Honoring the Father on Passion Sunday

 

🌿When my words found a voice🌿

Dear Diary,

Robert was right on time this morning. He pulled up by the mailbox just as the sun peeked over the trees. Sister Mary Claire and I, with Mini trotting along in her little happy way, climbed in, and off we went to St. Mary’s for Mass, just like always. I love the quiet ride over — it’s still chilly in the air, but there’s a little hint of spring now, like the ground is thinking of waking up.

Father Leroy gave a powerful homily today. He explained that the fifth Sunday of Lent has, for centuries, been known as Passion Sunday, the Sunday before Palm Sunday. He told us it’s the beginning of the Church's more solemn walk toward the suffering and death of our Lord. Then he read us the meditation for Passion Sunday, and I paid close attention.

He talked about how Jesus spoke of true honor — not the kind men give for applause or praise, but the kind that honors God above all. When the Jews accused Jesus and called Him a Samaritan and even said He had a devil, Jesus answered calmly and humbly: “I have not a devil, but I honor My Father, and you have dishonored Me.” But then He added: “I seek not My own glory.”

Father Leroy said we must admire Jesus’ humility, that He didn’t revile or defend Himself the way we might be tempted to do. Instead, He left judgment to His Father. He was strong enough to be meek. That part stuck with me. We talked about it with Robert on the way home. Sister Mary Claire said we should pray for the same grace — to care more about God’s glory than our own reputation. Robert nodded and said something about how that’s the kind of strength that changes the world quietly.

There really was a touch of spring in the air on the drive back — I noticed it again. I told them I was going to encourage the chickens to lay more eggs, since we’d need plenty for coloring at church for Easter. Sister Mary Claire laughed and said, “Better start singing to them.”

After chores, I walked Mini down toward Indian Creek and stopped by the cave — just to make sure everything was alright. The entrance still had that peaceful hush, like it was holding a secret. I sat for a while on the smooth rock and opened my diary. I wanted to write something about today in this special place, since it’s Passion Sunday and that means the beginning of something very holy. I wrote down:
"Jesus did not seek His own honor. Let me learn from Him."
That’s a good sentence to think about all week.

When I got home, the smell hit me before I even opened the door — Toll House cookies! Sister Mary Claire had baked a whole pan of them with Kelowna butter from the Kelowna dairy. Still warm. Crispy edges and melty chocolate middles. My favorite.

Evening Prayer

Dear Jesus,
You bore insults with gentleness and never sought Your own glory.
Help me do the same, especially when I feel misunderstood.
Let my words today honor You.
Let my thoughts tonight rest in Your peace.
Thank You for this beautiful Sunday, for Father’s words,
For Toll House cookies, and for Sister Mary Claire's kind heart.
Be with me through the night.
Amen.

Sister Mary Claire's Cookie Recipe.

Preheat your oven to 375°F (190°C). In a small bowl, combine 2 1/4 cups of all-purpose flour,
1 teaspoon of baking soda,
and 1 teaspoon of salt.
In a large mixing bowl, beat 1 cup (2 sticks) of unsalted butter, softened,
with 3/4 cup granulated sugar,
3/4 cup packed light brown sugar,
and 1 teaspoon of vanilla extract until the mixture is light and creamy.
Add 2 large eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition.
Gradually add the flour mixture into the butter mixture, stirring just until combined.
Stir in 2 cups (12 ounces) of semi-sweet chocolate chips and, if desired, 1 cup of chopped walnuts or pecans.

Drop the dough by rounded tablespoons onto ungreased baking sheets, spacing them a couple inches apart. Bake for 9 to 11 minutes, or until the edges are golden brown and the centers are just set. Let the cookies cool on the baking sheet for 2 minutes before transferring them to a wire rack to cool completely.

This recipe makes about 4 to 5 dozen cookies. Serve warm, preferably with a glass of cold milk and a grateful heart.

Meditations on Christian Dogma

🌿 “Behold the Man” in a Gray and Waiting World 🌿

🌿 When my words found a voice 🌿

 

April 5, 1956

Dear Diary,

It feels like March again, and I’ve just about had it with the weather. I keep hoping to step outside and smell spring, but everything still looks tired and brown. Easter is only two weeks away, and yet the world feels like it’s stuck in the last bits of winter. I imagined the soft grass by now, and tulips pushing up through the soil, and Mini rolling over onto her back in the sunshine. But no—gray skies again, and wind that nips at your cheeks.

Sister Mary Claire noticed how restless I was and suggested we read today’s meditation together. It was the one about Pilate showing Jesus to the crowd—“Behold the Man.” I could hardly sit still while she read aloud, because my imagination just takes over when I hear those words. I could see His face, so bruised and gentle, His eyes full of love even though He was mocked and bleeding. Sometimes I wonder if it’s too much, having such a strong imagination. The pictures in my mind don’t go away easily. I see Jesus standing there and it hurts—it really hurts.

But Sister Mary Claire says maybe that’s part of the gift—to stay with Him, even when it’s hard. Not to turn away.

