🌿When my words found a voice🌿
April 13, 1956
Dear Diary
This morning at the mailbox, it was 51°, and spring was truly in the air. The sun was already warming the gravel under our feet, and the birds had so much to say that it felt like a real springtime concert. Sister Mary Claire stood beside me holding her meditation prayer book close, like she didn’t want to let go of the peace it brought. Mini was busy inspecting the old culvert under the driveway—she was absolutely certain something lived in there, and I didn't have the heart to tell her it was probably just a toad.
Robert’s pickup came rattling up, and we all piled in. He had his sleeves rolled up today. That’s how you know it’s officially spring.
We got to church early—just enough time for Sister Mary Claire to read me the first part of the meditation for Palm Sunday. She read the Scripture about the great crowd gathering, how they waved palm branches and cried out “Hosanna!” when Jesus entered Jerusalem. I could see it all in my mind, almost like I was there. Jesus, so humble but majestic, riding the little donkey, people throwing their cloaks and palms before Him—and all the while, knowing in His heart what lay ahead. It gave me goosebumps.
Father had the blessed palms laid out in the back of the church, each one fanned out and soft to the touch. He explained what Palm Sunday means and gave the blessing with a calm and reverent voice. The church was full but not packed, and there was a kind of peaceful excitement in the air.
This afternoon, it really warmed up—into the 60s, maybe even 70. Sister said it was a perfect day for fresh air, so Mini and I went down to the cave, our usual little trek. Shaggy Coat, our clever beaver friend, was working away at his lodge just below the cave, right at the edge of Indian Creek. You could hear the water trickling fast today, shiny and clean over the stones. I watched Shaggy for a minute, then made my way up the bluff to the entrance.
The cave sits high above the creek, carved right into the bluff by a glacier ten thousand years ago. That’s why it always stays so dry and pleasant inside—it’s like the earth made a promise to keep it safe. The heavy door creaked a little when I pushed it open, but it still works just like it did over a hundred years ago when John Hathaway built it. He must have come well prepared, because the hardware he used—those thick hinges and bolts—was strong as anything. I’ve oiled the hinges a couple of times, and just last week I gave the whole door a rub with olive wood oil. Now it looks deep and rich again, almost like new. Sometimes I think the door is like a handshake from John Hathaway himself, sturdy and full of good intentions.
Inside my little room, I sat for a bit, looking out at the slant of the afternoon sun through the cave opening. It lit up the old boxes and my books, and I just sat there thinking about Jesus, how He went right into Jerusalem knowing everything that was going to happen. He still let the people cheer. He still let them wave their palms and shout “Hosanna.” That’s what real love must look like.
Dear Jesus, You rode into Jerusalem with courage and kindness, knowing all the pain that waited for You. Thank You for loving us so much. Please help me be like You—brave, gentle, and willing to do what's right, even when it’s hard. Amen.
Love,
Kathy
This morning at the mailbox, it was 51°, and spring was truly in the air. The sun was already warming the gravel under our feet, and the birds had so much to say that it felt like a real springtime concert. Sister Mary Claire stood beside me holding her meditation prayer book close, like she didn’t want to let go of the peace it brought. Mini was busy inspecting the old culvert under the driveway—she was absolutely certain something lived in there, and I didn't have the heart to tell her it was probably just a toad.
Robert’s pickup came rattling up, and we all piled in. He had his sleeves rolled up today. That’s how you know it’s officially spring.
We got to church early—just enough time for Sister Mary Claire to read me the first part of the meditation for Palm Sunday. She read the Scripture about the great crowd gathering, how they waved palm branches and cried out “Hosanna!” when Jesus entered Jerusalem. I could see it all in my mind, almost like I was there. Jesus, so humble but majestic, riding the little donkey, people throwing their cloaks and palms before Him—and all the while, knowing in His heart what lay ahead. It gave me goosebumps.
Father had the blessed palms laid out in the back of the church, each one fanned out and soft to the touch. He explained what Palm Sunday means and gave the blessing with a calm and reverent voice. The church was full but not packed, and there was a kind of peaceful excitement in the air.
This afternoon, it really warmed up—into the 60s, maybe even 70. Sister said it was a perfect day for fresh air, so Mini and I went down to the cave, our usual little trek. Shaggy Coat, our clever beaver friend, was working away at his lodge just below the cave, right at the edge of Indian Creek. You could hear the water trickling fast today, shiny and clean over the stones. I watched Shaggy for a minute, then made my way up the bluff to the entrance.
The cave sits high above the creek, carved right into the bluff by a glacier ten thousand years ago. That’s why it always stays so dry and pleasant inside—it’s like the earth made a promise to keep it safe. The heavy door creaked a little when I pushed it open, but it still works just like it did over a hundred years ago when John Hathaway built it. He must have come well prepared, because the hardware he used—those thick hinges and bolts—was strong as anything. I’ve oiled the hinges a couple of times, and just last week I gave the whole door a rub with olive wood oil. Now it looks deep and rich again, almost like new. Sometimes I think the door is like a handshake from John Hathaway himself, sturdy and full of good intentions.
Inside my little room, I sat for a bit, looking out at the slant of the afternoon sun through the cave opening. It lit up the old boxes and my books, and I just sat there thinking about Jesus, how He went right into Jerusalem knowing everything that was going to happen. He still let the people cheer. He still let them wave their palms and shout “Hosanna.” That’s what real love must look like.
Dear Jesus, You rode into Jerusalem with courage and kindness, knowing all the pain that waited for You. Thank You for loving us so much. Please help me be like You—brave, gentle, and willing to do what's right, even when it’s hard. Amen.
Love,
Kathy
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