The Cross is an Open Book to All

 

February 28, 1956


Dear Diary,

The snow is blowing again, and it's a crisp 24 degrees outside, but I feel just fine now that my cold is all gone! After early morning Mass at St. Mary’s, Robert kindly gave Sister Mary Claire and me a ride home. He’s such a good neighbor, always looking out for us. Now that we’re back, I’m just about ready to go gather the eggs.

Right now I'm sitting by the fire with Mini curled up beside me and I've opened my book. The picture on the page shows a sickroom, with a mother kneeling by a child’s bed in prayer. A little framed picture of Our Lady hangs on the wall. Looking at it, I think about Father LeRoy’s sermon this morning. He said that the Passion of Our Lord is like an open book—one that anyone can read, no matter if they are happy or sad. He explained that when we look at the Cross, we see the greatest love of all. Even in His suffering, Jesus was thinking of us.

Father LeRoy put it so simply: Some people see the Cross and look away because they don’t want to think about suffering. Others stop and understand a little—that Jesus suffered out of love, not just for the whole world, but for each of us personally. And then there are those who gaze at the Cross with their whole heart, like the saints did. They see it as a book without words, teaching patience, love, and the courage to follow Jesus no matter what.

I suppose the mother in the picture must be reading that book with her heart, too. Maybe she knows that Jesus is with her in her sorrow, just as He is with me in my joys.

Now it’s time to bundle up and head out to the chicken house. I wrap my scarf tight so the wind doesn’t bite my ears. As I open the henhouse door, the wind rushes in, ruffling the hens’ feathers and sending bits of straw swirling around. They cluck and flutter, shuffling their feet as if I have disturbed a very important meeting. Poor things! But inside, the henhouse is nice and tight against the weather, warm enough to keep them comfortable. I reach into the nests, feeling for eggs, and sure enough—there they are, big and brown. Omelette gives me a look as if she’s saying, Took you long enough! I laugh and scratch her head before gathering the eggs into my basket.

Now, back inside where it’s warm, the day is coming to a close. I sit with Sister Mary Claire by the fire, Mini curled at our feet. The wind howls outside, but in here, everything is peaceful.


Dear Jesus, let me never look away from Your Cross. When I see it, let me remember how much You love me, and let that love fill my heart so I can share it with others. Help me to be patient in little sufferings, and always stay close to You. Just as the henhouse keeps the wind away from my hens, let Your love shelter me in the storms of life. And if I should ever forget Your goodness, remind me to look at the Cross again and see the open book of Your love. Amen.

With love, Kathy

Reminder of Dearth

 

February 14, 1956

Dear Diary

This morning, Sister Mary Claire and I rose early for Holy Mass on this first day of Lent. Before we left, we read from our meditation book, and it spoke of the reminder we receive today: Dust thou art and unto dust thou shalt return. It is a solemn thought, but one that Holy Mother Church gives us as a gift, so that we might always keep our last end in mind and never be lulled into the distractions of the world.

Robert picked us up at the mailbox, and though the church is just down the road, a warm ride is always welcome. The roads were cold and crisp, the morning air full of that hush that comes before a snowfall.

Before Mass began, Mini fell into her old routine of greeting parishioners as they arrived while I handed out the Gospel reading. Her little tail-less body wiggled with delight as she welcomed each familiar face, bringing smiles to everyone who passed by. Once the pews were full and the last hymn before the readings had been sung, she settled down beside me, content.

When Father LeRoy began his homily, his words sounded just like the meditation we had read earlier—no surprise, since Father also reads the same daily meditations. It made his homily feel familiar, as though God had prepared our hearts to hear it twice. He reminded us of the grace of remembering our mortality and of making good use of this Lenten season to atone for sins and grow in holiness.

After Mass, Robert drove Mini, Sister Mary Claire, and me home in his pickup. The warmth of the ride made the journey peaceful, and I felt grateful for good friends and the quiet comforts of the morning.

As I sit now by the fire, the black cross of ashes still faintly on my forehead, I think of how swiftly time passes. Lent will come and go, and so will this season of life. But if we keep our hearts fixed on Heaven, every sacrifice, every little mortification will be worth it.

O merciful Lord, as we begin this holy season of Lent, grant me the grace to remember my last end, not with fear, but with hope. Help me to live each day as a gift from You, using this time to turn away from sin and draw ever closer to You. May my small acts of penance be pleasing in Your sight, and may they help me to love You more. Amen.

Gaining the Harbor

 
March 4, 1956

Dear Diary

The temperature has finally moderated, and I am feeling so much better today. After so many days of rest, it felt good to be outside again with Mini, gathering a basket of eggs in the fresh air. The hens clucked and scratched around, and Omelette followed me closely as if she had missed me. Mini trotted beside me, her little paws padding against the earth, occasionally stopping to give the basket a sniff, making sure everything was in order.

Later, I opened my big book and found a holy card called Le Divin Pilote—The Divine Pilot. It showed Jesus in a small boat, sailing toward the shore. The words underneath read:

“It is night, we are gaining the harbor… We touch it—ALLELUIA.”

At first, I noticed only Jesus, resting peacefully as He steered, but then my eyes fell upon a small dove nestled in His lap. I almost missed it at first—it was so still, so gentle. The little bird seemed perfectly at home, safe in His care, as if it knew it had nothing to fear. It made me think of how I should be—resting in Jesus’ hands, trusting Him completely. The dove didn’t try to steer the boat or flutter about in worry. It simply remained close to Him.

I want to be like that dove—letting Jesus guide me, not anxiously searching for my own way, but staying near Him, knowing He is leading me to the safest harbor of all.

Jesus, my Divine Pilot, let me rest in You as the little dove rests in Your lap. When I am afraid or uncertain, help me stay close and trust that You are guiding me safely home. Amen.

Goodnight, dear Diary.

Lead Me, Lord

March 3, 1956

Dear Diary,

Another quiet day of resting—this cold is surely one of the worst I’ve ever had. Sister says I am getting better, but I still feel weak and tired. Mini stayed by my side again, her warm little body pressed against me, as if she knows I need her close.

Lately, I’ve gotten into the habit of opening my big book and letting an image speak to me. Today, the page fell open to a picture with the words: “Lead me, Lord, and I will arrive at Your sanctuary.” I stared at it for a long time. The image showed the Sacred Heart shining above, with streams of grace flowing down like a path, and doves gathering toward it.