I needed quiet after that, so I took Mini and walked down to the creek. Just as we reached the edge, I heard a big splash—Shaggy Coat! He was diving and paddling, like he’d just been waiting for company. Mini barked happily, her ears up and wiggling all over. I sat on a rock and let the moment stay with me: the splash, the wind, and the thought of Jesus, so alone in the crowd, yet so full of love.

Afterward, I felt the pull to go into the cave.

I brought my scrapbook with me and lit a little candle, just one. It flickered softly on the stone wall as I opened to the pages I needed. There was Jesus with His Blessed Mother—both of them smiling in a way that filled the whole cave with warmth. That picture always helps me. It reminds me that suffering wasn’t the end of His story. Love was.

I sat there in the hush for a while, Mini curled beside me, the candlelight dancing on the pages. But before long, it was time to blow it out—Robert would be picking us up for vigil Mass soon, and I didn’t want to keep him waiting. I gave Mini’s ear a rub and whispered a thank-you to Jesus for meeting me in such a quiet, lovely way.

O Jesus, my gentle Savior,
When I picture You crowned with thorns,
my heart trembles and aches.
But You didn’t turn away from that pain,
so help me not to turn away either.
Let my imagination, even when it hurts,
draw me closer to You and not into fear.
Thank You for meeting me today—
in the pages of my scrapbook,
in the stillness of the cave,
and even in Shaggy Coat’s splash.
Let the love You showed in Your silence
fill my heart so that I may be more like You.
Tonight and always, stay close, Lord.
Amen.

Love,
Kathy

Meditations on Christian 

With Jesus and Mary in My Heart

When My Thoughts Found a Voice

April 4, 1956

Dear Diary,

It was another cold morning—just 25 degrees when we stepped outside. Robert came by in his pickup because we had a delivery to make: a full crate of 30 dozen eggs for the Breakfast Club! I was pretty pleased with that—our hens have been steady layers, and it felt good knowing those eggs would go to feed neighbors and friends. Robert gently placed the crate in the back of his truck and tucked it in with a warm blanket. “Like tucking in a baby,” he said with a wink.

We all rode together to church. Mass was peaceful, and Father LeRoy gave a homily that echoed the meditation Sister and I had been reading—about Jesus being crowned with thorns and mocked. My heart always feels tight during that part. It’s hard to imagine anyone being so cruel, and even harder to think of Jesus letting it happen for our sake.

After Mass, we drove to the Breakfast Club. Robert carried the heavy crate inside like it was nothing, and the kitchen staff clapped when they saw how many eggs we brought. Then we spotted the cousins—Sasha, Max, Hayden, and Caleb—all sitting at their usual table by the woodstove. Their faces lit up when they saw us, and we couldn’t help but grin too. Max waved us over and said, “You're just in time—the special is waffles and eggs!”

That made our choice easy. We all ordered the special and warmed up with good food and good talk. The homily stayed on our minds. Robert said softly, “It’s something, thinking about how Jesus just stood there while they mocked Him. He could’ve stopped them.” Sister Mary Claire said, “That’s the part that always humbles me—He had every power in Heaven and still chose love over revenge.” I nodded and didn’t say much, but the truth of it sat deep in my chest.

Later in the afternoon, I went down to the cave by myself. I brought a candle and lit it near the little stone where I sometimes sit. The light flickered on the walls as I thought about Jesus—the thorns, the reed, the purple robe. I imagined Mary nearby, her eyes filled with sorrow but never turning away. That’s the kind of love I want to grow inside me: the kind that stays.

Dear Jesus,
Thank You for the love that let You suffer without striking back. Thank You for showing us what true strength looks like. Please help me stay with You, even when it’s hard.
And dear Mary, help my heart be like yours—quiet, kind, and always turning toward Jesus.
Amen.

Meditations on Christian Dogma

A Letter from Vreni

When My Thoughts Found a Voice 

Dear Diary,


Winter has returned. The air outside is sharp and bitter, with temperatures dipping into the single digits. I had to bundle up tight for two quick trips out to the hen house this morning to break the ice in the water pan. The hens looked at me like I was interrupting their dreams.

Father LeRoy had to cancel Mass today—he got an urgent call and had to drive all the way into Des Moines to visit a parishioner who had taken very ill and been admitted to the hospital. We said a prayer for her, and for him, traveling the long road alone on such a cold morning.

So we stayed inside most of the day. The little wood stove kept us warm, and I wrapped up in my striped blanket while Sister Mary Claire made us oatmeal with extra cream.

But the most wonderful part of the day came in the form of a letter—from Vreni! She wrote all the way from Switzerland and included a morning prayer from her German prayer book, carefully translated just for me. I copied it straight into my diary and made a little resolution in my heart to pray it each morning and night.

It reads:

I will begin and end each day with Jesus and Mary in my heart. I imagine turning to Jesus and feeling His gentle and loving spirit all around me. It’s like He is quietly asking me to follow Him, to stay close.

And then there is Mary, so kind and motherly, always ready to help me bring my thoughts back to Jesus. I think she wants me to make my daily prayers and devotions part of my life—something I never omit.

If I can do this every day, maybe my heart will feel a little more like theirs—full of love and peace.

Sister said it was one of the loveliest things she’s ever read.

