A Letter from Vreni

When My Thoughts Found a Voice 

Dear Diary,


Winter has returned. The air outside is sharp and bitter, with temperatures dipping into the single digits. I had to bundle up tight for two quick trips out to the hen house this morning to break the ice in the water pan. The hens looked at me like I was interrupting their dreams.

Father LeRoy had to cancel Mass today—he got an urgent call and had to drive all the way into Des Moines to visit a parishioner who had taken very ill and been admitted to the hospital. We said a prayer for her, and for him, traveling the long road alone on such a cold morning.

So we stayed inside most of the day. The little wood stove kept us warm, and I wrapped up in my striped blanket while Sister Mary Claire made us oatmeal with extra cream.

But the most wonderful part of the day came in the form of a letter—from Vreni! She wrote all the way from Switzerland and included a morning prayer from her German prayer book, carefully translated just for me. I copied it straight into my diary and made a little resolution in my heart to pray it each morning and night.

It reads:

I will begin and end each day with Jesus and Mary in my heart. I imagine turning to Jesus and feeling His gentle and loving spirit all around me. It’s like He is quietly asking me to follow Him, to stay close.

And then there is Mary, so kind and motherly, always ready to help me bring my thoughts back to Jesus. I think she wants me to make my daily prayers and devotions part of my life—something I never omit.

If I can do this every day, maybe my heart will feel a little more like theirs—full of love and peace.

Sister said it was one of the loveliest things she’s ever read.

Later in the afternoon, she and I said the Rosary together. Mini, not one to be left out, joined in by grabbing her squeaky rubber ball—which she thinks is a rosary bead, and who am I to correct her?

After that, I snuggled under the quilt and must’ve drifted off with my diary still open beside me. When I woke up, my pencil was tucked under my arm and the page still held Vreni’s prayer. I think I’ll end my day there too, just like I started.

Love,

Kathy

All for Jesus

When My Thoughts Found a Voice 

 

Dear Diary

Wednesday, April 2nd, 1956

This morning started off mild, just touching into the forties, with a silvery kind of light that only early April seems to carry. Sister Mary Claire, Robert, and I walked to church together along the familiar gravel road, past the budding branches and puddles left behind by yesterday’s rain. The walk was quiet, with the sounds of birdsong and the occasional snap of twigs underfoot.

We arrived early—early enough that the church was still cold and a little damp. As usual, the old wood stove up front needed kindling, so Robert got it going with some pinecones and a few of the dry sticks he keeps tucked behind the confessional. We sat close to the warmth on the front pew—Sister Mary Claire to my left, Robert to my right, and Mini curled up beneath the bench like she knew this was her place too.

Sister Mary Claire opened the meditation book and read to us quietly before Mass began. Today’s was The Scourging at the Pillar, and her voice trembled just a little as she read about our Lord’s sufferings. I closed my eyes and pictured the courtyard, the pillar, and Jesus standing bound in silence. The words from the meditation clung to me like fog.

When Father Leroy stepped up for his homily, I already knew it would follow the meditation. He always uses the same little black book. His voice was low and steady as he spoke of how Jesus, though innocent, suffered willingly—out of love, not just for the world, but for each soul. He said it was the silence of Jesus that strikes the heart the most. “What love is this,” Father asked, “that would endure such cruelty and not speak a word to resist it?”

On the way home, as we passed Robert’s carved sign by the birch trees, I read it again: “April prayers fall soft and true…” and thought of how gently those words rest in the heart after such a heavy homily. Robert didn’t say anything, but Sister Mary Claire nodded toward the sign and said, “It’s true, isn’t it? The prayers we whisper now may bloom into courage later.” I held onto those words.

At home, I tried not to let my mind return to the more sorrowful parts of the meditation, though I did think of the holy cards in Sister Mary Claire’s scrapbook—the ones showing Jesus scourged and bleeding. But I shook those away and instead imagined the Holy Family—Jesus as a boy, helping Joseph in the workshop, smiling up at Mary with dusty hands and a happy face.

This afternoon, Mini and I walked down to Indian Creek. I brought a carrot for Shaggy Coat, just in case he was nearby. We didn’t go into the cave, but we lingered by the edge of the water. The sun was sinking behind the trees and casting everything in gold. I think we’ll return tomorrow and go a little deeper in.

Dearest Jesus,

You stood in silence at the pillar, bearing pain You did not deserve.
Help me, in my little ways, to bear things patiently for love of You.
When I am tempted to speak sharply, or to complain, remind me of Your silence and Your strength.

Let my prayers fall softly, like April rain, and may my heart bloom with love by the time May comes.

Bless Sister Mary Claire, Robert, and little Mini.

Amen.

Pilate's Question

 

When My Thoughts Found a Voice 

April 1, 1956

Dear Diary,

The morning air was soft and kind, about 44 degrees when we started out for church. The road looked just as familiar as ever, like it had known our footsteps for years. Sister Mary Claire and I had our scarves on, and Robert walked quietly beside us with his hands in his pockets. The birds were back—though only a few—and Mini trotted happily at our side, sometimes going ahead, then circling back.

