Held Fast by Mary at the Grotto Spring

Dear Diary,

This afternoon, Mini and I walked down to the grotto after finishing our morning chores. The sun was out, but the breeze was cool, and I brought along our little book—The Glories of Mary chapter about perseverance and read it while sitting on the stone ledge near the grotto. Mini curled up beside me, her ears perked at every splash of water from the little spring next to Mary. It makes a soft gurgling sound as it spills down into the rocks, like a secret song only the peaceful can hear.

It made the whole place feel alive, like Mary was right there, watching over us and whispering grace into the quiet. The book said that those who stay close to her will never fall away from Jesus, and I believe that with all my heart. The part that said if you cling to her, you won’t sink—well, it made me feel braver inside. I asked her to help me persevere, to never stop loving Jesus, no matter what comes.

I stayed there a long while, just listening and thinking. And when I stood to leave, I told her thank you. I think she heard me.

Dear Blessed Mother,

Thank you for letting me sit near your grotto today. Please help me love your Son more every day and never let go of Him, even when things are hard. Wrap your mantle around Mini and me tonight and keep us safe while we sleep. I want to be brave and good like you, and to keep walking toward Heaven—one prayer at a time.

Amen.




Love,

Kathy

Back Down the Mountain

Dear Diary

Robert picked us up for Holy Mass this morning—me, Sister Mary Claire, and Mini, who jumped right in the back of the truck like she knew she was going to church. The air smelled like early summer and the breeze felt good through the open window as we rattled down the gravel road.

At Mass, Father LeRoy talked about how the Apostles weren’t sad when Jesus went up to Heaven. Instead, they went back to Jerusalem full of joy. He said that’s the kind of joy that comes from trusting Jesus and obeying Him. I kept thinking how hard it must’ve been to leave the hilltop where they last saw Him—but they didn’t pout or wait around for more signs. They just did what they were told because they loved Him.

I want to be like that. I think sometimes I wait too long, hoping for something special or easy. But maybe joy comes more from obeying than from waiting.

On the way home, Sister and I talked about it. She said joy is a kind of reward for trusting. I liked that a lot.

Mini curled up beside me tonight while I wrote this, and I feel peaceful. I didn’t do anything grand today, but I tried to be joyful in the small things.

Dear Jesus,

Help me trust You like the Apostles did,
And to obey You with joy even when I’d rather stay on the mountaintop.
Teach me to walk cheerfully wherever You send me,
And to love You more than anything in the world.

Amen.

Looking Up to Heaven

Dear Diary

Thursday, Feast of the Ascension

Robert came early this morning in his pickup and gave us a ride to Church. Sister Mary Claire and I had only just finished our oatmeal and cream, and Mini was still licking her bowl clean when we heard the tires crunching on the gravel out front. The sun was just lifting itself over the trees, and the sky—oh, Diary—it looked like Heaven had opened right above us. Pale golden light poured through soft clouds, and the blue behind them was so deep and bright it made me think of angels singing. Sister said it looked like the kind of sky Jesus might have disappeared into on Ascension Day.

At Mass, Father LeRoy preached about the Apostles watching Jesus rise up into Heaven, and how they just stood there looking up into the sky. I know I would’ve done the same—who wouldn’t? But then Father reminded us of what the angels said: “Why stand ye looking up to heaven?” They weren’t meant to stay frozen like that. They were meant to go out and do something. Jesus had work for them to do.

This afternoon, Mini and I went down to the cave. I brought the little meditation book with me and read while Mini sniffed around and finally settled by the stream. It’s so quiet in there you can almost hear your own heartbeat. I read about how Jesus entered Heaven, and how the angels and saints must’ve sung as He took His throne. It said we should want to go to Heaven too—not just by hoping, but by acting like it, every day. That made me stop and think. Do I live like someone who belongs in Heaven?

