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Dear Diary,
Sister Mary Claire and I walked home from Church, the crisp winter air wrapping around us as the gravel crunched beneath our boots. Mini trotted happily at my side, her little paws kicking up bits of frost. The sun had risen higher now, casting golden light over the quiet countryside.
Father LeRoy’s homily stayed with me, his voice still echoing in my heart: “Behold, we go up to Jerusalem.” He explained how Jesus didn’t walk alone—He invited His disciples to follow, to take up their own crosses. And he reminded us that we, too, are invited to walk with Jesus, not just in joyful times, but in sorrow and sacrifice.
Sister Mary Claire glanced at me and smiled knowingly. “Kathy, I saw how closely you were listening today. You have such a gift for seeing things deeply.”
I looked up at her, my thoughts still wrapped around Father’s words. “He said we should use our imagination to help us in our meditations.”
She nodded. “Yes, and I think you already do. The way you see stories unfold, the way you enter into them—it’s a gift, Kathy. Don’t be afraid to use it when you pray.”
Her words filled me with warmth, and I knew I would carry them with me, just like Father’s homily.
This afternoon, I sat in my patchwork tent with my scrapbook open before me. The fire crackled softly in the stove, filling the room with warmth, and Mini lay curled up at my side. My eyes fell on a particular watercolor painting, an old colored etching from 1809.
It was more than just a picture. It was a story.
A woman knelt before a rough wooden cross, clutching a baby in her arms. A young boy was beside her, his hands folded in prayer. Another woman stood slightly behind them, her sorrow heavy upon her shoulders. The landscape behind them stretched into rolling hills, but the sky above was somber, as though it, too, carried their grief.
I ran my fingers lightly over the edge of the page. As I looked closer, I felt the story pressing in, whispering to be told.
I imagined the husband—the father—who had been taken from them. Perhaps he had been a farmer, tending the fields with strong, calloused hands. Maybe he had fought to protect his family, only to lose his life in the struggle. Now, this place—this wooden cross—was all they had left of him.
The sorrow in the picture became real to me, as if I were stepping inside of it. Suddenly, I was no longer just looking at the painting.
I was there.
The earth was cool beneath me as I sat at the foot of a great tree, Mini curled against my side. The woman in red knelt before the cross, holding her child tightly, her silent prayer rising into the heavy sky. The boy knelt beside her, his hands trembling in prayer, and the woman standing behind them seemed lost in sorrow.
I turned my head and saw Sister Mary Claire beside me. She was real, yet not real—her presence felt like something more, like a guiding voice within the moment.
“They are walking the way of the cross, Kathy,” she whispered. “Just as Jesus asks us to.”
A lump formed in my throat. This was suffering. This was the cross.
Jesus had walked His own road of sorrow, and now He calls us to follow Him. The people in the painting—they had no choice but to carry their grief, but they did not turn away. Instead, they knelt. They prayed. They trusted.
A log in the stove shifted, sending a gentle crackle through the air, and I blinked. I was back in my sanctuary tent, my scrapbook resting in my lap, the painting still before me. But something had changed.
I no longer just saw the painting. I understood it.
As I stepped into the kitchen, the smell of chili soup filled the air, rich and savory. Sister Mary Claire stood at the stove, stirring the pot, and without a word, she reached into the cupboard and pulled out a small sack.
“I thought we needed something extra tonight,” she said, emptying a bag of corn chips into a serving dish.
A grin spread across my face. “You always know.”
We ate by the fire, the warm meal filling our stomachs, just as the meditation had filled my heart. Mini stretched out beside me, full and content. I thought again of the woman in the painting, kneeling before the cross. She was walking toward Jerusalem, even in her sorrow. And so was I.
Before bed, I knelt down and whispered a prayer:
Dear Jesus,
You walked the road of suffering, and You invite me to walk with You. Sometimes, I want to turn away from sorrow, to stay where things are easy. But I know You are there, even in the hardest moments. Help me to trust that love and sacrifice go together, just as You showed on the cross.
O Mary, you who stood at the foot of the cross, pray for me when I feel weak. Teach me to kneel when I do not understand, and to always offer my heart to God.
"Behold, we go up to Jerusalem." May I follow where You lead, today and always.
Amen.
With that prayer, I closed my diary, peeked at Mini under the bed, and whispered one last time—"Behold, we go up to Jerusalem."
