🌿When my words found a voice🌿
Dear Diary,
This morning Sister Mary Claire and I waited at the mailbox for Robert to come along in his pickup. It was just 40 degrees, and the snow was melting in big, wet patches. The grass down in the ditch was starting to turn green like it had just remembered how. Sister Mary Claire was holding her meditation book open to Thursday’s reading—Jesus is Nailed to the Cross. She kept it pressed against her coat while we waited, flipping through quietly, lips moving in prayer. I leaned over and read the first prelude: “Behold Mount Calvary, our Divine Saviour, Who willingly extends Himself on the cross and the executioners…”
We all knew Father Leroy would be using the same meditation during Mass, and we wanted to be ready—ready to understand better. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to. The thought of Jesus nailed, His arms stretched violently under the hammer, His sacred blood streaming down the tree of the cross… it made my chest feel like it was breaking. I looked down the road instead, until Robert’s truck came into view.
We climbed in—me in the middle with Mini on my lap—and rode to church without much noise, just the heater humming and Robert’s hand occasionally tapping the wheel. We got there early, like always, and the pew was cold when I sat down. Mini nestled under and rested her head right on my foot. That’s her way. She always knows when I’m struggling, and her little weight gave me more comfort than anything.
The homily was beautiful, but it was torturing, too. Father spoke about Calvary—the stripping of Jesus, the pain of the reopened wounds, the hammer crashing into bone, the muscles contracting, the blood running down the wood. He said Jesus adjusted Himself in compliance with the will of His executioners. That image alone nearly undid me. I tried to look at the altar, but it shimmered.
Afterward, we were already back in the pickup before I could speak again. I just stared out the window, listening to Sister Mary Claire and Robert talking softly about what they’d heard and read. I was quiet. I needed to be.
After lunch, Mini and I walked down to Indian Creek. We followed the bank and crossed the stones, winding our way through to the sanctuary cave. Inside, it was cool and still. The old prayer books John Hathaway left behind were just where I’d stacked them, and the covered wagon he’d taken apart and rebuilt—his way of making a home—was the same. I sat at his little desk, my fingers resting on the worn edge.
I thought about him. Did he reach gold fields of South Dakota? Did he miss this place? Did he remember the books he prayed with, the desk he used, the heavy silence of this cave? It’s strange, but I like to think he left it all behind for someone like me—someone whose faith might’ve matched his, even across a hundred years.
But it was all a bit too much to think about, today of all days. The image of Jesus on the cross stayed with me—the hammer, the love, the pain. When the candle burned low, Mini and I made our way back home.
Prayer:
O Jesus, by the love with which You offered Your pierced hands and feet, strengthen me to bear the crosses I do not yet understand.
Love,
Kathy
We all knew Father Leroy would be using the same meditation during Mass, and we wanted to be ready—ready to understand better. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to. The thought of Jesus nailed, His arms stretched violently under the hammer, His sacred blood streaming down the tree of the cross… it made my chest feel like it was breaking. I looked down the road instead, until Robert’s truck came into view.
We climbed in—me in the middle with Mini on my lap—and rode to church without much noise, just the heater humming and Robert’s hand occasionally tapping the wheel. We got there early, like always, and the pew was cold when I sat down. Mini nestled under and rested her head right on my foot. That’s her way. She always knows when I’m struggling, and her little weight gave me more comfort than anything.
The homily was beautiful, but it was torturing, too. Father spoke about Calvary—the stripping of Jesus, the pain of the reopened wounds, the hammer crashing into bone, the muscles contracting, the blood running down the wood. He said Jesus adjusted Himself in compliance with the will of His executioners. That image alone nearly undid me. I tried to look at the altar, but it shimmered.
Afterward, we were already back in the pickup before I could speak again. I just stared out the window, listening to Sister Mary Claire and Robert talking softly about what they’d heard and read. I was quiet. I needed to be.
After lunch, Mini and I walked down to Indian Creek. We followed the bank and crossed the stones, winding our way through to the sanctuary cave. Inside, it was cool and still. The old prayer books John Hathaway left behind were just where I’d stacked them, and the covered wagon he’d taken apart and rebuilt—his way of making a home—was the same. I sat at his little desk, my fingers resting on the worn edge.
I thought about him. Did he reach gold fields of South Dakota? Did he miss this place? Did he remember the books he prayed with, the desk he used, the heavy silence of this cave? It’s strange, but I like to think he left it all behind for someone like me—someone whose faith might’ve matched his, even across a hundred years.
But it was all a bit too much to think about, today of all days. The image of Jesus on the cross stayed with me—the hammer, the love, the pain. When the candle burned low, Mini and I made our way back home.
Prayer:
O Jesus, by the love with which You offered Your pierced hands and feet, strengthen me to bear the crosses I do not yet understand.
Love,
Kathy
No comments:
Post a Comment