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
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