My call to action today is to raise my heart more often toward Heaven. Not just when I’m reading holy books or sitting in Church, but even when I’m doing regular things—feeding the chickens, gathering eggs, or sweeping the porch. I want to think more about Jesus and less about myself. That’s what it means to follow Him upward.

For supper tonight, Sister made us egg sandwiches again with mayonnaise and her favorite bread and butter pickles. I used one of Omelette’s big brown eggs, and she didn’t fuss a bit. She even let me pet her without a peck. Sister said it was the best sandwich she’d had all week. I think the pickles made her extra happy.

Dear Jesus,

Today You returned to Heaven in glory, and I want to follow You—not just with my eyes, but with my heart. Help me to look up more often, not just to the sky, but to You. Pull me away from anything that keeps me stuck in the world and teach me to love what You love. I give You my chores, my thoughts, and my dreams. Make me ready for Heaven by living for You here.

Amen.




Love,

Kathy

A Garden Enclosed

Dear Diary

This morning, I pulled a book off the shelf that one of Sister’s nun friends had sent her in the mail. It’s called The Virgin Mother According to Theology, and it looked so old and full of meaning that I just had to open it. Sister saw me turning the pages and smiled, then said that Mini and I could certainly take it down to the cave whenever we wanted. So that’s just what we did.

I wrapped the book in my blue cardigan and carried it like it was something precious, which it is. Mini trotted ahead, ears bouncing, and we followed the path down to the sanctuary cave. The little stream was cool and trickling, and the grotto felt still and safe. I sat on the mossy rock and opened the book where the ribbon was tucked.

The words I read made me feel like I was standing in a church full of candles—even though I was just a farm girl in overalls with a corgi and a hen for best friends. The book said the Blessed Virgin Mary is greater than all the angels, more beautiful than the cherubim and seraphim. It said even the voice of angels isn’t enough to praise her the way she deserves. That made me feel sort of small—but not in a bad way. In a kind of loved way.

It called her a pure dove and the throne of God. A garden enclosed. A lily without a spot. A mother who brought the unfading rose of Jesus into the world. It said the angels once looked down on Eve but now glorify Mary because she lifted up what had fallen and opened Heaven again. And the more I read, the more I wanted to whisper thank you—to Mary, to God, to whoever thought to write those words down in the first place.

I held the book open in my lap and looked out at the water and trees and said, “Blessed Mother, I don’t know how to say all that fancy stuff, but I believe every word.” Mini laid her head on my knee like she agreed.

We walked back up before supper. Sister had made an egg sandwich with one of Omelette’s big brown eggs—plus mayonnaise and pickles, just the way I like it. I told Omelette she did good, and she gave me a proud little cluck.

Dear Blessed Mother,

I don’t have big words like the book today, but I love you with all my little heart.
Help me stay pure like your lily
and carry Jesus close inside me, even in small ways.

Bless Sister, and Mini, and Omelette too.

Amen.

Love,

Kathy

"Still Here, Even in My Imagination"

Dear Diary

I spent nearly the whole day working on Chapter Four—The Desertion—and now my mind feels both full and empty at the same time.

I sat in the corner by the window with my notebook and tried to get the words just right. I kept seeing that moment—when Kathy (me!) and Sister Mary Claire and Father LeRoy climbed to the top of the hill and saw the ship sailing away, leaving them behind. I wrote it over and over in my head before I ever touched my pencil.

And even though I knew it wasn’t real—not real real—it felt real to me. I am Kathy. And Sister Mary Claire is my sister. And Father LeRoy has that gentle, strong way about him that makes me feel safe even when I’m scared. And Mini was there, and Omelette in her sling.

When I wrote the part where they realized they had been left behind, I had to put my pencil down and just stare out the window for a bit. The wind in the trees outside sounded like the waves from the island, and I thought—what happens to us now?

I’m not sure yet. My brain says I’ll figure it out tomorrow. But tonight I feel like I’m still standing on that mossy ridge, watching the sails disappear and not knowing what to do next.

