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

The Silence of Jesus

When My Thoughts Found a Voice 

March 27, 1956
Third Week of Lent

Dear Diary,

The ride to church this morning was quiet and quick. Robert picked us up at the mailbox, as always, and Sister Mary Claire and I climbed into the warm pickup with Mini settling right onto the floor by the heater. The cold air outside made the warmth inside feel even more comforting, and none of us had much to say. It was the kind of morning that didn’t need words.

We arrived at church early—just the way we like it. The three of us took our usual pew near the front. The church was hushed, holding onto the last bit of night. Sister opened our Lenten meditation book and turned to today’s reading: The Silence of Jesus.

She read softly so only Robert and I could hear. The passage came from the Gospel of Matthew: “And when He was accused by the chief priests and ancients, He answered nothing... and the governor wondered exceedingly.” We sat still for a while, just thinking on that. Jesus, standing before His accusers, choosing not to defend Himself—not because He had no defense, but because He was offering Himself in perfect love.

Sister whispered that His silence was stronger than any argument. Robert quietly added, “It speaks louder than words ever could.” I thought of how often I try to explain or excuse myself, even over the smallest things. But Jesus remained silent to show us the strength of surrender, the kind that saves souls.

Father LeRoy’s homily followed the same meditation. He said that Jesus’ silence was not weakness—it was mercy. He bore false accusations to make up for our faults and excuses, and He did it willingly. I felt very small in that moment—but also very loved.

Later this afternoon, Mini and I went down to the cave. It was peaceful and cool inside. I brought along my airmail stationery and wrote Vreni a letter. I told her all about this morning—how still it was in church, and how Jesus’ silence taught me more than a thousand words ever could. I told her I want to practice that kind of silence too—not just being quiet, but being still in my heart.

Evening Prayer:

Dear Jesus,
Thank You for Your silent strength.
You didn’t fight back or defend Yourself—
You gave Yourself in love,
For me, for all of us.
Help me to speak less and listen more,
To stop justifying myself,
And to follow You in quiet trust.
Bless Sister Mary Claire, Robert, Mini, my brown hen Omelette, and my friend Vreni,
And all who came to church today in silence and faith.
Let me rest now in the peace of Your quiet love.

Amen.

With love,
Kathy 

My Kingdom is Not From Hence

When My Thoughts Found a Voice 

Wednesday, March 26
Third Week of Lent


Dear Diary,

It was cold again this morning, and Sister Mary Claire and I were bundled up at the end of the driveway when Robert pulled up in his pickup. He leaned over and opened the door, and we both climbed in—Mini curled right up on the floor by the heater like she always does. It was warm and quiet inside, and I was grateful.

At church, Father LeRoy gave a powerful homily about Jesus standing before Pilate. He read the words from the Gospel of John: “My kingdom is not of this world.” Sister showed me a picture afterward of Jesus with the crown of thorns, His hands bound, surrounded by those who mocked Him. And still, He offered no resistance.

On the way home, Robert said Jesus was showing true strength—not in fighting back, but in choosing love over power. Sister added something I’ll never forget. She said Jesus did more than just teach us to be brave in suffering—He died for our sake, to pay the price for our sins. That forgiveness is already offered to us, but we have to accept it. We have to make Him our King, not just in words, but in the way we live.

Sister made breakfast when we got home, and I helped set the table. Mini finally came out from under the chair once she smelled the toast.

Evening Prayer:

Dear Jesus,
Thank You for standing before Pilate for me.
You wore the crown of thorns and chose silence, not because You were weak,
But because You were strong in love.
You died so I could be forgiven. Help me to say yes to You with my whole life.
Bless Sister Mary Claire, Mini, Omelette, Robert, and everyone who was at church today.
Keep us close to You and let us rest in Your peace tonight.

Amen.

Love,
Kathy 

The Annunciation

When My Thoughts Found a Voice

Dear Diary,

Today is the feast of the Annunciation, and Father LeRoy gave the most beautiful homily about Our Lady’s “Yes.” He said that everything—Jesus coming to us, the Redemption—began when Mary said yes to God with all her heart. He told us that God didn’t force anything, but waited for her to choose, and she did, with love and trust.

On the ride home in Robert’s pickup truck, Sister Mary Claire and Robert helped explain the homily even more. Mini sat between us, ears up and her little body still, like she was trying to understand too. When we got to the mailbox, Robert shut the engine off, and we all stayed in the truck, talking for another twenty minutes. The sun was coming through the pickup window just right, and it made everything feel warm and cozy.