I thought about those little doves—so small, yet they keep moving forward, drawn by the light of His Heart. They don’t question, they just follow where He leads. And isn’t that what I should do? Even now, when I’m too sick to do much of anything, I can still let Him lead me. Maybe this time of rest is part of the journey, too. I don’t have to know exactly where He is taking me—I just have to trust that if I follow, He will bring me to His sanctuary, His Heart.

So today, I offer Him my little steps—waiting, resting, trusting. And I know that, even in this quiet time, He is leading me.

Dear Lord, lead me always, even when I feel weak and uncertain. Let my heart follow You like the little doves, trusting that You are bringing me closer to You. Thank You for this quiet day, for Mini’s comfort, and for the peace of knowing You are near. Amen.

Goodnight, dear Diary.

Love, Kathy

Safe in Mary's Arms

March 2, 1956

Dear Diary,

I missed Holy Mass again today. Sister Mary Claire thought I needed more time to recover from this bad cold, though I feel much better than before. Mini has been curled up beside me all day, never leaving my side, as if she knows I need her close.

I spent the morning by the fire, wrapped in my scarf, looking at my book. I stopped on a picture of Our Lady holding the Child Jesus. Her face is so gentle, her arms wrapped securely around Him. Jesus leans against her as if He knows there is no safer place. I thought about how, even though I wasn’t at Mass, I could still be close to Him—just by resting in Mary’s arms like He did.

I whispered a little prayer, asking her to hold me too, just like she held Jesus. And somehow, I felt warm inside, like I wasn’t missing anything at all.

Evening Prayer:

Sweet Mother, keep me close to you. Let me rest in your arms as Jesus did, and teach me to love Him more. Amen.

Goodnight, dear Diary.


Love Kathy

Saxred Heart of Mary, be my salvation

Resting with the Sacred Heart of Mary

I woke up early today and took Mini for her walk, but I could barely make it home—I was so stiff and achy. As soon as I got back, Sister told me to go straight to bed and rest for the day. She said that the meditation she had planned would be too much for me and that instead, I should look at a picture of the Sacred Heart of Mary and make a little meditation of my own.

So, as I lay in bed, I looked at the holy picture of Our Lady and tried to quiet my heart. Her eyes are so gentle, full of love, like she is listening to me even though I don’t have the strength to say much today. Her hands point to her heart, and I think about how much love she has—how her heart burns with a fire that never goes out. It is a mother’s heart, always open, always ready to hold me close, especially when I don’t feel well.

I think of how she must have been tired sometimes too—after long days of caring for Jesus, walking from place to place, always watching over Him. Maybe she felt weak like I do now, but she never stopped loving. And even now, she still loves, still watches, still holds us close in her heart.

I place myself there, in her heart, where it is warm and safe. I tell her, “Dear Mother, I can’t do much today, but I give you my little sufferings. Keep me close to you, and help me love Jesus as you do.”

And then, I close my eyes and rest, knowing she is near.

Evening Prayer:

Sweet Mother, I place myself in your heart tonight. Hold me close, and teach me to love Jesus more and more. Amen.

Goodnight, dear Diary. Love Kathy

The Gratitude of Jesus

February 28, 1956

Dear Diary,

The Gratitude of Jesus

Today, I stayed home from church since I wasn’t feeling well. Sister Mary Claire thought it best that I take it easy, so she gave me orders that the most I could do was look at my books and work on my scrapbook. She took care of all the chicken chores, and Mini stayed right by my side all day, never leaving me. She always seems to know when I need her the most.

Since I couldn’t go to Mass, Sister read to me from the meditation book and explained it so I wouldn’t miss out. It was about the gratitude of Jesus—how He remembers and rewards even the smallest acts of love done for Him. The story of Mary anointing Him with precious ointment stood out to me. Jesus defended her when Judas scolded her, showing that He treasures everything given to Him out of love. Sister said that nothing we do for Jesus goes unnoticed, no matter how small. I liked that thought very much. It makes me want to love Him more, not just in big ways but in everyday things—like offering up little sufferings, or even just doing my chores with a happy heart.

Sister also pointed out how gentle and patient Jesus was, even with Judas. It made me think how easy it is to be frustrated with others when they hurt us, but Jesus, who knew what Judas would do, still spoke to him kindly. I want to learn that kind of patience, even when things don’t go my way.

Now, the day is ending, and Sister has tucked me in with a warm cup of broth. Mini is curled up beside me, and all is quiet.

Dear Jesus, thank You for this quiet day of rest and for Sister’s kindness in taking care of me. Thank You for Mini, who stayed close and comforted me. Help me to always remember that You see and treasure every little act of love, even when no one else notices. Teach me to be patient like You and to love You in all the small things. Amen.

Goodnight, dear Diary.  Love Kathy

Judas Shames Mary

February 27, 1956

Dear Diary,

The morning was quiet, and the roads were clear, making it a beautiful day for walking. Robert joined us on the way to Mass, and Mini trotted happily alongside us, her little paws leaving neat prints in the slushy road. The air had even warmed up, and water was dripping from the church roof when we arrived. It felt like a small promise of spring, though the snow still lay thick everywhere else.

Inside the church, Mini lay under the pew, curled up neatly as if she knew this was a sacred place. Now and then, I felt her little warm body against my boots. She stayed there the whole time, quiet as could be.

Father LeRoy spoke about the meditation we had been reading—on the disgraceful conduct of Judas. He, too, had been reflecting on the passage. He reminded us that Judas’ heart was not moved by Mary’s devotion when she anointed Jesus’ feet with costly ointment. Instead, he judged her, disguising his greed under the appearance of charity. It made me think—have I ever acted that way? Have I ever covered up selfishness with a false kindness?

On the walk home, Sister Mary Claire, Robert, and I continued talking about it. Sister said it wasn’t just about Judas’ words but the way he let his heart harden against Jesus. Robert nodded, saying that Judas had many chances to change, but instead of drawing close to Jesus, he let his selfishness push him further away. We walked in silence for a little while, thinking about it. Even Mini seemed subdued, her ears flicking as she stepped carefully through the melting snow.

When we reached the mailbox, Robert said his goodbye and continued his walk home, which was the next farm over. Mini watched him go, her ears perked as if she were considering following him, but she quickly turned back to us, content to stay by our side.

