice, so Sister said we’d better stay home. No Church, and honestly I was a little glad, because Mini and I were still warm under the quilt when Sister lit the fire. The fire crackled just right, and Mini stretched out on her side like she owned the whole rug.

After breakfast, Sister read me a meditation about the angels. It sounded scary at first, because it talked about the fallen ones who turned away from God and lost everything good. But Sister stopped and said softly, “Kathy, the point isn’t gloom. It’s to remember how blessed the good angels are—and how much God keeps us close to Him when we choose love.”

So we talked about the good angels instead—the ones who stayed humble and are full of light. Sister said their joy comes from being near God, and that even little acts of kindness pull us closer to that same happiness. I liked that part the most. I imagined my guardian angel sitting by our fire with us, warming his hands like Mini does.

Mini thumped her tail stump when I said that out loud. Sister just smiled.

The day stayed cold and sparkly, but inside everything felt safe and bright. I think the meditation wasn’t really about fear after all—it was about choosing the warm light instead of the cold.

Dear Jesus, thank You for keeping us home and warm today. Help me choose the path the good angels chose—loving, humble, and close to You. Watch over Sister and Mini as we sleep. Amen.

Love,

Kathy

The Kingdom Among Us

Dear Diary,

It was a brisk 31 degrees this morning, the kind that makes your cheeks sting before the sun is up. Sister and I stood by the mailbox, our breath like little puffs of steam. Robert’s pickup came along the road, warm air fogging the inside windows. He stopped beside us, tipped his hat, and said cheerfully, “Hello, ladies!” Then he stepped out to lift Mini up onto Sister’s lap.

At St. Mary’s, Father LeRoy read from the Gospel of Saint Luke (17:20–25): “The coming of the Kingdom of God cannot be observed… for behold, the Kingdom of God is among you.” In his homily, he said that God’s Kingdom is not a faraway place but begins in each heart that loves and forgives. Every kind word and small act of patience makes that Kingdom grow stronger.

When we got home, Sister said, “The Kingdom was right there in that warm pickup, I think,” and smiled. Mini wagged her bottom as if she agreed.

Love,

Kathy

A Morning of Frost and Humility

Dear Diary,

The early winter storm was short-lived, leaving only a dusting of snow in the fence corners and a soft sparkle over the fields. When Sister and I woke, it was 40 degrees—still cold enough for coats and mittens, but gentle compared to yesterday’s sharp wind. Mini stretched and yawned, following close behind as we got ready for Mass.

Robert’s pickup was waiting at the end of the sidewalk, engine humming and the heater had it toasty warm inside. Sister and I climbed in, and Robert lifted little Mini up to settle on Sister’s lap. “There we go, your Sunday passenger,” he said with a grin. Mini looked quite pleased with herself as we started down the gravel road toward St. Mary’s.

At Mass, Father LeRoy read from the Gospel of St. Luke, where Jesus told His Apostles about the servant who, after working in the field, still serves his master before taking his own rest. Father said this teaches us humility—that when we do our duties with love, we shouldn’t look for thanks, only to please God. “The true heart,” he said, “does good quietly and finds joy in the doing.” Sister smiled at me, and I understood what she meant when she often says love makes work light.

After Mass, Robert took the ridge road home, where the sun shone soft and pale over the quiet fields. The rows of corn stubble peeked through patches of snow, waiting for spring. Mini sat between us, her ears perked, watching the world pass by.

Now the lamps are glowing, and the house feels peaceful. Mini is asleep in her blanket by the door, and Sister is finishing her rosary.

Evening Prayer:

Dear Jesus, help me to serve You with a humble and happy heart. Let every little thing I do be for love of You. Bless Sister, Robert, and dear Mini tonight. Amen.

Love,

Kathy

Faith in the Snowstorm

Dear Diary,

The world was buried deep in white this morning. Snow had fallen all night and was still swirling thickly when Sister Mary Claire peeked out the window and sighed. The drifts along the lane were too high for walking, and Robert’s pickup wouldn’t start, so she said, “We’ll stay home today, Kathy. God understands.” Even Mini looked uncertain when I opened the door—a quick sniff, then she backed right up again.

After breakfast, Sister gathered our candles on the table and read the Gospel from Saint Luke aloud. Her voice was soft and clear, filling our little kitchen. Jesus told His disciples to forgive again and again, even seven times in a single day, and to keep faith, even if it’s as tiny as a mustard seed. Sister explained that faith doesn’t need to be big or showy; it just needs to be alive, like a seed waiting for spring. I liked that very much.