After lunch, I took my bottle of water—the one Father LeRoy blessed this morning—and brought it down to the grotto in the cave by the water stream. Father told me that he added three drops of Lourde’s water to mine, and that just one drop makes the whole thing Lourde’s water. I smiled so big when he said that. It’s the kind of thing I’ll always remember. Mini followed me down and laid at my feet as I sat by Our Lady. I whispered my own little “yes” to God there, hoping He heard me too.

Evening Prayer

Dear Blessed Mother,
Thank You for saying yes, and for helping me understand how powerful a yes can be.
Help me to love God's will like you did.
Bless Sister Mary Claire, and Mini, and Robert, who listens so kindly.
Thank You for the warm sun through the truck window and for quiet moments by the stream.
I want to be faithful, like you. Please pray for me.
Amen.

Now the night is soft, and I’m sitting at my little desk, writing a letter to Vreni in Switzerland. I’ll tell her all about the homily and the bottle of water and how Mini was perfectly still today, as if she was praying too. Maybe Vreni is looking out at the Alps tonight, and maybe she’s saying her own yes to God.

Love,
Kathy 

Dear Jesus

Deep Dive with Marcus & Renie

March 24, 1956

Dear Diary

It was only 26 degrees this morning, but Robert came by in his pickup and gave Sister Mary Claire, Mini, and me a ride to church. Mini rode on Sister’s lap like she belonged there, cozy and content. The windows fogged up, and everything outside looked like it had been dusted in powdered sugar.

At Mass, Father LeRoy spoke about Jesus’ suffering, especially that lonely night in the prison. It made my mind wander to a letter I had read in The Catholic Globe, the one Sister gets each month from Des Moines. A man named Brian had written it from prison—a letter straight to Jesus. I had pasted it into the back of my scrapbook, but today I want it here, where I can read it again and pray over it.

Dear Jesus,

I always knew You existed. I’m a sixty-one-year-old man doing life fifteen. I’m twenty-one years in. I wish, in my younger days, when mom asked me to go to church with her, I would have gone. I always said to her, “Maybe next week,” but it never happened.

All my life, when I called upon You, You were there, and I love You for being there when I needed You. I’ve been lost so many years by drinking. I drank whenever I could get it, and that led me to steal to supply my habit. I lost a lot of jobs over the years because of drinking.

Jesus, I was offered a job on a ranch in British Columbia, Canada. I worked there two years, and one day he said to me, “Brian, throw away the beer can for one year and I’ll make sure you own my ranch.” But I couldn’t throw away the beer can.

I drank because one day I got married, and six months later, I caught my wife running around on me. When my wife left me, I drank even more. Now, looking back on the things I lost and the things I did while I was drinking almost makes me sick.

Jesus, when I came to prison, I swallowed three razor blades because I didn’t want to live. But, like always, You were there. I had lost all hope, but for some reason, You kept me alive. Now I think I know why. I believe You wanted me to know You better than before. I can’t leave my cell without praying to You first. You protected me while I’ve been here.

I’m going on twenty-one years inside because Satan led me astray. But, like always, You kept coming back to save me. Without Your love and forgiveness, I wouldn’t be writing this letter.

Jesus, about twelve years ago, I gave my heart to You and I was baptized in Your name. Through all the years inside, I’ve studied Your Word. I live and breathe because of You. Jesus, You showed me a love that I’ve never known. When everyone let me down, You were there to pick up the pieces. My days revolve around You.

I’ll never drink again because I lost so much while drinking. But, by living by Your Word, You gave me strength to get from one day to the next. I still fight against Satan, and he’s always around. But Jesus, I know in my heart You’ll drive Satan away so I can make it through each and every day. I’ll love You and follow You ‘til the day I die.

Your faithful servant,
Brian

Later, once the sun had warmed things a little, Mini and I brought the scrapbook down to the John Hathaway room in the cave by the creek. I said my prayers at the grotto and dipped a little jar into the spring. I’ll take it to Mass tomorrow and ask Father to bless it. Then I’ll bring it home and use it to bless Sister Mary Claire and Mini.

Evening Prayer:

Dear Jesus, I thought about You today in that cold, dark prison. And I thought of Brian, who found You there, even after so much pain. Let me never take for granted Your mercy, or the love that keeps chasing us. Bless the water from the spring, and make it holy with Your touch. Amen.