Sister Mary Claire and I walked home from Church, the crisp winter air wrapping around us as the gravel crunched beneath our boots. Mini trotted happily at my side, her little paws kicking up bits of frost. The sun had risen higher now, casting golden light over the quiet countryside.
Father LeRoy’s homily stayed with me, his voice still echoing in my heart: “Behold, we go up to Jerusalem.” He explained how Jesus didn’t walk alone—He invited His disciples to follow, to take up their own crosses. And he reminded us that we, too, are invited to walk with Jesus, not just in joyful times, but in sorrow and sacrifice.
Sister Mary Claire glanced at me and smiled knowingly. “Kathy, I saw how closely you were listening today. You have such a gift for seeing things deeply.”
I looked up at her, my thoughts still wrapped around Father’s words. “He said we should use our imagination to help us in our meditations.”
She nodded. “Yes, and I think you already do. The way you see stories unfold, the way you enter into them—it’s a gift, Kathy. Don’t be afraid to use it when you pray.”
Her words filled me with warmth, and I knew I would carry them with me, just like Father’s homily.
This afternoon, I sat in my patchwork tent with my scrapbook open before me. The fire crackled softly in the stove, filling the room with warmth, and Mini lay curled up at my side. My eyes fell on a particular watercolor painting, an old colored etching from 1809.
It was more than just a picture. It was a story.
A woman knelt before a rough wooden cross, clutching a baby in her arms. A young boy was beside her, his hands folded in prayer. Another woman stood slightly behind them, her sorrow heavy upon her shoulders. The landscape behind them stretched into rolling hills, but the sky above was somber, as though it, too, carried their grief.
I ran my fingers lightly over the edge of the page. As I looked closer, I felt the story pressing in, whispering to be told.
I imagined the husband—the father—who had been taken from them. Perhaps he had been a farmer, tending the fields with strong, calloused hands. Maybe he had fought to protect his family, only to lose his life in the struggle. Now, this place—this wooden cross—was all they had left of him.
The sorrow in the picture became real to me, as if I were stepping inside of it. Suddenly, I was no longer just looking at the painting.
I was there.
The earth was cool beneath me as I sat at the foot of a great tree, Mini curled against my side. The woman in red knelt before the cross, holding her child tightly, her silent prayer rising into the heavy sky. The boy knelt beside her, his hands trembling in prayer, and the woman standing behind them seemed lost in sorrow.
I turned my head and saw Sister Mary Claire beside me. She was real, yet not real—her presence felt like something more, like a guiding voice within the moment.
“They are walking the way of the cross, Kathy,” she whispered. “Just as Jesus asks us to.”
A lump formed in my throat. This was suffering. This was the cross.
Jesus had walked His own road of sorrow, and now He calls us to follow Him. The people in the painting—they had no choice but to carry their grief, but they did not turn away. Instead, they knelt. They prayed. They trusted.
A log in the stove shifted, sending a gentle crackle through the air, and I blinked. I was back in my sanctuary tent, my scrapbook resting in my lap, the painting still before me. But something had changed.
I no longer just saw the painting. I understood it.
As I stepped into the kitchen, the smell of chili soup filled the air, rich and savory. Sister Mary Claire stood at the stove, stirring the pot, and without a word, she reached into the cupboard and pulled out a small sack.
“I thought we needed something extra tonight,” she said, emptying a bag of corn chips into a serving dish.
A grin spread across my face. “You always know.”
We ate by the fire, the warm meal filling our stomachs, just as the meditation had filled my heart. Mini stretched out beside me, full and content. I thought again of the woman in the painting, kneeling before the cross. She was walking toward Jerusalem, even in her sorrow. And so was I.
Before bed, I knelt down and whispered a prayer:
Dear Jesus,
You walked the road of suffering, and You invite me to walk with You. Sometimes, I want to turn away from sorrow, to stay where things are easy. But I know You are there, even in the hardest moments. Help me to trust that love and sacrifice go together, just as You showed on the cross.
O Mary, you who stood at the foot of the cross, pray for me when I feel weak. Teach me to kneel when I do not understand, and to always offer my heart to God.
"Behold, we go up to Jerusalem." May I follow where You lead, today and always.
Amen.
With that prayer, I closed my diary, peeked at Mini under the bed, and whispered one last time—"Behold, we go up to Jerusalem."
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