Lunch was simple but delicious—Sister made salmon patties, and they were so easy and so good. Mini got a little taste, of course, which she accepted with great delight. She wagged her little bottom and looked at me as if to say, More, please!

For evening prayers, Sister Hilda had written a little prayer to go with today’s meditation. It was so beautiful that Sister Mary Claire and I decided to use it:

“O Jesus, Master, kindle in my heart the fire which Thou camest to cast on earth, that I may love Thee more ardently, that I may be more perfectly conformed to Thee, that I may follow Thee more closely. O Mother of Jesus, cover me with thy mantle of Immaculate purity, that so I may be able to love thy Divine Son more absolutely. Lord and Master, be Thou alone pleasing to me henceforth for evermore. Make me, Lord Jesus, a true and loyal servant—ready to suffer and die for Thee.”

Mini curled up at my feet as we prayed, sighing deeply, already half asleep. I stroked her soft fur and whispered, Amen.

Sister Mary Claire’s Simple Salmon Patties

Ingredients:1 can (14-15 oz) salmon, drained and flaked
1 egg
¼ cup finely chopped onion
½ cup breadcrumbs
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
½ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon black pepper
1 tablespoon chopped fresh parsley (optional)
2 tablespoons butter or oil for frying

Directions:In a bowl, mix together the salmon, egg, onion, breadcrumbs, lemon juice, salt, pepper, and parsley until well combined.
Shape the mixture into small patties.
Heat butter or oil in a skillet over medium heat.
Fry the patties for about 3-4 minutes on each side, or until golden brown and crispy.
Serve warm with a squeeze of fresh lemon or a dollop of tartar sauce.

Mini certainly approved, though she only got the tiniest bite!

All for Love

February 26, 1956

Dear Diary,

I woke this morning to the deep, rumbling sound of the snowplow scraping along the road to St. Mary’s. It pulled me from a deep slumber, the kind where dreams still linger, and I just lay there for a moment, listening. Soon, Robert would come with his tractor and snow loader to clear the yard.  It’s always a comfort knowing Robert will come making sure we’re not snowed in for too long.

After getting up, I hurried through my morning chores, bracing against the cold as I gathered eggs from the chicken house. Omelette, who was now back with her sisters,  gave me her usual knowing look, and I spoke to her softly before heading back inside, where the kitchen was warm and filled with the smell of coffee.

Sister read the meditation on the supper at Bethany while we ate breakfast. My oatmeal had a bit of brown sugar, butter melting into golden swirls, and whole milk. Mini had her own little dish, just oatmeal and cream. She dove right in happy as ever.

As I listened to Sister, I thought about Mary Magdalene kneeling before Jesus, breaking her alabaster jar and pouring the precious ointment over His head and feet. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t care about what others thought—she gave everything in an act of pure love. Judas called it wasteful, but Sister explained that when we truly love, we don’t measure, we just give.

Later, I worked on my scrapbook. I had found a beautiful picture of the supper at Bethany, and I carefully pasted it onto a fresh page. Mary Magdalene is kneeling before Jesus, her golden hair falling over her shoulders, looking up at Him with love and devotion. Jesus raises His hand gently, while the men around them watch—some with wonder, others with judgment.

I wanted to add something special to the page, so I took a small piece of See Through tape and, in my neatest handwriting, wrote “She gave all for Love” on it. I placed it carefully at the top of the image. It felt just right, like it belonged there. A reminder that true love doesn’t hold back, doesn’t count the cost—it gives everything.

The rest of the day went on as usual—chores, tidying, and watching Robert clear the yard. When he saw me looking out the window, he gave a little wave, and I waved back, thankful for all he does.

Tonight, before bed, we knelt together and prayed Sister Hilda's prayer that she added to the meditation:

“Mary, Mother of Divine Love, turn thine eyes of mercy towards me. O Mary Immaculate! Make my heart like unto thine, then, I shall be able to see Jesus, and from seeing Him, to know and love Him. Mother, I have need of thee. Give me to Jesus!”

Amen.

Love Kathy

The Enemies of Jesus Decide to Kill Him

February 25, 1955

Dear Diary,

All was quiet outside this morning. The wind had finally stopped, but the cold still held firm. Looking out the window, I saw the snow had buried everything so deep that I had to scoop a path just to reach the chicken house. Mini hopped alongside me through the drifts while Omelette stayed warm inside, perched by the stove.

Robert called after breakfast to say he would bring his tractor and snow scoop to clear a path to the road once the county snow plow went by. It felt strange being completely snowed in, knowing that Father LeRoy had canceled Mass and wouldn’t be having services for a bit longer.

After breakfast, Sister took Sister Hilda's next meditation from her box. It was about the moment Jesus’ enemies decided to kill Him. Their hatred had been growing for a long time, but it was Judas’ betrayal that finally set their plan in motion. He followed Jesus like a friend but secretly plotted against Him. Jesus knew this and still loved him, enduring not just physical suffering but the pain of a false friend. Sister said even today, people turn away from Jesus in small ways—choosing selfishness over Him, just as Judas did.

I thought about how easy it is to stay close to Jesus when everything is warm and comfortable—when Mass is open and the days feel light. But in hard times, when we feel cold or tired, it takes more effort not to drift away. Maybe Judas started out just weary of the journey, and little by little, his heart turned cold.

Even with all these heavy thoughts, Mini and Omelette gave us something to smile about. Mini rolled her ball toward Omelette with her nose, and Omelette kicked it back with her foot!—who would have thought a dog and a chicken could be friends?

Tonight, we will pray Sister Hilda's prayer by the fire, keeping the warmth of Jesus close, even as the snow stays piled high around us.

The Betrayal of Our Lord

February 24, 1955

Dear Diary,

The wind still howled through the trees, and the blizzard had not let up. Sister and I were snug and tucked in, warm under the heavy quilts, but I secretly worried about our wood supply. The temperature had dropped to ten below, and I wondered how long the storm would last.

Mini and I bundled up and went out to do the chicken chores. The cold bit at my face, and Mini stayed close, her breath coming in little white puffs. Omelette was already in the house—I had brought her in yesterday—so I only had the rest of the flock to tend to. I changed the water, gathered the eggs, and made sure everything was snug and tight in the coop before hurrying back inside, stomping the snow from my boots.

After breakfast, Sister pulled out a meditation from Sister Hilda’s box. It was titled Judas Sells Our Lord. I sat close, listening as Sister read aloud, the words sending a little shiver through me. It was a sobering thought—how Judas, who had walked beside Jesus, seen His miracles, and even broken bread with Him, had let his heart be filled with greed and coldness.