With love,
Kathy

The Third Sunday of Lent

Take a Deep Dive into Kathy's Diary

March 23 

Dear Diary,

Mass this morning filled my heart with something I can only describe as a sacred hush. Father LeRoy preached about Jesus casting out a devil from a man who couldn’t speak. He said the devil had seized hold of his tongue, and Jesus set it free. Then Father reminded us that the devil still tries to control what we say—and don’t say. We must be brave enough to speak when it's right and humble enough to stay silent when it is holy.

As I listened, I thought of a holy card I once saw tucked inside John Hathaway’s prayer book down in the cave. It showed the Christ Child standing victorious over a serpent, bathed in heavenly light, surrounded by angels. Even as a child, Jesus triumphs over evil. That image came into my mind just as Father LeRoy said, “Let your words be used for truth, and let your silence be filled with God.” I could see it all again in my heart—the cross-staff in the Child Jesus’ hand, and the serpent crushed. I knew I’d go down to the cave this afternoon and find that holy card again.

After Mass, Robert offered us a ride. All four of us—Robert, Sister Mary Claire, Mini, and me—squeezed into the cab of his old pickup. It smelled of peppermint and fresh hay. Sister Mary Claire had Mini on her lap, and I sat right next to Robert, who drove steady on the gravel. We laughed and bumped shoulders, then got quiet again talking about the homily.

This afternoon, I picked up sticks scattered around the yard. I saved six of the nicest ones for Shaggy Coat and added a carrot, then headed down to the creek. He was there waiting, just like always. When he saw me, he slapped his tail on the water and waddled closer. I knelt and told him how much I love him. He listened the way beavers do—with his whole self, turning his head just a little, the way Mini does when she's trying to understand something important.

Afterward, I stepped into the cool hush of the cave and made my way back to John Hathaway’s room. There, just as I remembered, tucked into his prayer book, was that very holy card—the one of Jesus as a child, defeating the serpent, rays of light pouring from Him, with angels surrounding in awe. I sat still for a long time, just looking at it, whispering a few prayers, letting the silence wrap around me like a blanket.

Here is the prayer I wrote while I sat near the grotto, with the candle flickering gently:

Kathy’s Prayer on Silence

Dear Jesus,
Let my heart be still like this cave. Let my thoughts be clear like a stream. When the world gets noisy and full of unkind voices, help me find Your peace in the quiet. Teach me to speak only when it helps someone, and to be silent when that silence holds love. Let my words be few but full of truth. And when I am quiet, may I be listening for You. Amen.

Evening Prayer

O dearest Lord,
Thank You for this day—for the wisdom of Father LeRoy, the warmth of Mini at my feet, the laughter in Robert’s truck, and the listening heart of Shaggy Coat. Thank You for that holy card and the holy silence of the cave. Help me use my voice with care, and my silence with grace. Guard my tongue and make it Yours. Let me sleep in Your peace tonight, knowing You are near. Amen.

Always Yours,
Kathy

Peter's Repentance

Take a Deep Dive into Peter's Repentance

 

March 22, 1956

Dear Diary,

This morning at Mass, Father LeRoy gave such a heartfelt homily on the repentance of Peter. I had read ahead last night and so I thought I knew what to expect, but when he spoke about how Jesus turned and looked at Peter—and how that one look, full of sorrow and love, broke Peter’s heart wide open—I felt something move inside me. Sister and Robert and I talked about it all the way home, especially at the mailbox where we stopped for quite a while. Robert said he thought that moment was one of the most tender in all of Scripture, and Sister nodded and said it was love that broke Peter's pride.

Later in the afternoon, I decided to take my scrapbook down to the cave. I needed quiet. The kind of quiet that wraps around you like a warm shawl, the kind that makes you feel like your imagination can actually work.

I snuck past Shaggy Coat at the edge of Indian Creek. He was hard at work patching something near his lodge and didn’t even glance up at me. I didn’t want to disturb him anyway. Once I slipped into John Hathaway’s room and closed the door, I lit the little candle and sat cross-legged on the rug with Mini pressing against my leg. Her fur always warms that one side of me like a faithful little stove.

Then I opened the scrapbook and looked again at the image of Peter—his eyes turned upward, hands clasped, sorrow all over his face. It was the strangest thing. I felt like I could almost time-travel into the image. I wasn’t myself anymore but someone standing in the shadows watching St. Peter weep. I didn’t speak, I just looked. The picture is really only pasted into the scrapbook, but it felt more like a window. I stared for a long time.

