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.

Molly Megan and Emma

Dear Diary,

This morning, Molly and Megan’s pickup sat in front of St. Mary’s, packed and ready for their journey to Oregon. Snow dusted the church steps, and the cold stung my cheeks as we hurried inside. Robert had driven us, and when we arrived, the church was only half warmed—Father had started the fire, but it needed another log, which Robert added before we settled into our pew.

Before Mass, Sister Mary Claire and I read from my Daily Meditation book. It spoke of how Jesus told His disciples about His coming suffering, yet “they understood none of these things” (Luke 18:34). Even though they didn’t fully grasp it, He still went forward, knowing what lay ahead.

After Mass, we stood in the cold beside Molly and Megan’s truck. Emma, their little Jersey calf, was bundled in a crate in the back, only her head poking out. They were taking her with them to Oregon.

“We’ll send you a letter when we get there,” Megan promised, rubbing Emma’s ears.

Molly nodded. “It’s a long way, but it’s time.”

Sister Mary Claire placed a hand on each of their shoulders. “May God guide your journey.”

I stepped forward, pressing my mittened hands against Emma’s soft fur. “She’ll love the green pastures.”

Megan smiled. “That’s what we’re hoping for.”

With one last hug, they climbed into the cab. The engine rumbled to life, the tires crunching over the snow as the pickup rolled forward. I watched as it disappeared down the road, the little calf’s head still visible in the crate.

I thought again of today’s meditation. Jesus walked forward, even when the road was uncertain. And so did they.

 

The Sunday Sermon

Confidence in God's Providence

Saturday, February 8, 1955

Dear Diary,

It was a very chilly and dark night, overcast without a single star in the sky. The kind of night where the air feels heavy and quiet, as if the world is waiting for something. Mini stretched lazily in the doorway as Sister Mary Claire and I wrapped up in our coats, waiting for Robert to arrive. He had called earlier to offer us a ride to church, which was a kindness, as the night seemed colder than it truly was. Mini wagged her little bottom, watching us closely.

We had gone early to St. Mary’s so we could read our meditation before Mass. Tonight’s reflection was on Jesus exhorting His apostles to have confidence in God’s providence. As we sat in the quiet of the church, Sister Mary Claire explained how the apostles had been sent out without purse or shoes, yet they had lacked nothing. “Jesus reminded them of the past to strengthen them for the trials ahead,” she said gently. “Just as we must remind ourselves of how God has always provided for us.”

I thought of John Hathaway’s cave, his old books, and the belongings he had left behind. Everything there seemed to fit so well into my own spiritual life, as if it had all been waiting for me to discover it. The books, the simple wooden desk, the carefully carved walnut door—everything spoke of a life deeply rooted in faith and trust in God’s providence. Just as the apostles had trusted Jesus to provide for them, John Hathaway had trusted God in his own quiet way, leaving behind not just things, but a life lived in faith.

Sister Mary Claire must have seen my thoughts on my face. “You see, Kathy,” she said, “our Lord never asks us to walk blindly. He leaves us signs, reminders of His care, so that we may walk forward in confidence.”

By the time Mass began, the church was filled with the soft glow of candlelight. The stained-glass windows were dark against the night outside, but inside, there was warmth and peace. I knelt and prayed for a heart full of confidence, that I might trust in God as the apostles had, as John Hathaway had.

After Mass, Robert was waiting for us, his truck warm against the night’s chill. Mini greeted us at the door when we arrived home, stretching and shaking herself before following me into the bedroom. As I knelt to say my prayers I whispered:

“O Lord, in Thee I place my trust. As You have provided for the apostles, so have You provided for me. Let me never forget Your goodness, nor let my heart falter in confidence. In every trial, in every uncertainty, may I turn to You, my refuge and my strength. My Father, I place all my trust in Thee. Amen.”