Sister read how Judas had grown impatient, tired of the simple life of following Jesus, longing for his own comforts. That frightened me a little. Did people truly fall away like that, little by little, until they could no longer see what was right? Judas had once believed, but he had let selfishness creep in, and soon he no longer heard the voice of Jesus in his heart. Sister and I talked about that—how the world and its desires can press in and make a soul forget what truly matters. I promised myself I would guard against such coldness.

At the end of the meditation, Sister Hilda had written a prayer. It was such a nice prayer that I asked Sister if we could use it for our evening prayer, and she agreed.

Tonight, by the fire, we will pray it together. I will whisper it in my heart, hoping our dear Lord will always keep me faithful.

Love, Kathy

The Winds Howl, but Christ Stands Firm

 February 23, 1956

Dear Diary,

Sister and I woke up to the wind howling through the trees, shaking the walls of our little home like a living thing. The blizzard hadn’t let up, and we knew there’d be no venturing out today—not that we had anywhere to go as Father LeRoy has cancelled Mass until further notice. The snow had piled so high it would be impossible to leave even if we wanted to. But we were warm, and our cupboard was full. Best of all, our hens had kept up their good work, and we had plenty of eggs. It felt like a snug sort of day, a day for quiet work and prayer.

After breakfast, Sister read her morning meditation on the Great Council deciding to arrest Jesus. The Sanhedrin plotted in secret, not because they sought truth, but because they feared losing their power. They watched the people, waiting for the right moment, whispering among themselves about how to be rid of Him without causing an uproar. They thought they were in control, but Jesus already knew. He had always known. He stood firm, never afraid, never wavering, because He trusted completely in the Father.

It made me wonder—do I ever shrink back because I worry about what others will think? Do I hesitate when I know what is right, just because it might be hard? The Sanhedrin feared the people, but they did not fear God. I don’t want to be like that. If Jesus could stand firm, even knowing what was ahead, then I can certainly do the small things He asks of me.

The wind still howls outside, but we are warm and safe. Sister and I spent the evening by the fire, our hands wrapped around hot mugs of tea, Mini curled up between us. Before bed, we knelt together and prayed:

“O Jesus, You were not afraid, even when You knew what was coming. Give me courage to follow You, no matter what. Let me care only for what You think of me, not the world. And when I am weak, hold me up, so that I never turn away from You.”

Amen.

Love, Kathy

Holding on in the Storm

February 22, 1956

Dear Diary,

The wind howled through the trees today, carrying snow so thick it felt like walking through a cloud. It wasn’t just cold—it was dangerous to be out. The hen house was nearly hidden behind the gusts, the snow swirling so fiercely that at times, I couldn’t even see the barn.

Sister Mary Claire fastened a rope from the clothesline to the chicken house, making sure it was secure before I stepped outside. “Hold on to this with every step,” she said firmly. I nodded, wrapping my mittened hand around it, promising not to let go.

With a lidded pail of warm water in one hand and my basket tucked safely under my arm, I stepped out into the storm. The wind pushed hard against me, and the snow stung my face, but I kept my grip on the rope and made my way forward, one careful step at a time.

Inside the hen house, it was dim and warm compared to outside. The hens were huddled together, their feathers fluffed, waiting. I poured the warm water into their basin, and they clucked softly as they came forward to drink. After checking the nests, I carefully placed the eggs into my covered basket, making sure each one was safe.

The trip back felt even colder, the wind pressing against me as I clutched the rope and moved step by step toward the house. Sister Mary Claire was waiting at the door, brushing the snow from my coat as I stepped inside, shivering.

By the fire, the warmth seeped into my fingers, and Sister Mary Claire opened the Lenten scrapbook Sister Hilda had sent. She admired how well it was made, running her fingers over the stitched binding before turning to today’s meditation.

“It’s about how Jesus went forth to suffer for us,” she said. “He knew exactly what was ahead, but He didn’t turn back.”

I thought about that while holding my hot chocolate close. “It makes me feel small,” I admitted. “I could barely face the storm just to take care of the hens.”

She smiled gently. “But you did it, Kathy. You held on, and you didn’t turn back. That’s how we follow Him, one step at a time, holding on, even when it’s hard.”

O Jesus, in the storms of life, teach me to hold on. When I grow weary, be my strength. When I am afraid, be my guide. May I walk in Thy footsteps, step by step, until I reach Thee. 

Amen.

Another Cold Morning and a Meditation for Lent

February 21, 1956

Dear Diary,

The morning was bitterly cold, and we wrapped ourselves up well before stepping out into the frosty air. Father LeRoy did have Mass, and we were there early—Sister Mary Claire, Robert, and me. The church was quiet except for the occasional creak of the pews and the soft whispers of prayer. Mini was with us today, and she stayed at the back of the church greeting each parishioner with a happy smile and her little wag joining us when the Mass bell sounded. Father LeRoy gave her an approving nod.

I had brought along a meditation from Sister Hilda, which I thought would be good to begin Lent—or even before Lent. It is a letter from her, and I shall copy it here so I do not lose her wise words:

Dear Kathy and Sister Mary Claire,

Lent approaches, and with it, the call to turn our hearts wholly to Our Lord in His Passion. I send you this meditation, not only for Lent but for every season of life.

Our Lord, in His holy suffering, did not count the cost—He embraced it. Even before the first blow fell, He saw it all before Him, and still, He chose it. This is love: not to seek for oneself rest and joy, but to give all for another. Never let a single moment pass without remembering that His suffering was for you.

Ask yourself, my dear children, do you count the cost too much? Do you shrink from difficulties in His service? Do you offer yourself without reserve, or do you make small hesitations and excuses? Today is the day to begin again, with love, with courage, with perseverance.

May this meditation enkindle and nourish in you a will that is firm and well-ordered, seeking God’s pleasure in all things. Whether sweet or bitter, may you praise and love Him. Do not be frightened by hardships but press on, steadfast and joyful.

I send you both my prayers and blessing,

Sister Hilda

Thinking as God Does

 

February 20, 1956

Dear Diary,

It was minus 12 degrees when we woke up this morning, and Church was canceled. The roads were slick with ice, and the wind howled around the house like it wanted to get inside. Sister Mary Claire and I stayed bundled up and read the Meditation and Daily Reading from the Magnificat Magazine.