Next to it, I had placed the page from John Hathaway’s prayer book that spoke of sorrow and love and strength in repentance. I read that too. Time passed faster than I expected and the candle was nearly out. I kissed my fingers and touched the page before blowing the flame out. On the way back, Shaggy Coat was gone, back inside his lodge I suppose. And now I’m here, writing in bed.

O Lord, I do not deserve Your look of love,
But let it find me like it found Peter.
When I forget, remember me.
When I fall, raise me up.
When I cry, let it be for love of You.
Jesus, my Savior, cast Your merciful eyes on me.
And let me follow You—quietly, truly, always.

Love, Kathy

Pete's Denial

Take a Deep Dive into Peter's Denial

March 21, 1956

Dear Diary,

Everything is cleared now as far as the snow goes, but what a slushy mess the roads have become! Robert said the churchyard hadn’t been cleared off yet, so Mass was canceled. It felt strange not walking to St. Mary’s this morning, but Sister Mary Clare and I made the best of it.

Robert came in early for coffee, already knowing Mass was off. He’d been up even before dawn and had read today’s meditation before coming over. As we sat around the table, steaming mugs in hand, we dove right into the threefold denial of St. Peter. I listened while Sister and Robert explained the meditation to me, how Peter’s downfall began with presumption—thinking himself too strong to fall—then neglecting prayer, and finally walking straight into the danger he should have avoided. It made me think how easy it is to believe we are stronger than we are, to assume we’d never deny Christ, and yet, even Peter, the Rock, stumbled.

Robert laughed when I told him about Shaggy Coat and how he’d survived the blizzard. He shook his head and said not to worry—Shaggy Coat knows how to handle this weather better than all of us put together. That made me smile, picturing him tucked away in his burrow, warm and snug while we struggled through the snow and slush.

Mini was especially interested in breakfast this morning, not just because she’s always interested in food, but because Sister served cinnamon rolls with the coffee. Robert was delighted, and I was too—it felt like a small treat on such a dreary day.

As the evening settled in, I ended the day with prayer, reflecting on Peter’s story. 

O Lord, help me to be watchful, to pray, and to trust in Your strength rather than my own.
O Lord, cast me not away from Thee!

Love, Kathy

Click Image to Enlarge

Friday Morning

 

Morning prayer is a beautiful way to begin the day, like a first conversation with God before stepping into the tasks ahead. The Mission Book, published in 1854, reminds us of the importance of offering our hearts to God each morning, whether at church or in the quiet of our home. Even a brief prayer, like a simple greeting to a loved one, strengthens our relationship with Him and brings peace to the heart.

Thursday Morning

 

Morning prayer is a beautiful way to begin the day, like a first conversation with God before stepping into the tasks ahead. The Mission Book, published in 1854, reminds us of the importance of offering our hearts to God each morning, whether at church or in the quiet of our home. Even a brief prayer, like a simple greeting to a loved one, strengthens our relationship with Him and brings peace to the heart.

The Sufferings of Jesus

March 20, 1956

Dear Diary,

The snowstorm, was over almost as quickly as it came. By late afternoon, the air had warmed to 60 degrees, but the snow lay deep, piled high along the road and around the house. I don’t know what’s going on in town, but I did see the snowplow go by, clearing the main road, and our neighbor was out scooping his driveway. Of course, Robert was here too, as he always is when there’s work to be done. With his tractor and snow loader, he helped Sister and me dig out, making a path through the drifts.

Once things were cleared enough for us to get around, Mini and I made our way to the cave to check on things. I wondered if we might see Shaggycoat, and sure enough, there he was, perched on top of his lodge, busy arranging his sticks just so. I didn’t disturb him, though I watched for a moment, then slipped inside the cave, where everything was just as I’d left it—cool, quiet, and safe.

In John Hathaway’s room, I opened his old mission book, and there, staring up at me, was an image of Jesus being scourged at the pillar. My breath caught. This was the very meditation Sister and I had read together this morning. The words had stayed with me all day—how they mocked Him, blindfolded Him, struck His sacred face. And now, here it was, in John Hathaway’s own book, as if waiting for me to find it today.

Sister had explained everything so gently yet so seriously. She told me how Jesus, though all-powerful, allowed Himself to be humiliated, beaten, and scorned—not because He had to, but because He loved us. His silence, His meekness, only seemed to enrage His tormentors more, but He did not fight back. He bore it all with love. Sister said that His suffering wasn’t just from the hands of those soldiers—it was from all sins, from every time someone rejected Him. That thought settled deep in my heart. I love Jesus, but do I always act like it? Do I let small things make me impatient or selfish? I traced the worn page with my fingers, studying the sorrow in His eyes.

