🌿When my words found a voice🌿
April, 12, 156
Dear Diary,
It was 50 degrees when Robert picked Sister Mary Claire and me up at the mailbox. Sister had her meditation book with her, of course, tucked under her arm like always. The drive to church was real nice this morning. We passed a couple of farmers already out in their fields. The sun made everything look bright and hopeful again. Mini could hardly wait—she leapt out of the pickup and bounded straight to the door of the church like she had a job to do. No one else was there yet, so Robert led the way inside and added a few pinecones to the stove to warm up the church just a little.
Our pew up by the stove was waiting for us. Sister opened her book and read the meditation aloud. It was about the soldiers casting lots for Jesus’ garments. Just the thought of it made me quiet inside. Jesus, hanging on the cross, stripped even of the last things He owned in this world. And still, they treated His garments like something to be won in a game. Sister read how His coat was seamless, woven from the top throughout, like it had a special purpose all its own. And when she said the part about the coat being “dyed with the Blood of the Lamb,” I felt a kind of ache in my chest.
Father came in quietly while we were still talking about it and joined our conversation. He said maybe Jesus wanted to be stripped of everything—to show us something about how little worldly things really matter. That even His very clothing wasn’t worth holding on to, because He was giving up everything out of love. Even the smallest piece of Him had meaning, and even that was taken away. But He didn’t fight it.
In the afternoon, Mini and I walked down to the creek, and the water was running clear and quick. We entered the cave, and I went into my secret room—the one tucked deep inside where John Hathaway once stayed so long ago. He had been crossing the prairie on his way to the gold fields in South Dakota when a bad storm left him stranded here on the banks of Indian Creek. He found this cave and made it his home, turning part of it into a little shelter with his covered wagon and storing the books he had brought along. They’re still there—his old boxes of books stacked beside the wagon, like he meant to come back someday.
I sat there for a while with a candle lit, thinking about Jesus and how He gave up everything, and how John Hathaway had to give up so much, too—but found something different here. Sometimes just being in that quiet space helps me think better. And pray better, too.
After supper, we made ready for bedtime prayers. Mini is already tucked under the bed.
Dear Jesus, may I never cling to things more than I cling to You.
Love,
Kathy
It was 50 degrees when Robert picked Sister Mary Claire and me up at the mailbox. Sister had her meditation book with her, of course, tucked under her arm like always. The drive to church was real nice this morning. We passed a couple of farmers already out in their fields. The sun made everything look bright and hopeful again. Mini could hardly wait—she leapt out of the pickup and bounded straight to the door of the church like she had a job to do. No one else was there yet, so Robert led the way inside and added a few pinecones to the stove to warm up the church just a little.
Our pew up by the stove was waiting for us. Sister opened her book and read the meditation aloud. It was about the soldiers casting lots for Jesus’ garments. Just the thought of it made me quiet inside. Jesus, hanging on the cross, stripped even of the last things He owned in this world. And still, they treated His garments like something to be won in a game. Sister read how His coat was seamless, woven from the top throughout, like it had a special purpose all its own. And when she said the part about the coat being “dyed with the Blood of the Lamb,” I felt a kind of ache in my chest.
Father came in quietly while we were still talking about it and joined our conversation. He said maybe Jesus wanted to be stripped of everything—to show us something about how little worldly things really matter. That even His very clothing wasn’t worth holding on to, because He was giving up everything out of love. Even the smallest piece of Him had meaning, and even that was taken away. But He didn’t fight it.
In the afternoon, Mini and I walked down to the creek, and the water was running clear and quick. We entered the cave, and I went into my secret room—the one tucked deep inside where John Hathaway once stayed so long ago. He had been crossing the prairie on his way to the gold fields in South Dakota when a bad storm left him stranded here on the banks of Indian Creek. He found this cave and made it his home, turning part of it into a little shelter with his covered wagon and storing the books he had brought along. They’re still there—his old boxes of books stacked beside the wagon, like he meant to come back someday.
I sat there for a while with a candle lit, thinking about Jesus and how He gave up everything, and how John Hathaway had to give up so much, too—but found something different here. Sometimes just being in that quiet space helps me think better. And pray better, too.
After supper, we made ready for bedtime prayers. Mini is already tucked under the bed.
Dear Jesus, may I never cling to things more than I cling to You.
Love,
Kathy
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