The Meditation was called “Thinking as God Does,” and it came from the last writings of Hanns Georg von Heintschell-Heinegg, a man who was martyred for standing up to the Nazis. His words were so deep, so full of courage, I almost shivered reading them—though maybe that was just the cold creeping in. He wrote about how suffering refines us, how we are like gold in a furnace, burning away everything unimportant so that only what is pure remains. Sister and I talked about how he must have known he was going to die, yet he still believed in hope, in love, in Christ’s victory.

“The higher we climb, and the harder we fight, the more do we participate in the work and struggle of Jesus Christ.”

That part stayed with me all day. It made me think about how even the little struggles—like braving the cold to gather eggs—can be a way of growing stronger, of climbing higher.

Speaking of eggs, going out to the chicken coop has become pretty routine. Mini makes a trip out with me every single time, like a little bodyguard in the frigid weather. Her ears are pinned back against the wind, but she stays right at my side, determined to protect me from who-knows-what.

Omelette, on the other hand, has decided she likes indoor life a little too much. She’s taken up what she seems to think is permanent residence inside, making herself comfortable in the little nest we set up for her by the stove. I think she believes she’s a house hen now. We’ll see how long that lasts!

The day passed quietly after that. I kept thinking about how everything we give, we receive back a hundredfold, just like the Meditation said. Maybe even a prayer whispered in the cold is never wasted.

Dear Jesus,

Thank You for this day, for the quiet moments to think, and for the warmth of home when the world outside is bitter cold.

Please help me to see things as You do, to know that even the smallest struggles are part of something greater. Just as that brave man wrote in his last words, let me be like gold refined in the fire, burning away everything unimportant until only love remains.

Bless Sister Mary Claire, Robert, and everyone who is cold or alone tonight. Watch over the hens in their coop, Mini in her little bed, and even Omelette, who thinks she belongs inside now.

And Jesus, if You will, let me be a knight of Your kingdom, even in the smallest ways.

Amen.

Faith and Warmth on a Cold Day

February 19, 1956

Dear Diary,

Today, despite the frigid cold gripping our little farm at a sharp minus 9 degrees, warmth found its way into our hearts. Robert, Sister Mary Claire, Mini, and I ventured early to St. Mary’s. Robert suggested we bring Mini along in his warm pickup, and she, understanding perfectly, howled with joy—a sound she reserves for truly happy occasions.

At church, though the attendance was sparse due to the cold, Father LeRoy delivered a particularly moving homily, inspired by the heroic acts of perseverance by Father Ciszek and Father Victor, detailed in a meditation we all pondered upon. These brave souls, amidst the harsh conditions of the Ural mountains, where they were imprisoned for 23 years in Soviet camps, still found ways to celebrate Mass. They memorized the prayers and used the natural cathedral of the forest, or the quiet of their barracks, to hold onto their faith fiercely. The history of their captivity and unwavering spirit in such dire circumstances made their story not just a tale of survival, but a profound testimony to their faith and dedication.

Father LeRoy’s words drew a vivid picture of their secret, sacred acts—celebrating Mass on a tree stump or quietly across from one another on their barrack beds, always wary of observers. This meditation on their resilience resonated deeply with me, especially as we sat in our own small sanctuary, warmed by our shared faith and community.

Returning home to the warmth of our stove, I tended to Omelette and the other chickens, ensuring they had fresh water and were well cared for in this biting cold. Omelette, ever the companion, chose the warmth of her nest by the stove to lay her egg, a simple yet profound joy in these frosty days.

Sister Mary Claire and I spent the afternoon engrossed in assembling my scrapbook. The fancy scissors she recently found at the thrift store made the experience even more delightful. It’s moments like these, cutting through past memories and piecing them together, that remind me of how we craft our continuance through faith and love, much like the priests in their secluded servitude.

Heavenly Father, in the silence of this winter night, we thank You for the enduring spirit You instilled in Father Ciszek, Father Victor, and all those who maintain their faith in the face of immense trials. May their stories inspire us to cherish and uphold the sacred traditions You have entrusted to us, finding our altars in the wilderness of our trials. Grant us the strength to persevere and the wisdom to see Your providence in every piece of bread and every sip of wine, no matter where we are. Amen.

With a heart full of reflection and gratitude, Kathy

Third Sight

Dear Diary,

This morning, as I bundled up in my warm coat and scarf, I tucked my little stuffed lamb into my arms and carried it with me to Church. Sister found it at a thrift store, and I was so glad to be the one chosen to give it a home. It has no eyes, but somehow, that makes it even more special—because it reminds me of the Lamb of God and how faith isn’t just about what we see, but what we believe.

The meditation today was about Jesus healing a blind man. At first, the man could only see shadows—people looked like trees walking around—but then Jesus touched him, and his sight became clear. I think sometimes I see the world like that—dimly, uncertainly, not fully understanding what God is doing. But if I keep my heart open, Jesus will help me see more clearly, just as He did for the blind man.

At Mass, I sat quietly, holding my little lamb in my lap. As I looked at it, I thought about how Jesus, the true Lamb of God, allowed Himself to be sacrificed for us. He saw everything—not just the cross ahead of Him, but also each of us, whom He loved enough to die for.

The words of today’s meditation echoed in my mind:

Some years in the distance, three trees on a hill.

Or were they three people? My eyes couldn’t tell.

The three trees on a hill—the crosses of Calvary. Jesus knew they were coming. And yet, He walked toward them with love. He didn’t need physical sight to see what truly mattered—His Father’s will, our redemption, the eternal life He was offering us.

Lent is coming, and I want to see more clearly. I want to look at the world with eyes of faith, not fear. My little lamb reminds me of that—it doesn’t have eyes, yet I love it anyway, just as God loves me.

Good night, dear diary.

The Eternal Enters Time

February 17, 1956

Dear Diary,

This morning, I tucked my Rosary into my pocket, took my meditation book in hand, and climbed into the warm pickup with Sister and Robert for Holy Mass. The temperature was a bitter minus one, and the heated ride felt like such a treat. We left forty-five minutes earlyso we could pray the Joyful Mysteries before Mass, preparing our hearts in quiet reflection.