The day stayed gray and quiet. The wind pushed snow against the windows, making the world outside look like a dream. I helped Sister with the chicken chores in the afternoon—just enough to gather the eggs and scatter feed. The hens didn’t care for the cold, and Omelette fluffed herself up like a round brown ball. Mini watched from the door, wagging just the tip of her bottom, too smart to step into the drifts.

After supper, Sister read to me again while the stove crackled. I thought of that tiny mustard seed and how it could move a tree if only I believed enough. Maybe faith grows best on quiet snow days like this, when everything else must wait.

Love,

Kathy

The River from the Sanctuary

Dear Diary

It was 22 degrees this morning, and six inches of snow blanketed the countryside like a white comforter, with more still falling thick and steady. The world looked so still that even the trees seemed to be holding their breath. Robert’s pickup pulled up at the end of the walk, already warm inside from the mile drive down from his farm. The heater was humming, and a soft fog clung to the edges of the windows.

Mini made a brave leap into the cab but needed a gentle push from me when her short legs sank into the snow. Sister laughed softly, brushing the heavy flakes from her veil, and Robert said, “We’ll have this place thawed in no time.” Mini curled right between us, her fur still damp and snow-speckled, her eyes half closed from the cozy heat.

The road to St. Mary’s was clean but narrow, with snow still swirling in the wind. Every field we passed lay quiet under the deep white, the fence posts standing like little sentinels. Smoke rose straight up from a few farm chimneys, and I thought how nice it was to live where people still watched out for one another.

Inside St. Mary’s, the stove was snapping and crackling, and the smell of melting snow on our boots filled the air. Father LeRoy read from the Prophet Ezekiel about the river flowing from the temple—how it made the salt waters fresh and brought life wherever it went.

In his homily, Father said that God’s grace is like that river—always flowing, even when we can’t see it, turning every frozen heart into something alive again. “Under every snow-covered field,” he said, “the promise of spring is waiting.” I thought of that as I watched the sunlight try to break through the swirling flakes outside the stained-glass windows, coloring the snow in soft shades of rose and blue.

On the way home, the snow sparkled so bright we had to squint. Robert kept one hand steady on the wheel, and Sister hummed a hymn softly under her breath. Mini was asleep on my lap, snoring just a little. Everything felt peaceful and safe, as though that holy river had reached right into our hearts.

Evening Prayer:

Dear Jesus, let Your grace flow through my soul like the river from Your temple.

Melt what is cold in me, and help me bring warmth and kindness to others.

Bless Sister, Robert, and our dear little Mini tonight.

Amen.

Love, Kathy

Warm Hearts in the Cold

Dear Diary,

Brrrr! This morning the thermometer said 33 degrees, and the north wind came charging down the road like it had business of its own. Sister Mary Claire called it a “biting wind,” and she was right—it felt like a thousand tiny needles pricking at my cheeks. I wrapped my scarf twice around my neck, but Mini still squinted into the gusts as if it might blow her ears right off.

Robert’s old Ford pickup came rattling up the lane, and we hurried out, crunching through the frost. Sister climbed in and Mini leapt straight onto her lap. The heater hummed nicely, filling the cab with warmth and the smell of hay from Robert’s coat. Out the window, the fields were bare—just the brown stubble of corn left behind and a few crows hopping about, looking for what the pickers missed.

At St. Mary’s, the stove was glowing red, and everyone seemed thankful for it. Father LeRoy read from Saint Paul’s letter to the Romans, where Paul sent greetings to all those who had worked beside him—Prisca, Aquila, Mary, and so many others who gave their strength and love to the Church. Father said in his homily that these names remind us that every good work for Christ, no matter how small, is noticed by Heaven. He said the Church isn’t built from stone alone but from hearts joined in friendship and faith, just as Saint Paul’s helpers were his family in Christ.

I liked that thought—that even faraway names, read aloud on a cold morning, can warm us like friends gathered around a stove.

When we rode home, Mini’s nose left little fog prints on the window, and Sister smiled, saying, “Even the smallest one has her part in God’s great family.” Robert chuckled and said, “Then this little one must be the parish greeter.”

Now the wind still howls around the house, but inside it’s cozy. The stove crackles, Mini’s asleep by my feet, and Sister is knitting by the lamp. My heart feels thankful for every friend God’s placed in our path.

Love, Kathy