Before I left, I turned down the lamp, letting the shadows return to their quiet corners. Then Mini and I stepped back outside into the crisp evening air, making our way home just in time for supper. The sun had slipped low, washing the sky in dusky blue and gold. I carried the weight of the meditation with me, thinking about how John Hathaway must have read these very words, just as I did now.

O my Jesus, You suffered so much for love of us. Teach me to love You in return—not just with my words, but with my heart and my actions. When I see You mocked or rejected, give me the courage to stand with You. Help me to bear my own small trials with patience and love, so that in even the smallest ways, I may console You. Amen.

Love, Kathy

  Discussing Kathy's Diary

Wednesday Morning

 

 

Morning prayer is a beautiful way to begin the day, like a first conversation with God before stepping into the tasks ahead. The Mission Book, published in 1854, reminds us of the importance of offering our hearts to God each morning, whether at church or in the quiet of our home. Even a brief prayer, like a simple greeting to a loved one, strengthens our relationship with Him and brings peace to the heart.

The Blizzard on St. Joseph's Feast

March 19, 1956

Dear Diary,

Church was canceled today. The wind howled and the snow blew so fiercely that there was no one on the roads—everything was blocked. But Sister Mary Claire, Mini, and I were safe inside the house. I had brought Omelette in last night, and she’s been scratching in the straw inside her box near the stove, content and warm. I keep glancing at her, thinking she looks just as settled as we are, waiting out the storm.

This morning, before breakfast, Sister and I read from our meditation book. It was about the trial of Jesus before Caiaphas—when He was struck by a servant and asked, “Why strikest thou Me?” It made my heart ache to think of how meekly Our Lord endured such cruelty. Then, while we ate poached eggs and toast, Sister explained the meditation to me. Somehow, it fit the mood of the day—outdoors, the storm raged, strong and merciless, but inside, we were safe, reflecting on something deeper, something greater.

Today is the Feast of Saint Joseph. Sister reminded me that Saint Joseph was a protector, a provider. Even in a blizzard like this, it feels like his day. We are safe inside our home, warm and fed, while outside, the world is wild and frozen over. I imagined Saint Joseph leading the Holy Family through bitter winds, keeping them safe, just as he always did.

After breakfast, I spent some time working on my scrapbook and reading. The storm outside made time feel slower, almost as if the whole world was paused. Mini napped on the rug, but every now and then, she’d lift her head when the wind howled too fiercely.

Now, as night falls and the wind still rattles the windows, I write this little prayer:

“O Saint Joseph, strong and faithful,
Guardian of the Holy Family,
Shelter us as you sheltered Mary and Jesus.
Keep us warm in the bitter wind,
Safe in the storms of life,
And steadfast in love for Our Lord.
May we rest in the peace of your care tonight.

Amen.”

Goodnight, dear diary. May Saint Joseph watch over us all.

The Coming Storm

 

March 18, 1956


Dear Diary,


This morning, Robert picked us up for church, and the moment we stepped inside, everyone was talking about a blizzard moving in. A radio flash had warned of it, and folks were already making preparations. The men near the back of the church murmured about the wind shifting and how the air already had a bite to it. The women spoke about baking extra bread and making sure the lamps were filled with kerosene in case the electricity went out. Sister Mary Claire and I listened quietly, though I could tell she was already thinking about our wood supply and how we should bring in more from the woodshed before the wind and snow.

Once Mass began, the talk of the storm quieted, and Father LeRoy gave his homily on Jesus appearing before the high priest. He read from St. John’s Gospel:

"And they led Him away to Annas first, for he was the father-in-law to Caiphas, who was the high priest that year." (John 18:13)

He told us to imagine Jesus, hands bound, walking through the cold streets of Jerusalem after the long hours of agony in the garden. Judas had betrayed Him, His apostles had fled, and now He stood before Annas, exhausted and alone. They scorned Him, accused Him falsely, and struck Him, yet He did not defend Himself. Father Leroy reminded us that Jesus bore all this suffering with patience, for love of us, and we are called to imitate His patience in our own trials.

I thought about how the same people who had cheered for Him on Palm Sunday now turned against Him. How easy it is for people to change when things get hard! Father said we must remain steadfast in our faith, even when others waver, and remember that suffering borne with love unites us to Christ.