Mini sat perched by the window, watching the fields and fences fly past. Just as we reached the gravel road leading to St. Mary’s, a coyote darted across the road. Mini, ever the observant one, didn’t bark—she knew this was different from any ordinary farm dog. Instead, her ears spread wide, like she was about to take flight. Airplane mode! Sister and I couldn’t help but giggle.

At church, kneeling in the pew with my Rosary wrapped in my fingers, I thought about the Incarnation—how God stepped into time, taking on a human face in Jesus. The Church doesn’t speak of her own wisdom, but of the word of God, which she received in faith. And this faith isn’t just a list of teachings, but a relationship—an encounter.

Through Christ, we now have access to the Father. Because He came into the world, our world is changed. Even in suffering and uncertainty, there is meaning because of the Cross. If Jesus, the Son of God, took on human flesh and embraced death for us, then we can trust that our lives—no matter how small—are held in His love.

It’s comforting to think that our faith isn’t just a guess at truth, but a gift revealed by God Himself. And through this revelation, we come to know who we are meant to be.

As the evening settles in, Mini is curled at my feet, her little body warm and still. Outside, the wind howls against the windowpane, but inside, there is peace.

Good night, dear diary.

Kathy

His Pure Love is Everything

February 16, 1956

Dear Diary,

This morning, Robert picked up Sister and me early so we could get to church ahead of time. We’ve made it a habit now—arriving early to either say the Rosary or read the meditation together. Today, we read about loving God above everything else. It said that even with all the knowledge in the world, a person could still be unhappy, but someone who loves God will always have joy. That’s because God’s love is enough—nothing else compares to it.

I liked how it talked about how people look for comfort in others, but only God truly consoles us. It made me think of Saint Ignatius and his words: “Give me your love, my God, and this is enough for me.” I whispered that prayer to myself before Mass began.

Even though it was only 5 degrees outside, quite a few folks still made the effort to come. Sunday people—those who truly love the Lord—seem to understand that nothing should keep them away from Him. A few even carried in armloads of firewood for the church, adding to Father’s supply to help keep it warm. It was nice to see how everyone did their little part to take care of our church.

Mini came with us today! She was so good and curled up quietly at my feet, only lifting her head now and then to peek around. I think she knows this is a special place.

As we were leaving, we saw Tom Collins unloading a big supply of firewood from his pickup next to Father’s rectory. I knew he had spent the whole morning loading it, and now Tommy Dennison was giving him a hand unloading it. The two of them worked steadily, their breath rising in little puffs in the cold air, stacking the wood neatly. Father will be set for quite a while now! I was sure that must have made his day.

The day passed peacefully, and in the afternoon, I thought again about the meditation. It said we should ask God to take everything away from us except His love. If we have that, we have everything. I sat by the fire with Mini curled beside me, thinking about what that means. Jesus, if I lose everything else, let me never lose Your love. That is what I prayed in my heart.

Dear Jesus,

Thank You for Your love, which is greater than anything in this world. Let me never love anything more than I love You. Like Saint Ignatius, I ask: Give me Your love, my God, and this is enough for me.

Bless Sister, Robert, Father LeRoy, and all who made the effort to come to Mass today. Bless those who carried in firewood for the church, and bless Tom Collins for all his hard work loading wood this morning and Tommy Dennison for helping him unload it. I’m sure that made Father’s day.

And dear Lord, thank You for letting Mini be with me today. Even though she doesn’t understand, I think she knows You are near.

All for Jesus!

Amen.

How Christ Satisfies Our Hunger

February 15, 1956

Dear Diary,

It was 18 degrees this morning, and the sky was a pale, wintry blue when Robert pulled up to take Sister and me to Holy Mass. We had already decided that from now on, we would go a half-hour early—either to read the meditation or say the Rosary. Last night, Sister and I watched The Catholic Hour, and Bishop Fulton Sheen said, “Don’t leave home without it,”talking about the Rosary. Sister smiled and said, “That settles it then—we bring it everywhere.” So before heading out this morning, I tucked mine into my pocket.

When we arrived at church, we found a quiet pew and read today’s meditation. It was about the Eucharist—the miracle of miracles! I loved how it explained that the same love that filled Mary’s heart when Jesus was in her womb is the same love we receive at every Mass. I thought about that during the consecration, how Jesus comes quietly, just like He did in Bethlehem, hidden from the world, but truly here.

After Mass, Robert dropped us off at home, and I changed clothes and did the chicken chores. Omelette was her usual happy self, clucking and bustling about as if she had important business. I gathered the eggs, filling my basket with warm, big brown ones. It’s funny how the hens never seem to mind the cold. As I placed each egg carefully in my basket, I thought of today’s meditation again—how Jesus gathers us all into His heart just like I gather these eggs, tucking them safely into my care.

Later in the afternoon, I took a quick walk to the cave, not so much to be alone, but to be with Jesus and Mary in my heart. The stillness of the cave made it easier to listen. I closed my eyes and thought of the Eucharist, how Jesus is always with me, hidden but real, just like He was in Mary’s womb. “Jesus, You satisfy every hunger,” I whispered. I stayed there a little while, letting my heart rest with Him and Mary, like a child safe in their love.

Mini was waiting for me when I got back, her little bottom wagging as if she knew I had been off to do something important. Sister was finishing up in the kitchen, and the house was warm with the smell of something good baking. We ended the day with quiet prayers by the fire, Mini curled up at my feet.

Dear Jesus,

Thank You for the gift of the Eucharist, for coming to us again and again with the same love You had when You were in Mary’s arms. Let my heart be a manger for You, a quiet place where You are always welcome.

Bless Sister, Father LeRoy, Robert, and all who love You. Watch over the hens in their coop, Mini in her bed, and keep our little home safe tonight.

And dear Mother Mary, please remind me—just like Bishop Sheen said—never to leave home without my Rosary.

All for Jesus!

Amen.

Valentine Request

Dear Diary

February 14, 1956

Dear Diary,

This morning, Robert picked up Sister and me for Mass, and we arrived early enough to read today’s meditation. It spoke about the joy and life found in Christ’s words, how every truth He uttered was warmed in the heat of love. Sister explained it to me before Mass began, and Father LeRoy even spoke about it in his homily. The Gospel is good news, alive and full of wonder, not just words on a page but something we proclaim with our lives. That made me think—maybe when I greet people at church with the Gospel reading, I should remember that I’m not just handing them paper but sharing something living and full of light.