Father LeRoy gave a homily that followed the meditation we had read before Mass. It centered around Pilate’s haunting question, “What evil hath He done?” And it stayed with me, all the way home. It’s true—Jesus had done only good. He had healed and blessed and forgiven, and still they shouted for His death. Pilate’s cowardice pierced something in me today. Not because I judge him, but because I fear I might sometimes be like him—choosing to stay silent when I should speak.

As we walked back, Robert pointed to the little wooden sign he’d carved and posted just beyond the bend. It reads: “Morning prayers and waking skies lift our hearts and clear our eyes.” Sister Mary Claire smiled and tapped the top of the post gently with her mittened hand. “It’s what prayer does,” she said. “It clears us, so we can see what is true and stand with it—no matter what.”

Robert nodded. “If only Pilate had prayed that morning.”

We all went quiet for a bit after that. Not heavy silence, just thoughtful. Mini kept close to my feet, her little ears alert as ever.

Later in the day, I went to the cave. There was a peaceful hush there, as though the stones themselves had absorbed the morning’s Gospel. I worked in the scrapbook—just a few little additions and a pressed violet I had saved in wax paper.

I napped a little after that. The blanket in the prayer wagon was just warm enough, and the soft trickle of the stream outside lulled me to sleep. When I woke, the sun had shifted and there was a golden cast over everything.

O Jesus, You were innocent, yet condemned.
Make my heart steady when the world is loud.
Let me love You with a strong love,
A love that isn’t afraid to stand beside You,
Even when others turn away.

Love, Kathy

The Courage to Stand

When My Thoughts Found a Voice

Monday, 1956

Dear Diary

This morning, Robert, Sister Mary Claire, and I walked to church. The fields were damp with thaw, and the gravel road was soft underfoot. A few patches of snow still clung to the shaded ditches, but the rest of the landscape was waking up—muddy, misty, and full of that good, clean smell that only comes when winter’s almost gone.

Robert was quiet, thoughtful as ever, as we made our way back. His long stride led the way, his hands tucked into his coat pockets. I could tell he was still carrying Father’s homily with him—just like I was. Sister Mary Claire walked beside me, her veil catching the breeze now and then. She didn’t say much either, but there was peace in her quiet.

We’d read the meditation together before Mass—about Pilate and how he declared Jesus innocent, yet lacked the courage to act on that truth. Father spoke of the same. He said that it isn’t always ignorance that leads people to sin—it’s weakness. Cowardice. Pilate feared the crowd more than he feared God, and I think that’s what hurts the most in that story: knowing the truth and still stepping aside.

I kept wondering if I’ve ever done the same. I probably have. It’s easy to be bold in your heart and quiet with your words. I prayed then, as I do now, that I’ll never be afraid to stand with Jesus.

The birch trees were blushing pink at their tips. I love how they always seem to know what’s coming. The wind was soft and smelled of woodsmoke and thawing fields. Even Mini seemed more thoughtful than usual, padding along near my boots, never straying too far.

O Saviour of the world, to what shame and bitterness have my sins reduced Thee! They are the cause of Thy death. Oh, vouchsafe me Thy almighty grace, that my sins may be nailed to the cross with Thee, according to the words of the Apostle: “Our old man is crucified with Him, that the body of sin may be destroyed.

Please, dear Jesus, give me strength to be Yours—loudly and without hesitation.

Love,

Kathy

The Miracle on the Hillside

When My Thoughts Found a Voice 

 

March 30, 1956

Dear Diary,

Father LeRoy’s homily this morning was about the multiplication of loaves that fed the 5,000. As he read from the Gospel of St. John, I felt my heart stir. I knew that passage well, but today it felt like I was truly there.

He spoke about how tired Jesus must have been after His long journey with the Apostles, how they had hoped to rest by the lake, but when He saw the crowds, His exhaustion disappeared. He saw their need—and forgot His own. He spoke to them about the Kingdom of God and then, seeing that they had nothing to eat, He performed the miracle. He gave, and gave, and gave again.

As Father LeRoy spoke, I closed my eyes and imagined myself standing among the crowd, the soft golden light washing over the hill. I was holding Mini’s paw—yes, she was right beside me, looking just as amazed as I felt. We were both gazing up at Jesus as He broke the bread and gave it to His Apostles to distribute. The people around us were quiet with wonder, their eyes full of trust and gratitude.

There we stood, two little hearts in a sea of many, and yet I knew—He saw us too. I imagined myself slipping my hand into Sister Mary Claire’s, and the three of us—Mini included—watching as the baskets never emptied. A miracle of love. A miracle of care. A miracle of Jesus' Sacred Heart that thinks of every soul as if it were the only one.

Back at the farm this afternoon, the wind hummed through the trees and the geese clambered around near the barn like they had important places to be. Omelette laid an enormous egg and strutted about so proud of herself. I smiled thinking how even the tiniest things, like a brown hen's morning work, can be a kind of gift when given with love.

Now the sun has gone down, and Mini is curled at the foot of my bed, softly snoring, her squeak ball beside her. Sister Mary Claire lit the lamp on our little prayer table, and we each offered our hearts in silence.

