October 27, 1955
Dear Diary,
Father LeRoy’s homily today stayed with me long after Mass. He spoke of Bartimaeus, the blind man who cried out to Jesus from the roadside, “Son of David, have mercy on me!” despite everyone telling him to be quiet. But Bartimaeus knew his heart’s deepest need, and he trusted Jesus to hear him. Father reminded us that, like Bartimaeus, we should never be afraid to call out in faith, believing that God sees and listens, even when the world doesn’t. It’s comforting to think that God hears each of us so closely.
Tonight, it’s cold and blustery outside. The wind is rattling the window, and it makes the warmth inside feel especially cozy. Sister Mary Claire and Mini are both asleep beside me, and my little Swiss Radio is on low, playing Bishop Barron’s Sunday Sermon. It’s so nice to hear his voice again, and Sister and I even found Bishop Barron's Rosary Station that broadcasts also my little radio. We’ve started to pray along with it each evening.
Just before drifting off, Sister whispered to me about our walk in the woods at Solothurn. She said it was so beautiful—the soft, winding paths and the quiet trees. She was right; I can still picture it. There was something about that place that felt timeless, like the woods themselves had stories to tell. Remembering that peaceful walk makes me feel warm inside.
Mini is curled up between us, with her nose tucked under her paw, and Sister’s hand rests lightly on her Rosary. The candlelight flickers gently, casting soft shadows across the patchwork of blankets. Goodnight, dear Diary, and thank you for keeping these memories safe with me.
Tonight, it’s cold and blustery outside. The wind is rattling the window, and it makes the warmth inside feel especially cozy. Sister Mary Claire and Mini are both asleep beside me, and my little Swiss Radio is on low, playing Bishop Barron’s Sunday Sermon. It’s so nice to hear his voice again, and Sister and I even found Bishop Barron's Rosary Station that broadcasts also my little radio. We’ve started to pray along with it each evening.
Just before drifting off, Sister whispered to me about our walk in the woods at Solothurn. She said it was so beautiful—the soft, winding paths and the quiet trees. She was right; I can still picture it. There was something about that place that felt timeless, like the woods themselves had stories to tell. Remembering that peaceful walk makes me feel warm inside.
Mini is curled up between us, with her nose tucked under her paw, and Sister’s hand rests lightly on her Rosary. The candlelight flickers gently, casting soft shadows across the patchwork of blankets. Goodnight, dear Diary, and thank you for keeping these memories safe with me.
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