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
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
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