Love Calls Us

 
February 27, 1956

Dear Diary,

 

The gravel road was wet and slushy as we walked home from Holy Mass, our boots sinking into the softened earth. The temperature never dropped below forty all night, and now, under the gray sky, everything smelled fresh and damp, like spring was quietly trying to make itself known. Mini trotted beside me, careful to avoid the deeper puddles, her little paws leaving prints along the path.

Robert walked with us as far as the end of the driveway. The three of us spoke about the meditation Father LeRoy had given us during Mass.

"Love should induce us to make reparation to Our Lord."

Sister Mary Claire nodded as she pulled her parka tighter around her shoulders. “Our Lord suffers still,” she said, glancing between Robert and me. “Not in His physical body as He did during His Passion, but in the rejection and indifference of souls who turn away from Him. When people sin, mock Him, or refuse His love, it is as if they wound Him all over again.”

Robert kicked a stone with the toe of his boot, sending it splashing into a puddle. “Father said that we should console Him. But how do we do that?”

Sister smiled. “We do it by loving Him, by making small sacrifices in reparation for those who don’t. Even our prayers can be an offering of love.”

I listened carefully, turning the words over in my heart.

As we reached the end of the driveway, Robert gave a little wave and parted ways, heading toward his family’s farm. Sister Mary Claire and I walked up toward the house, Mini now splashing through puddles with happy little hops.

Once inside, I unbuttoned my parka and hung it neatly on the hook by the door. Mini gave a little shake of her own before trotting toward the warmth of the stove. The house smelled of coffee and bread, and Sister put the kettle on while I snuggled into the soft double sheepskin she had found at the thrift store. It was warm and cozy, making me feel safe as I pulled my scrapbook onto my lap.

As I turned the pages, my eyes rested on an old oil painting tucked neatly between them.

It was an ex-voto, a painting created in thanksgiving for a miraculous healing. The image was dark, yet deeply moving. A man lay in bed, terribly ill, while a woman knelt in prayer before a vision of Christ crucified and the Virgin Mary. The candlelight cast long shadows, and the entire scene was filled with a sense of desperation and hope.

I ran my fingers lightly over the page. This man had been suffering, yet in his hour of greatest need, he turned to Our Lord and Our Lady. And they did not abandon him.

It struck me then—wasn’t this the very thing Father had spoken of? Jesus suffers still, waiting for those who will turn to Him, who will console Him in His sorrow. This man, on his sickbed, had done exactly that. And Our Lord, in His mercy, had answered.

I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling the warmth of the fire, the stillness of the room. If love calls us to make reparation, then even in the quiet of my little sheepskin nook, I could offer something to Him.

The day’s end came gently, with the last glow of lamplight filling my room. I shut off my little lamp and reached under the bed, my fingers brushing against Mini’s soft fur. She gave a little stretch and a sleepy sigh as I patted her head.

Then, in the quiet, I whispered my prayer.

"My Jesus, I love You."

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