After Mass, we checked on the hen house, and there was no trouble at all. Omelette rejoined her sisters, and they welcomed her back so sweetly. She clucked happily, pecking at the grain as if she had never been away. It made me smile to see her so content.

In the afternoon, Sister borrowed Tom’s pickup, and we delivered a whole case of 30 dozen big brown eggs to the Breakfast Club. Everyone is always so pleased with the eggs, and I started thinking—what if we sent a sample dozen to the President? Maybe it would be good advertising, and who knows, we might even start a mail-order business! Sister laughed and said it was an interesting idea, and I could tell she was thinking about it too.

Mini was in her best form today, trotting beside me with her little bottom wagging. She curled up beside me while I wrote in my diary, letting out a happy sigh as she rested her chin on my lap. I scratched behind her ears, and she closed her eyes in contentment.

Dear Jesus,

Thank You for this day, for the warmth of Your love even in the cold. You have done all things well, and I want to learn to trust in that always. Let Your words be alive in my heart, just as they were today when Sister explained them to me. Help me to share Your light with others, even in small ways like handing out the Gospel reading at church.

Bless Sister, Father LeRoy, Robert, and all those who guide me closer to You. Keep our little farm safe through the night, and let Omelette rest peacefully with her sisters. Thank You for Mini, whose joy reminds me of Your goodness.

All for Jesus!

Amen.

Faith in the Frozen Wilderness

Dear Diary,

Tuesday, February 13, 1956

This morning, the temperature had fallen to minus 17 degrees—one degree colder than in town, as it always does along Indian Creek. Everything outside is locked in ice and silence, and the world feels like a frozen wilderness. The stillness stretched over the fields and woods, unbroken by the usual morning sounds of farm life. Even the birds seemed to have given up their songs to the cold.

Church was called off today, so Sister and I are staying home. It’s a day for keeping things in order—watching over the animals, keeping the water from freezing, and making sure the fire stays strong. Omelette was brought inside last night, safe from the bitter wind, nestled in the little box we made for her. She seems content enough, though I’m sure she wonders why she’s not in the coop with the others.

Eggs will be gathered every two hours, before the cold has a chance to steal them away. Mini will be entertained with her squeak ball and quick trips to the chicken house. She seems to enjoy the job, trotting along beside me, her breath little puffs in the frigid air. The little chicken door to the outside world is closed tight, and the chickens huddle together for warmth. The tea kettle’s hot water is needed each time to loosen the ice from the bottom of their pan, letting it drop out so fresh water can take its place. It will be a busy day, but a good one, the kind where you do what needs to be done and offer it to God.

As I step outside for another trip to the chicken house, I think about today’s meditation. The woman who begged Jesus to heal her daughter asked for no more than a crumb at the banquet of merciful love, and Jesus was conquered by her faith. He gave her everything because she asked in humility, knowing she deserved nothing but expecting everything from His infinite mercy.

The centurion’s words echo in my mind as I break the thin crust of ice on the water pan: “Lord, I am not worthy… but say only the word, and my soul shall be healed.” He, too, knew that he had no claim on Jesus’ power, yet he believed completely in His mercy. I think of him in heaven, hearing those words repeated at every Mass, all over the world, for all time.

It is easy to feel small in a world like this—standing beneath a vast sky, in a land locked in ice, realizing how powerless I am against the cold, the wind, and even my own weaknesses. But that is exactly where faith must live—in the smallness, in the humility that knows we are unworthy, yet trusts in His love.

Jesus needs nothing but our humility and confidence to work wonders in us. I will go to Him with nothing, expecting everything, just like the woman, just like the centurion.

Tonight, the house is warm, the chores are done, and the wilderness outside is silent beneath the stars. Before I close my eyes, I offer my prayer:

O Jesus, I am not worthy, but I trust in Your mercy.

I come before You with empty hands, yet You fill them.

I have nothing to give but my love, yet You give me everything.

Say only one word, and my soul shall be healed.

Good night, dear diary.

 

The Lamb of God

Wednesday, February 12, 1956

Dear Diary,

This morning, the temperature was three above zero, and once again, Robert stopped by and picked us up at the end of the driveway. The road had three inches of new snow, but Robert had put chains on his pickup, and we made it to church without any trouble.

When we arrived, the church was dark and cold. Father must have overslept, but Robert started a fire, and soon we were all warm. We sat in the front pew next to the stove and began reading today’s meditation.

“Behold the Lamb of God, Who taketh away the sins of the world” (John 1:29). Sister and Robert helped me reflect on its meaning. Jesus, our High Priest, prayed for us during His time on earth, offering Himself completely to the heavenly Father. And even now, He continues His prayer, offering Himself on the altar at every Mass. Just as Moses interceded for the people, Jesus pleads for us before the Father. It is a comforting thought to know that Christ’s prayer never ends.

Father arrived about ten minutes late, rubbing his eyes and apologizing. “I overslept,” he admitted with a sheepish smile, “but I’m grateful to Robert for getting the church warm!” His homily echoed the meditation we had just read, reminding us that Jesus’ sacrifice was not only made once on the cross but continues through the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass. His prayer of intercession is constant, and through it, we are drawn into His mercy.

When we got home, I left my coat on and took Mini outside to gather eggs. There were no broken eggs today.

Sister had soaked peas overnight and took out two slices of bacon from the pound she had bought in town, dicing them up and adding them to the pot. The soup simmered on the stove all morning, filling the kitchen with a wonderful, rich scent. When it was ready, we ladled it into bowls and ate it with slices of her wonderful Wonder Bread and butter. It was just the thing to warm us up after such a chilly morning.

Here’s the recipe for Sister’s Pea Soup with Bacon:

• 1 cup dried peas, soaked overnight
• 4 cups water or broth
• 2 slices bacon, diced
• 1 small onion, chopped
• 1 bay leaf
• Salt and pepper to taste
• Bread and butter for serving

1. In a pot, brown the diced bacon over medium heat. Add the chopped onion and cook until soft.

2. Pour in the water or broth and add the soaked peas.

3. Drop in the bay leaf, season with salt and pepper, and let everything simmer for about an hour until the peas are soft.

4. Serve hot with slices of fresh bread and butter.

As I end this day, I offer my evening prayer:

O my Savior and my God, in Thy most tender love, Thou art unceasingly present in the Sacred Mystery of the Altar, offering Thyself to the Father for us. Let my heart, in union with Thine, be transformed in love and sacrifice, that I may offer all I do to Thee. Behold the Lamb of God, Who taketh away the sins of the world—have mercy on us. Amen.