I curled up with Mini after supper—she knew I was being quiet on purpose. She laid her head on my lap and let out that little sigh she always makes. Omelette was nearby in her basket of straw (inside only for a visit), and even she was settled and still.

I don’t know what’s going to happen to the castaways in my story. But I do know they’re not alone. I wrote that into it on purpose. That no matter what, they have God. And each other.

Just like me.

Dear Jesus,

Sometimes stories are more than stories.
And characters are more than made-up names.
Please watch over the ones I wrote about today—
and the ones I love in real life.

Thank You for giving me Sister Mary Claire,
and Mini, and Omelette,
and for the kind heart of Father LeRoy.

When I feel left behind or forgotten,
help me remember that You never leave us.
Not ever.
Even on islands.
Even in the middle of the night.

Amen.

Love,

Kathy

A Prayer That Reaches the Clouds

Monday, May 26, 1956

Dear Diary

Robert picked us up for Mass this morning in his pickup. Mini heard the truck before I did and was already waiting at the door with her ears up and her little backside wiggling. Sister Mary Claire and I put on our sweaters and hurried out to meet him. The sky looked like fresh-washed linen, and the gravel was still damp from last night’s rain.

As we bumped along the road, Robert asked if we remembered the Gospel verse—the one that says “Ask, and it shall be given to you; seek, and you shall find; knock, and it shall be opened.” I said it was one of my favorites because it makes me feel like Heaven’s door really will open if I just keep knocking.

Robert smiled a little and told us a story. When he was a boy, he kept asking his pa for a flashlight, but never got one. Then one stormy night, when the lights went out, his pa handed it to him without a word. “He waited until I needed it,” he said. Sister Mary Claire said quietly, “That’s exactly what God does—He waits for the perfect time.”

After Mass, we didn’t talk right away. It felt like we were all thinking about the same thing. Finally, Sister said how easy it is to get discouraged when we don’t see answers. But she reminded us that prayer isn’t about getting what we want—it’s about being close to Jesus and learning to trust Him.

In the afternoon, I slipped away to the cave with Mini. The path was soft with leaves, and I let my fingers trail along the ferns as we walked. Inside the cave, the light was dim and green, and the sound of the little stream echoed gently against the stone.

I sat on the mossy rock near the back and folded my hands. The air was cool on my cheeks. I thought about what the meditation said—that the prayer of someone humble pierces the clouds. I’m not sure I’m very good at being humble, but I do know how much I need Jesus. And maybe that’s what counts.

So I prayed the only way I knew how—quietly and honestly. I told Him that I want to trust Him more, even when my prayers feel small. Mini laid her head against my leg like she understood everything.

Dear Jesus, thank You for always listening. Help me keep knocking, even when the door stays closed a little longer. I want my heart to be open even when Heaven feels far away. Please stay close.

Love,

Kathy

Carried By A Glacier

Dear Diary

After Mass this morning, Sister Mary Claire and I sat real quiet in the church pew for a little while after everyone left. I don’t know what she was praying about, but I was asking Jesus to help me understand how to trust Him better. Father LeRoy talked about praying in Jesus’ name and how God hears us when we do. Not just sometimes, but always—if it’s something for our soul. That made me feel something I can’t explain. It’s like getting a warm letter from Heaven.

After we had lunch (grilled cheese sandwiches and that soft spring lettuce from the garden), Sister said I should go out for some fresh air. So I took Mini and Omelette, down to the big rock near the edge of the field. That rock sits there like it’s been waiting a hundred years to be noticed again. Sister says it was once up in Canada and got carried here by a glacier ages ago. Imagine that. Something so still and quiet once traveling across the earth like a lost boat.