Good night dear diary,

Love Kathy

A Morning Offering

February 8, 1956

Dear Diary,

Morning filled my room before my feet even touched the floor and I whispered my first prayer:

“O Most Holy Trinity—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—I thank You for this new morning! You watched over me through the night, and now I give this whole day to You. Let all my little tasks be done with love for You. If there are any hardships, help me to bear them gladly, knowing You allow them for my good. O dear Lord, teach me to love You more!”

“O Mary, my sweet Mother, You are my refuge! After God, You are my greatest comfort, my hope in all things. Please watch over me today, protect me in soul and body, and help me love Jesus as You do. Teach me to do my work well and to obey with a cheerful heart. And, dear Mother, when my last day comes, please be there to take my hand and lead me safely to Jesus. Amen.”

O Lord, let this day be for You!

With love, Kathy

Not of This World

February 6, 1956

Dear Diary,

This morning, it was 12 degrees, and the frost on the windows looked thick enough to stay all day. Mini didn’t even want to come out from under the quilt when I got up, but she gave in when she heard me put on my boots. Robert picked us up early again at the end of the driveway. At Church we sat in the front pew near the stove. Robert had brought along some nice walnut wood, and when he stoked the fire, it filled the church with a rich, warm smell.

We read today’s meditation together.

“I pray not for the world, but for them whom Thou hast given Me…” (John 17:9)

Sister explained that Jesus wasn’t saying He didn’t care about the world, but that He wanted to protect us from the spirit of the world, the kind that draws people away from God. Robert nodded and said,

“The world makes us think we need to chase after riches, praise, or comfort. But Jesus wants us to live for Heaven, not for here.”

I listened closely as they continued, thinking about how we renew our baptismal promises to reject the world’s ways. Sister said “It’s easy to think that just because we live simply, we are safe from the world’s influence. But pride, selfishness, and wanting to be admired—those things can creep in anywhere.”

I knew she was right. Sometimes I wish to be noticed, or I don’t like to be wrong, or I want things to go my way. Even though I live on the farm and not in Des Moines, those feelings can still sneak into my heart.

At Mass, Father LeRoy’s sermon was along the same lines. He said,

“The world tells us to seek what pleases us, but the Gospel tells us to seek what pleases God. Even small sacrifices—biting our tongue when we want to complain, offering our chores as a prayer—help free us from the world’s grip.”

After Mass, we went home for a simple lunch—tomato soup and a turkey sandwich made with Sister’s home baked Wonder Bread and mayonnaise. It was warm and comforting, but my mind kept returning to the meditation.

Later, I walked down to the cave with Mini and brought my All for Jesus book. I read a page, but my thoughts kept circling back—am I strong enough to resist the world’s ways? I know what’s right, but sometimes the world’s pull is strong. It’s easy to want to fit in, to want things to be easy, to not stand out too much for being different.

I whispered a little prayer:

“Jesus, keep me close to You. I don’t want to belong to the world—I want to belong to You.”

Mini rested her head on my lap, and I felt peaceful. I may not always feel strong enough, but Jesus is strong enough for me.

With love,

Kathy

"Father, the Hour is Come"

February 5, 1956

Dear Diary,

This morning, the frost clung to the bare branches, and our breath curled like smoke in the freezing air. It was only 15 degrees, and Mini huddled close to my legs as Sister Mary Claire and I stood by the mailbox, waiting for Robert. He called last night to say he’d come early, and sure enough, his truck rumbled up before the sun had even climbed high.

The ride to Church was quiet, the fields still asleep beneath their winter coats. When we arrived, Robert wasted no time firing up the stove, adding in a couple of logs to chase away the cold. As the fire crackled, we gathered around and read today's meditation together.

“Father, the hour is come…”

Jesus raised His eyes to heaven and prayed to the Father, knowing the time had come for His great sacrifice. The words struck deep. Sister Mary Claire pointed to how Jesus longed for this hour, not because He wanted suffering, but because He wanted to glorify God and save us.

