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.
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.
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