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.
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