After church, Robert wanted to hurry home and get the cattle off the corn stalks and into the barn. He had a lot of work ahead—tightening things down, making sure the barn doors were buckled up tight before the wind started howling. He said, "It’ll be a mean one. Best have everything settled before dark tonight."

Back at home, Sister Mary Claire and I made our own preparations. I helped her bring in extra wood from the woodshed, stacking it near the stove where it would stay dry. The wind was already picking up as the sun set, rattling the trees outside, and a deep chill settled in the air. I thought about Shaggycoat, but I knew he was safe and warm in his lodge. His home was well-protected, with a deep water entrance that no wind or drifting snow could reach. It stuck up out of Indian Creek like a sturdy teepee, built strong with mud and sticks. Shaggycoat was always prepared. A blizzard and cold snap didn’t trouble him one bit—his thick fur and snug lodge kept him well sheltered from any storm.


"O Lord, as this storm comes, I pray for all my neighbors, that they may be safe and warm. I pray for the livestock, that they may be protected in their barns and shelters. And most of all, dear God, I pray for the animals in the wild, those who have no warm place to hide from the wind and snow. Send them shelter, O Lord, and guide them to safety. Amen."

Goodnight, dear Diary. The storm is coming.

Shaggycoat's Story

Tuesday Morning

 

 

Morning prayer is a beautiful way to begin the day, like a first conversation with God before stepping into the tasks ahead. The Mission Book, published in 1854, reminds us of the importance of offering our hearts to God each morning, whether at church or in the quiet of our home. Even a brief prayer, like a simple greeting to a loved one, strengthens our relationship with Him and brings peace to the heart.

Night Prayer

Night prayer is our final conversation with God before sleep, a moment to thank Him and seek His protection through the night. The Mission Book's Evening Devotions reminds us that just as we begin the day with prayer, we should end it the same way. Even a simple prayer brings peace to the soul and reminds us that we are never alone.

Morning Prayer

 

 

Morning prayer is a beautiful way to begin the day, like a first conversation with God before stepping into the tasks ahead. The Mission Book, published in 1854, reminds us of the importance of offering our hearts to God each morning, whether at church or in the quiet of our home. Even a brief prayer, like a simple greeting to a loved one, strengthens our relationship with Him and brings peace to the heart.

Saint Patricks Day

St. Patricks Day, 1956

Dear Diary,

St. Patrick’s Day at St. Mary’s was both a celebration and a time for reflection. Father Leroy’s homily this morning was taken from his meditation, the same daily meditation Sister Mary Claire and I follow. He spoke about Jesus allowing Himself to be apprehended and bound—not because He was powerless, but because of His infinite love for us. No rope or chain could hold Him—only His willingness to suffer for our salvation.

Father explained that Jesus’ humiliations—His mistreatment, the cruel words, the rough ropes—were all part of His great sacrifice. His silence in the face of injustice was a lesson to us, showing that love does not seek to overpower but to offer itself freely. “He did not resist, not because He was weak, but because He was love itself,” Father said.

After Mass, the parish gathered in the basement for a St. Patrick’s Day picnic. The warm scent of fresh bread and stew filled the air as people talked and laughed. Robert, Sister Mary Claire, and I found a corner table to discuss the homily. Robert wondered why Jesus didn’t fight back, and Sister Mary Claire explained that true strength is found in sacrifice, not in force. I added that it must have taken more power to stay silent than to prove Himself.

As we spoke, Father Leroy passed by and paused. “Exactly,” he said, setting down his coffee. “He chose to be bound so that we could be free.”

After the picnic, Robert gave us a ride home. Mini wagged her whole body with excitement as we climbed into the truck, and the ride was quiet as we each reflected on the day. When we reached our mailbox, Robert let us out, gave a quick wave, and drove off.

O Jesus, my Savior,
Tonight, I think of Your sacred hands, bound for my sake.
You, the King of Kings, willingly allowed Yourself to be held captive.
Teach me, dear Lord, to accept my own small sufferings,
Not with bitterness, but with love,
As You accepted Yours.
Bind me to You, not with chains, but with the cords of charity,
That nothing—neither trial nor hardship—may ever separate me from You.

Amen.