“Must not our hearts be filled with love and gratitude toward God?” the meditation asked. I thought about that—how Jesus faced suffering without hesitation, how He knew it was part of His mission. And then I thought about myself. Do I ever think of suffering that way? When the cold bites at my fingers while gathering eggs, or when chores feel endless, or when Mini wants to play but I’m too tired—how easily I complain!

On the ride home, Sister and Robert explained it to me more.

“Kathy, do you see how Jesus never let fear hold Him back?” Robert asked.

“He knew His suffering would mean our salvation,” Sister Mary Claire added. “He saw the joy beyond the cross.”

It made me think. Maybe the little hardships I face—cold mornings, muddy boots, sore hands—aren’t just burdens. Maybe they can be my way of offering something back to God.

The Afternoon

Back home, the day was full of chores. The chickens were lively today, their feathers all puffed up against the cold. I gathered the biggest eggs yet, tucking them carefully into my basket. Mini tried to help, sniffing around the coop, but the hens weren’t too pleased with her curiosity.

After lunch, I took a walk down to the cave, my steps crunching over frozen leaves. Shaggycoat must have heard me coming because he appeared, his fur damp, his little black eyes watching. I held out a piece of bread, and after a moment, he took it! Then—this was the best part—he followed me inside!

Together, we visited the grotto, where the little stream still trickled despite the cold. I knelt before Mary’s statue, my breath slowing, feeling the quiet of the place settle over me. Shaggycoat sat beside me, twitching his whiskers, and it felt almost like he belonged there, a little guardian of my sanctuary.

Dear Jesus,

You knew Your hour had come, and You did not turn away.

Help me to be like You, to face each day with trust and love.

When my work feels heavy, let me see it as a gift for You.

When I feel small, remind me that You chose me to be Yours.

And when I kneel before You,

May I always say, “Father, I am Yours.”

Amen.




Mini curled up beside me in the prayer wagon tonight, her little body warm against my feet. I think she understands prayers in her own way. Maybe she knows that in this little corner of the world, in this quiet hour, we are all safe in the hands of God.

A Friend to Jesus in All Things

February 4, 1956

Dear Diary,

This morning was about the coldest of the year—only six degrees when I went out for chores. Holy Mass was called off again, and though the cold has kept us home a few times before, today felt especially bitter. The sky was clear, but the air was sharp as a knife, cutting through even my warmest coat.

Sister Mary Claire stayed inside to start her Wonder Bread, filling the kitchen with the scent of rising dough. Meanwhile, I bundled up and stepped outside with Mini trotting beside me, her little paws pressing into the frozen ground. The geese protested the cold, their honks muffled by the frost hanging in the air.

I decided to bring Omelette inside with me after chores. The hen house is well-built, but I didn’t want to risk her freezing her feet. She settled in near the warmth of the stove, fluffing up her feathers contentedly, as if she belonged indoors all along. Mini gave her a few sniffs and then, satisfied, curled up at my feet.

Even with the cold, I made a quick trip down to the cave, taking my daily meditation book with me. I wasn’t there long, just enough to light a little fire in the wood stove and read today's meditation—about Christ calling us His friends. Not just servants, but friends! It made me stop and think—do I really act as His friend should? A true friend doesn’t just seek company in times of joy but stays close in trials too.

If I love Jesus, I must be willing to suffer with Him, not just rejoice in His blessings. That means offering Him everything—the hard moments, the little sacrifices, even the cold biting at my fingers this morning. Love proves itself in the small things, after all.

Tonight, as I sit by the fire with Mini tucked beside me and Omelette dozing near the warmth, I whisper this little prayer:

"Jesus, my dearest Friend, help me to love You as You love me—not only in joy but in sacrifice. Teach me to offer each day to You, in little ways and great, proving my love through faithfulness. Let my heart be like Yours, always steady, always true. Amen."

Goodnight, dear Diary. May Jesus and Mary keep me close always.

Kathy