I sat there with Mini laying her head on my foot and Omelette pecking around for bugs in the grass, and I thought about what everlasting means. Forever seems impossible—but so does a rock riding on ice all the way from Canada. I suppose if God can do that with a rock, He can do things with us too, like moving our hearts to pray or giving us a little more courage when we’re scared.

I didn’t hear anything out loud, but it felt like Jesus was saying, “If you ask the Father anything in My name, He will give it to you.” I want to remember that when I feel small and unsure, like when I ask for help but don’t know if I’ll be brave enough to try again.

I didn’t want the sun to go down because it was one of those golden evenings where the sky looks washed in honey and the birds keep singing like they’re trying to get every last note in before bedtime. But Sister rang the bell from the porch, so I picked up Omelette and Mini followed behind, her bottom wagging like always.

Before I fall asleep tonight, here’s what I want to pray:

Dear Jesus,

I love You. Please help me remember that the Father hears me when I pray in Your name. Even if I don’t say everything right or know what to ask, You do.

Let my little prayers fly up to Heaven like sparrows, and may Your heart catch them.

Help me to trust that You know what I need better than I do.

And thank You for glacial rocks and for sisters who tell stories, and for hens and for corgis and for golden fields that remind me that forever might not be so far away after all.

Amen.

Love,

Kathy

The Moss Beneath My Feet

This morning I woke up extra early because my mind was full of moss. Not the kind that creeps up fence posts, but the soft kind you only dream about, like green velvet under bare feet. It was still dark out when I tiptoed across the floor in my socks and set up at the little desk by the window. Mini crawled out from under the bed and stretched, then flopped by my foot with a sigh like she already knew I was going to be writing a while.

I’ve been working on Chapter 3 of Catholic Crusoe—and oh, Diary, it might be my favorite yet! We finally get to explore the island! I wrote about the stone steps we climbed from the shore, and how the whole world suddenly changed from rocky to soft and green, like God rolled out a mossy carpet just for us. There’s even a stream that runs beside us like it’s guiding our way. Sister Mary Claire says it’s like a church made by God Himself, and that stuck with me. I wrote that line down just the way she said it.

Omelette came tapping in with her claws on the floor, and when I scooped her up and held her close, I whispered, “You’re a character in my book now, Miss Hen.” She looked at me with her little brown eyes like she already knew.

After lunch (cold ham and apple slices with some of Sister’s rye bread), I read the chapter aloud to Sister Mary Claire while she shelled beans. She smiled the whole time, and once she even wiped her eye. “It’s like a hymn, Kath,” she said. “A hymn in story form.”

Later we went out to the big rock—me, Sister, Mini, and Omelette. The corn is about 7 inches now, and the breeze was soft and smelled like the woods in my story. I brought my little sheaf of pages and reread what I wrote, letting the real breeze mix with the imagined one. Mini sprawled out in the shade and Omelette kept trying to hop into my lap.

Sister says good stories make you feel like you’ve been somewhere else and somehow closer to Heaven at the same time. That’s what I want this chapter to do. Maybe it already does. Maybe just a little.

Dear Lord,

Thank You for letting me walk through the mossy parts of my imagination today. Thank You for Sister Mary Claire, who helps me believe my stories matter, and for Omelette and Mini, who are always willing to go along with me. Please keep us under Your wings, like it says in the Psalm. I hope I can write more tomorrow, if it’s Your will.

Love,

Kathy 🐾

Ponder This 

The Glories of Mary

The Liturgical Year  

Meditations on Christian Dogma

Catholic Crusoe

Dear Diary,

This afternoon I took The Glories of Mary out to the glacial rock at the edge of the cornfield. Mini came with, of course, trotting happily by my side, and Omelette plodded behind like a feathery little wagon. The corn is only about six inches tall now—just enough to make the wind rustle when it passes through. It was quiet and warm and felt like the sort of day where heaven might be watching especially close.