O Jesus, King of hearts, how infinite is Thy goodness, how unbounded Thy power!
Help me to trust like the people on the hillside,
to give like the boy with the loaves,
and to love like Thee, without counting the cost.
Feed my soul, O Lord, with the Bread of Life.
Amen.

With love,
Kathy

Stronger Than Words

When My Thoughts Found a Voice 

Dear Diary,

Saturday, March 29th

Robert picked us up early again for morning Mass. He’s always cheerful, even when the world is still waking up. The weather was mild, with a little breeze that made it feel like spring was trying to peek around the corner. Mini rode along quietly on my lap, but once we arrived at the church, she was alert as ever, ready to greet anyone with her waggy little bottom.

We got there early enough to read the meditation. It was the one about the choice between Jesus and Barabbas—the moment the crowd had to decide. Father LeRoy, who uses the same meditation book we do, gave a quiet, thoughtful homily. He said how strange it is that the people would choose someone like Barabbas over Jesus—someone who had stirred up trouble and done real harm, when Jesus had done nothing but love. Father didn’t scold, he just made us think. He said we all have moments when we choose something less than good, even when Jesus is right there, ready to be chosen. That part made my chest feel heavy.

On the way home, the talk about Barabbas continued. I told them I didn’t really understand it—why anyone would choose the wrong thing when the right one was standing right in front of them. Sister Mary Claire and Robert tried to explain that sometimes people are afraid, or angry, or confused, and that the crowd that day probably didn’t even really know what they were doing. But it still made me feel sad.

So, in the afternoon, I needed some quiet. I took my scrapbook and Mini and went down to the cave. Mini always leads the way like she knows the path better than I do, and maybe she does. Shaggy Coat was there, waiting! He gave the biggest splash when he saw us, and I was glad I had tucked a carrot into my pocket, just in case. I tossed it to him and he caught it with his little paws, then disappeared under the water with it.

I lit a candle and sat for a long while looking at my happy pictures. Some of them made me smile, even though I still had that ache in my heart from this morning. It helped to be there, surrounded by quiet and memories and soft candlelight.

Soon it started getting dark. I blew out the candle, and Mini, without being told, trotted ahead like she always does. I followed her back up the hill, feeling better, but still thinking about choices, and how I want to be the kind of person who chooses Jesus every single time.

Dear Jesus, 

help me to know You when I see You, and to always choose You, even when it’s hard or confusing. Help me to not be like the crowd, swept along, but to be steady and brave. Thank You for the cave, and the candle, and the happy pictures that helped today. And thank You for Robert, Sister, Mini, and even Shaggy Coat too. Amen.

Love, Kathy

Jesus at The Court of Herod

When My Thoughts Found a Voice 

March 28, 1956

Dear Diary

This morning, Sister Mary Claire, Robert, and I were riding home from church in Robert’s pickup, with Mini nestled quietly between us. Father’s homily was about Jesus being sent to Herod, and the whole ride home was wrapped in that heavy silence that comes after hearing something that touches deep.

Robert spoke first. “Herod didn’t care who Jesus really was. He just wanted to be entertained.”

Sister nodded. “He mocked Him,” she said. “When Jesus wouldn’t perform a miracle, Herod put a fine robe on Him, just for sport.”

I didn’t say much. I could picture Jesus standing there—silent, worn, humiliated—and it made my stomach hurt a little. Mini let out the smallest sigh, like she could feel it too.

When we pulled up to the mailbox, Robert let the engine idle while we finished our thoughts. “That robe,” he said, “was a way to say, ‘Here’s your king,’ but it wasn’t reverent. It was cruel.”

Then Sister said, “I have a holy card at home—it shows Jesus standing before Herod, wrapped in that robe. It’s small, but it always struck me.”

I shook my head gently and told her I didn’t want to see it. Not because it felt too holy, but because it just felt too sad. I know Jesus endured it all out of love, but some scenes are so sorrowful I’d rather hold them quietly in my heart than look straight at them.

With a wave from Robert and our thank-yous, the morning ended, and the rest of the day opened up.

It turned out to be a beautiful afternoon. The sky was blue, the breeze was soft, and it felt like the kind of day meant for being outside. Mini and I went to the cave, just the two of us. I sat by the cool stone wall and finished my letter to Vreni. I gave it a stamp and told Mini we’d walk it to the mailbox tomorrow. She gave me a little look like she knew just what I meant.

Now the sun is gone and the sky’s turning silvery gray. Mini is curled beside my bed, half-asleep and warm. I’ll tuck this day away with a small prayer:

Dear Jesus,

Thank You for walking through silence and sorrow for us.
When the world laughed and mocked, You stood quiet and full of love.
Help me remember You in those moments, especially the ones that feel sad.
Bless Robert and Sister for the way they speak about You.
Bless Mini for her calm company and quiet heart.

Let tomorrow be gentle. Let me love You more, even in the hard parts of Your story.

And may my letter to Vreni bring a little light across the miles.

Amen.

Love,
Kathy

 

The Knowledge of God