With love and gratitude,

Kathy

A Little Time for Vespers

Vespers is such a peaceful way to end the day, like a quiet visit with God before night falls. The Mission Book, published in 1854, reminds us how important it is to take time for prayer, especially on Sundays. It encourages us to go to church for Vespers if we can, but if not, we should still set aside even a little time to pray at home. Saying all of Vespers is wonderful, but if the day has been busy, offering just a short prayer with a loving heart is still pleasing to God.

I like to think of it the way I do with friends—if I don’t have time for a long visit, I’d still rather say hello than say nothing at all. Even a small moment spent with God can bring peace to the heart.

Dear Jesus,

The day is almost over, and I want to end it with You.
Even if I can’t say much,
Please take what I have and make it enough.
Help me to keep my heart open to You,
So that even my smallest prayers
Can be like little lights shining in the dark.
Stay with me through the night,
And let me wake up ready to love You again tomorrow.
Amen.

A glimpse of Glory

 
March 16, 1956

Dear Diary,

Robert picked us up at the end of the driveway in his pickup this morning. The roads were muddy from all the melting snow, and we slid around a little, but we made it to church just fine. The air felt milder today, and even though everything was a wet, slushy mess, it felt like spring might be on its way.

Father LeRoy’s homily was about the Transfiguration, just like in my meditation book. He told us how Jesus took Peter, James, and John up Mount Tabor, and suddenly, His face shone like the sun, and His clothes became dazzling white. Peter was so amazed that he wanted to stay there forever! He even asked if they could build three tabernacles—one for Jesus, one for Moses, and one for Elias. But Jesus didn’t let them stay. He led them back down the mountain because His work wasn’t finished yet.

Father said we can be like Peter sometimes, wanting to hold on to the happiest moments and never leave them. But Jesus calls us to keep going, even when things get hard. The apostles needed to see that glimpse of Heaven to help them stay strong later, especially when they saw Jesus suffer. It made me think of my morning prayer—the one I pasted in my scrapbook:

"O Most Holy Mary, Mother of God, and all ye blessed Saints of Paradise, pray to God for me, that I may not offend Him today by any sin. And thou, Holy Angel, who art given to me by God for my Guardian, keep me this day from falling into any deliberate sin."

I pray this every morning, asking Mary and my guardian angel to help me be good. But today, I thought about how I also need to ask for courage—courage to follow Jesus, even when things aren’t easy. The picture I put next to the prayer in my scrapbook shows Our Lady with angels all around her, kind of like how Jesus was surrounded by the bright cloud on Mount Tabor. Maybe that’s a little reminder that Heaven is always watching over me, even when the road feels messy.

The rest of the day was quiet. I worked on my scrapbook and read the meditation again. One part stood out to me: “O my beloved Saviour, grant that the contemplation of Thy exalted and mysterious Transfiguration may strengthen my faith, increase my hope, and inflame anew my love for Thee.” That’s what I want—to keep my eyes on Jesus, even when the road is muddy and slippery, just like this morning.

Dear Jesus,
Thank You for showing Your apostles a glimpse of Heaven.
Help me to remember that no matter how hard things get,
Your glory is waiting at the end.
Give me the courage to follow You,
Not just when it’s easy, but always.
Mary, my Mother, and my Guardian Angel,
Stay close to me tonight and keep me safe.
Amen.

The Faithful Heart of the Sorrowful Mother

March 15, 1956

Dear Diary,

This morning, Robert dropped us off at the end of the driveway after Mass and hurried home to tend to his chores. The air was crisp, the gravel crunching beneath our boots as Sister Mary Claire and I made our way back to the house. Mini trotted beside us, her ears perked up and nose to the ground, sniffing at the morning breeze.

Once inside, I settled at the table, eager to work on my scrapbook. The house was quiet except for the soft rustling of pages and the occasional crackle from the fireplace. I had found a beautiful image of the Sorrowful Mother, and as I carefully smoothed it onto a page, Sister Mary Claire came to stand behind me, looking over my shoulder.

"That is a perfect image for today," she said softly.

I glanced up at her. "Because of the meditation?"

She nodded. "Yes. Today we reflected on how all the Apostles fled from Jesus at His arrest. They were afraid. Even Peter, who had sworn he would never leave Him, ran away. But Mary..." She placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Mary never left Him. The Sorrowful Mother was always with Jesus, from the manger to the Cross. She never turned away, never abandoned Him, not even when her heart was pierced with sorrow."

I looked down at the image in my scrapbook, the gentle, grieving face of Our Lady gazing back at me. "And she's always with us too," I murmured.

"Yes," Sister Mary Claire said. "She is always with Jesus, and because we belong to Him, she is always with us too. No matter how dark things seem, we are never alone."