Good night, dear diary.

Feast Day of Our Lady of Lourdes

February 11, 1956

Dear Diary,

This morning was bitterly cold—three degrees below zero. The frost clung to the windows, and even inside, the air felt sharp and crisp. Robert picked us up for Mass, and I was grateful for the warmth of the truck’s cab, which he had started early to fight off the cold.

At church, we sat in front pew near the stove. Robert added an ash log to the fire, saying, “Ash is great for a quick, hot fire.” The flames flickered and glowed, sending out much-needed warmth. I stretched out my hands toward the heat and whispered a little prayer of thanks.

Father LeRoy’s homily was about Our Lady of Lourdes, and I listened intently as he spoke of Bernadette’s faith. He reminded us how she remained steadfast despite being questioned and doubted, never turning away from what she had seen. It seemed fitting to hear her story on such a still, frozen morning—almost as if the world itself was listening.

After Mass, Robert dropped us off, and Sister Mary Claire and I went straight to work on the chores. The hens feathers were fluffed up against the cold. As I reached into one of the nesting boxes, my fingers met something hard and icy—a frozen egg, its shell cracked from the bitter cold. I sighed but smiled, knowing Mini would enjoy it for breakfast tomorrow. She trotted beside me, giving the cold ground a quick sniff as we hurried back to the house.

Inside, I warmed my hands near the stove. Mini curled up in her usual spot by the fire, her little body rising and falling with each breath, completely content.

The rest of the afternoon passed in quiet tasks—quick trips to gather eggs, and keeping the chicken water ice free and yes, watching snow dance against the window. The cold made the world feel still and hushed, and I didn’t mind. 

A Lourdes Story for Bedtime

As the evening settled in, Sister Mary Claire sat beside me on the edge of my bed, a book in her hands. I knew exactly what she had chosen to read - my favorite Lourdes story.

I pulled the blanket up to my chin as she began:

“She was engaged in taking off her first stocking when she heard around her as it were, the sound of a blast of wind, rising in the meadow-tract with an indescribable character of irresistible might. She believed it to be a sudden hurricane, and turned herself round instinctively. To her great surprise, the poplars which border the Gave river were perfectly motionless. Not the slightest breeze stirred their still branches.

‘I must have been deceived,’ she said to herself. As she thought again about this noise, she did not know what to believe. She began once more to remove her shoes and stocking. At this moment, the impetuous roaring of this unknown blast became audible afresh. Bernadette raised her head, gazed in front of her, and uttered, or rather strove to utter, a loud cry, which was stifled in her throat. She shuddered in all her limbs, and confounded, dazzled, and crushed in a certain manner by what she saw before her, she sank down, bowed herself entirely to the earth, and fell on both knees.”*

Sister Mary Claire closed the book gently and looked at me.

“Isn’t it amazing how Bernadette’s faith carried her through such an incredible experience?” she asked.

I nodded, still caught up in the vivid imagery of the story. The wind that Bernadette heard, the vision that left her in awe—it felt so real, even across time.

We both knelt beside the bed and said a prayer together, thanking the Blessed Virgin for her guidance and asking for the strength to be faithful like Bernadette.

“Dear Blessed Mother, we thank you for your intercession and for the miraculous events that strengthen our faith. Please continue to guide us and watch over us, as you did for Bernadette. Amen.”

As I lay down to sleep, the fire in the stove crackled softly, and Mini gave a contented sigh from under the bed. I thought again about Bernadette’s unwavering faith and whispered a little prayer that I, too, would have the courage to trust in God’s plan, no matter what comes my way.

Until tomorrow, dear diary.

Kathy

Love Unreturned

Dear Diary,

Monday, February 10, 1956

The Sufferings Inflicted Upon the Sacred Heart of Jesus by Ingratitude and the Insults of Men

It was another bitterly cold morning—ten degrees above zero. Robert came promptly to pick us up for Mass, bringing along some extra firewood since he had noticed Father LeRoy’s supply was running low. The cold had kept most of the parishioners away again, so it was only a small gathering in the little church.

Sister Mary Claire, Robert, and I sat in the front pew, near the warmth of the freshly fixed fire. Since it was still early before Mass, we opened up Jesus, the Model of Religious and began reading the meditation for Monday. It spoke of how Jesus, knowing the suffering He would endure, told His disciples of His coming Passion. He would be betrayed, mocked, scourged, and put to death—yet His greatest pain came from the ingratitude of men. How many times He offers His love only to be rejected! How often His goodness is met with coldness! Sister Mary Claire explained how even now, the Sacred Heart suffers when souls turn away from Him, and Robert spoke of the offenses committed against Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament.

When Father LeRoy stepped up to the pulpit for his sermon, we realized he had chosen to preach on the very same meditation. He had read it earlier and based his homily on the sufferings of Jesus, inflicted not just by the cruelty of those who condemned Him, but by the neglect and indifference of so many souls. “I looked for one to compassionate Me, but there was none.” Those words echoed in my heart, and I asked Jesus to help me be one who consoles Him.

After Mass, Robert went outside ahead of us to start the pickup so it would be warm by the time we climbed in. When we got home, Mini was eager for her morning walk, and I took her out, my boots crunching in the snow. We decided to wait to take more eggs to the Breakfast Club, as they still had plenty left from the last delivery.

I wondered if Molly and Megan had made it to warmer weather yet. They had left after Mass yesterday, so by now, they were probably somewhere in Colorado, far from this winter cold - or maybe not.

The day was filled with the usual routine of chores, but before the sun set, I made a quick visit down to the creek and to John Hathaway’s secret cave. His little room of books felt peaceful as always, a quiet place to reflect. I sat there for a moment, thinking about how he must have prayed in this very spot. I whispered a prayer for him, for those who have suffered for the faith, and for all who still reject Christ’s love.

O Sacred Heart of Jesus,
So full of love and yet so often forgotten,
I offer You my little acts of love to console You.
For every soul who turns away, may I turn ever closer to You.
For every insult against You, may my lips offer praise.
For every cold and indifferent heart, may mine burn with love for You.
Hide me in Your wounds, Lord,
That I may never stray from Your side.
Let me bear my little crosses with patience,
Remembering Your great Passion.
And may Your mercy, O Lord,
Draw all souls to Your Sacred Heart.
Amen.