Later in the afternoon, she and I said the Rosary together. Mini, not one to be left out, joined in by grabbing her squeaky rubber ball—which she thinks is a rosary bead, and who am I to correct her?

After that, I snuggled under the quilt and must’ve drifted off with my diary still open beside me. When I woke up, my pencil was tucked under my arm and the page still held Vreni’s prayer. I think I’ll end my day there too, just like I started.

Love,

Kathy

All for Jesus

When My Thoughts Found a Voice 

 

Dear Diary

Wednesday, April 2nd, 1956

This morning started off mild, just touching into the forties, with a silvery kind of light that only early April seems to carry. Sister Mary Claire, Robert, and I walked to church together along the familiar gravel road, past the budding branches and puddles left behind by yesterday’s rain. The walk was quiet, with the sounds of birdsong and the occasional snap of twigs underfoot.

We arrived early—early enough that the church was still cold and a little damp. As usual, the old wood stove up front needed kindling, so Robert got it going with some pinecones and a few of the dry sticks he keeps tucked behind the confessional. We sat close to the warmth on the front pew—Sister Mary Claire to my left, Robert to my right, and Mini curled up beneath the bench like she knew this was her place too.

Sister Mary Claire opened the meditation book and read to us quietly before Mass began. Today’s was The Scourging at the Pillar, and her voice trembled just a little as she read about our Lord’s sufferings. I closed my eyes and pictured the courtyard, the pillar, and Jesus standing bound in silence. The words from the meditation clung to me like fog.

When Father Leroy stepped up for his homily, I already knew it would follow the meditation. He always uses the same little black book. His voice was low and steady as he spoke of how Jesus, though innocent, suffered willingly—out of love, not just for the world, but for each soul. He said it was the silence of Jesus that strikes the heart the most. “What love is this,” Father asked, “that would endure such cruelty and not speak a word to resist it?”

On the way home, as we passed Robert’s carved sign by the birch trees, I read it again: “April prayers fall soft and true…” and thought of how gently those words rest in the heart after such a heavy homily. Robert didn’t say anything, but Sister Mary Claire nodded toward the sign and said, “It’s true, isn’t it? The prayers we whisper now may bloom into courage later.” I held onto those words.

At home, I tried not to let my mind return to the more sorrowful parts of the meditation, though I did think of the holy cards in Sister Mary Claire’s scrapbook—the ones showing Jesus scourged and bleeding. But I shook those away and instead imagined the Holy Family—Jesus as a boy, helping Joseph in the workshop, smiling up at Mary with dusty hands and a happy face.

This afternoon, Mini and I walked down to Indian Creek. I brought a carrot for Shaggy Coat, just in case he was nearby. We didn’t go into the cave, but we lingered by the edge of the water. The sun was sinking behind the trees and casting everything in gold. I think we’ll return tomorrow and go a little deeper in.

Dearest Jesus,

You stood in silence at the pillar, bearing pain You did not deserve.
Help me, in my little ways, to bear things patiently for love of You.
When I am tempted to speak sharply, or to complain, remind me of Your silence and Your strength.

Let my prayers fall softly, like April rain, and may my heart bloom with love by the time May comes.

Bless Sister Mary Claire, Robert, and little Mini.

Amen.

Pilate's Question

 

When My Thoughts Found a Voice 

April 1, 1956

Dear Diary,

The morning air was soft and kind, about 44 degrees when we started out for church. The road looked just as familiar as ever, like it had known our footsteps for years. Sister Mary Claire and I had our scarves on, and Robert walked quietly beside us with his hands in his pockets. The birds were back—though only a few—and Mini trotted happily at our side, sometimes going ahead, then circling back.

Father LeRoy gave a homily that followed the meditation we had read before Mass. It centered around Pilate’s haunting question, “What evil hath He done?” And it stayed with me, all the way home. It’s true—Jesus had done only good. He had healed and blessed and forgiven, and still they shouted for His death. Pilate’s cowardice pierced something in me today. Not because I judge him, but because I fear I might sometimes be like him—choosing to stay silent when I should speak.

As we walked back, Robert pointed to the little wooden sign he’d carved and posted just beyond the bend. It reads: “Morning prayers and waking skies lift our hearts and clear our eyes.” Sister Mary Claire smiled and tapped the top of the post gently with her mittened hand. “It’s what prayer does,” she said. “It clears us, so we can see what is true and stand with it—no matter what.”

Robert nodded. “If only Pilate had prayed that morning.”

We all went quiet for a bit after that. Not heavy silence, just thoughtful. Mini kept close to my feet, her little ears alert as ever.

Later in the day, I went to the cave. There was a peaceful hush there, as though the stones themselves had absorbed the morning’s Gospel. I worked in the scrapbook—just a few little additions and a pressed violet I had saved in wax paper.

I napped a little after that. The blanket in the prayer wagon was just warm enough, and the soft trickle of the stream outside lulled me to sleep. When I woke, the sun had shifted and there was a golden cast over everything.

O Jesus, You were innocent, yet condemned.
Make my heart steady when the world is loud.
Let me love You with a strong love,
A love that isn’t afraid to stand beside You,
Even when others turn away.

Love, Kathy