I traced the edge of the picture carefully, thinking of how much love Mary had for Jesus, how much love she has for us. While the Apostles, in their weakness, had fled, she had stayed. Faithful, steadfast, sorrowful but unshaken.

The afternoon passed in quiet reflection. Mini rested at my feet, and Sister Mary Claire eventually sat down with her own book, letting me work in peace. As the sun began to set, she stood and stretched. "Shall we make another batch of cocoa?" she asked with a smile.

Later, by the fireplace, I sat with my warm cup in hand, Mini curled beside me. I looked at my scrapbook once more, the image of the Sorrowful Mother now fixed firmly in place.

O Blessed Mother, you never left Jesus, even in His greatest suffering. Stay with me, too, and help me never to leave Him. Teach me to be faithful, to trust, and to love with a heart like yours. Amen.

Goodnight, dear diary.

Love, Kathy

Hot Cocoa and Zeal

 
March 14, 1956

Dear Diary,

This morning, Sister Mary Claire had a mission. I could tell by the way she walked—not just fast, but with purpose, as if she had something important to do before Robert arrived. I had to hurry to keep up with her.

"You're in an awful rush, Sister," I said, but she only smiled and pressed on.

When we reached the mailbox, she pulled out her Stanley thermos, checked the cork, and tucked it inside. Then, with just as much care, she added three cups—one for her, one for me, and one for Robert. With a satisfied nod, she shut the mailbox firmly, as if sealing up a little secret for later.

"It will be waiting for us when we return," she said.

It was a cold morning—forty degrees, my fingers already chilled—and I thought it odd to leave behind a perfectly good thermos of hot cocoa. But I knew better than to question Sister’s little ways.

Robert’s truck came rattling up the road, and soon we were bouncing along the familiar route to our discussion group. When we arrived, Father LeRoy was already there, his meditation book open in his hands.

"Today’s meditation is on Peter’s zeal," he began, and I felt a small rush of surprise—Sister and I hadn’t read it yet. "Peter had great love for Christ, but oh, how he rushed ahead! He didn’t wait, didn’t think—just acted. He saw danger and reached for his sword. But what did Jesus do? He told him to put the sword away and healed His enemy instead."

As Father spoke, I had to hide a little smile. He might as well have been describing himself. He has that same eager energy, always ready to take action, always moving. I sneaked a glance at Sister Mary Claire, and I could tell she thought the same thing—her hands were folded neatly in her lap, but there was the tiniest flicker of amusement at the corners of her lips.

"Zeal is a gift," Father went on, "but it must be tempered with wisdom. How often do we rush in, convinced we are doing right, when what God asks of us is patience, trust, and surrender?"

I thought of the engraving in my scrapbook—the torches blazing, Judas pressing his kiss upon Jesus, Peter striking Malchus in a fit of righteous fury. He thought he was protecting Jesus, but Jesus didn’t need protecting. He was already in control.

On the way home, I let my thoughts settle. How often have I, like Peter, been too quick to act? Too quick to assume I know what needs to be done, when really, God asks me to wait?

When Robert pulled up to the house, Sister Mary Claire hopped out of the truck and turned back to us. "Just wait here,"she said with a little grin. "I have something to get."

Robert and I watched as she walked to the mailbox, opened it, and pulled out the thermos and the three cups. She held them up triumphantly and came back to the truck.

"A little reward for patience," she said as she poured the cocoa, steam curling into the crisp air.

Mini sat by my feet, looking up with bright, expectant eyes. Sister reached into her apron pocket and pulled out another little surprise—a bit of buttermilk in a small jar. She poured a little into a dish, and Mini lapped it up happily, her little bottom wiggling in delight.

Now, the day is ending, and Sister decided to make another batch of hot cocoa. "We can’t have the day ending without a warm cup in hand," she said, whisking the milk and cocoa together in a pot on the stove. Soon, the rich, familiar scent filled the air, and before long, I had another steaming cup in my hands.

Mini is curled beside me, completely content, her nose tucked under her paw. The fire crackles softly, its glow making everything feel safe and warm.

Peter made mistakes, but Jesus never gave up on him. Put up thy sword into the scabbard. The real battle isn’t fought with force, but with trust.

O Lord, make me zealous in love, but patient in spirit. Teach me to trust, to wait, to remember that You are in control even when I do not understand. May I always seek Your will before my own. Amen.

Goodnight, dear diary.