March 20, 1956
Dear Diary,
The snowstorm, was over almost as quickly as it came. By late afternoon, the air had warmed to 60 degrees, but the snow lay deep, piled high along the road and around the house. I don’t know what’s going on in town, but I did see the snowplow go by, clearing the main road, and our neighbor was out scooping his driveway. Of course, Robert was here too, as he always is when there’s work to be done. With his tractor and snow loader, he helped Sister and me dig out, making a path through the drifts.
Once things were cleared enough for us to get around, Mini and I made our way to the cave to check on things. I wondered if we might see Shaggycoat, and sure enough, there he was, perched on top of his lodge, busy arranging his sticks just so. I didn’t disturb him, though I watched for a moment, then slipped inside the cave, where everything was just as I’d left it—cool, quiet, and safe.
In John Hathaway’s room, I opened his old mission book, and there, staring up at me, was an image of Jesus being scourged at the pillar. My breath caught. This was the very meditation Sister and I had read together this morning. The words had stayed with me all day—how they mocked Him, blindfolded Him, struck His sacred face. And now, here it was, in John Hathaway’s own book, as if waiting for me to find it today.
Sister had explained everything so gently yet so seriously. She told me how Jesus, though all-powerful, allowed Himself to be humiliated, beaten, and scorned—not because He had to, but because He loved us. His silence, His meekness, only seemed to enrage His tormentors more, but He did not fight back. He bore it all with love. Sister said that His suffering wasn’t just from the hands of those soldiers—it was from all sins, from every time someone rejected Him. That thought settled deep in my heart. I love Jesus, but do I always act like it? Do I let small things make me impatient or selfish? I traced the worn page with my fingers, studying the sorrow in His eyes.
Before I left, I turned down the lamp, letting the shadows return to their quiet corners. Then Mini and I stepped back outside into the crisp evening air, making our way home just in time for supper. The sun had slipped low, washing the sky in dusky blue and gold. I carried the weight of the meditation with me, thinking about how John Hathaway must have read these very words, just as I did now.
O my Jesus, You suffered so much for love of us. Teach me to love You in return—not just with my words, but with my heart and my actions. When I see You mocked or rejected, give me the courage to stand with You. Help me to bear my own small trials with patience and love, so that in even the smallest ways, I may console You. Amen.
Love, Kathy
The snowstorm, was over almost as quickly as it came. By late afternoon, the air had warmed to 60 degrees, but the snow lay deep, piled high along the road and around the house. I don’t know what’s going on in town, but I did see the snowplow go by, clearing the main road, and our neighbor was out scooping his driveway. Of course, Robert was here too, as he always is when there’s work to be done. With his tractor and snow loader, he helped Sister and me dig out, making a path through the drifts.
Once things were cleared enough for us to get around, Mini and I made our way to the cave to check on things. I wondered if we might see Shaggycoat, and sure enough, there he was, perched on top of his lodge, busy arranging his sticks just so. I didn’t disturb him, though I watched for a moment, then slipped inside the cave, where everything was just as I’d left it—cool, quiet, and safe.
In John Hathaway’s room, I opened his old mission book, and there, staring up at me, was an image of Jesus being scourged at the pillar. My breath caught. This was the very meditation Sister and I had read together this morning. The words had stayed with me all day—how they mocked Him, blindfolded Him, struck His sacred face. And now, here it was, in John Hathaway’s own book, as if waiting for me to find it today.
Sister had explained everything so gently yet so seriously. She told me how Jesus, though all-powerful, allowed Himself to be humiliated, beaten, and scorned—not because He had to, but because He loved us. His silence, His meekness, only seemed to enrage His tormentors more, but He did not fight back. He bore it all with love. Sister said that His suffering wasn’t just from the hands of those soldiers—it was from all sins, from every time someone rejected Him. That thought settled deep in my heart. I love Jesus, but do I always act like it? Do I let small things make me impatient or selfish? I traced the worn page with my fingers, studying the sorrow in His eyes.
Before I left, I turned down the lamp, letting the shadows return to their quiet corners. Then Mini and I stepped back outside into the crisp evening air, making our way home just in time for supper. The sun had slipped low, washing the sky in dusky blue and gold. I carried the weight of the meditation with me, thinking about how John Hathaway must have read these very words, just as I did now.
O my Jesus, You suffered so much for love of us. Teach me to love You in return—not just with my words, but with my heart and my actions. When I see You mocked or rejected, give me the courage to stand with You. Help me to bear my own small trials with patience and love, so that in even the smallest ways, I may console You. Amen.
Love, Kathy
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