I was reading the part about how Mary is the mother of even sinners—if they want to change. That part settled into me like a stone at the bottom of a deep well. It said that if someone tries—even just a little—Mary doesn’t turn them away, no matter how many mistakes they’ve made. She doesn’t count up their sins, but instead looks at their heart. That made me feel all warm, like when Sister Mary Claire tucks the covers up around my shoulders at night. I guess sometimes I worry I’m not very good at being good, but it said Mary helps those who want to try. She sees the trying. That part—I loved that part.

There was also that story about the boy named Ernest, who ran away and did terrible things but then came back and did penance and was forgiven. Mary showed him she had his pardon in her hand! I just sat there imagining what it must’ve looked like—Mary holding out that paper, saying without words, You’re forgiven, come home.

I think maybe that’s what I want most—to be like one of Mary’s children who gets to come home again, even if I’ve wandered off a bit. I looked at Mini, lying with her chin on the rock beside me, and Omelette making gentle clucks and scratching at the rock, and I thought: Even a chicken can find a home. And so can I, if I stay close to Mary.

Dear Mother Mary,

You know my heart better than I do. Even when I get things wrong, please don’t stop helping me.
If I forget to ask, remind me gently, and never let me go too far.
I want to be your daughter—not just by saying it, but by trying to live like you.
Thank you for loving even the ones who mess up.

Help me try again tomorrow. 

                                    Love Kathy

Ponder This 

The Glories of Mary

The Liturgical Year  

Meditations on Christian Dogma

Catholic Crusoe

Mini and Me at Mary's Feet

Dear Diary,

This morning, after I fed Omelette and checked the nest boxes, I grabbed The Glories of Mary and tiptoed past Mini, who was still half-asleep on the quilt. But the second she saw the book in my hand, she popped up and followed me down to the grotto like she knew something special was about to happen.

We sat together on the big rock in front of the statue, and I read all of (Click) Chapter 4 out loud so Mary could hear too. It was all about how Mary is the mother not just of the holy ones—but also of poor sinners like me who want to love her better. It made my eyes feel warm and full.

The part that struck me most was when it said Mary will not turn away even the soul that has fallen over and over again, so long as they come to her with a heart that wants to change. It said she embraces the sinner like a mother would—tenderly, without scolding—and she even heals the wounds of our souls.

I looked up at the statue right then, and it felt like she was really listening. And I whispered, “Please don’t let me ever forget how much you love me.”

I just love St. Alphonsus Liguori for writing this book. It’s like he poured his whole heart into every page, just to help people like me grow in love for Mary. I bet he must’ve loved her with all his soul, because you can feel it when you read his words.

Evening Prayer:

Dear Mary, my sweetest Mother,

I thank you for being so patient with me. When I fall short, you still welcome me back.
Please help me to grow a heart like yours—gentle and humble and full of love.
Tell your Son Jesus that I want to love Him more and more.
And thank you for sending me The Glories of Mary just when I needed it.
Bless St. Alphonsus in heaven. I know he’s close to you.
And please tuck Mini in tight tonight. She’s been my prayer partner all day.

Amen.

Love, Kathy

Ponder on This

The Glories of Mary

The Liturgical Year  

Meditations on Christian Dogma

Catholic Crusoe

I Will Not Rest Until I Love Thee!

May 21, 1956

Dear Diary,

Today was one of those days where my head was fuller than my hands, and my hands were already full to begin with! Between rereading The Glories of Mary writing my version of Catholic Crusoe, I hardly noticed Mini looking at me with her squeaky ball, or Omelette pecking gently at my skirt for attention. They both know I love them, but lately it’s like they live more in my imagination than underfoot!

Still, I feel like my imagination is where Jesus and Mary are spending time with me too. I read this part in Glories that made my heart almost ache with wanting: how Mary’s beauty was so great it drew God from heaven right into her arms. I just stopped reading and whispered, “Shall I live without loving thee, Mary?” And the answer, of course, is NO! I want to love her like Saint John Berchmans did—he said he wouldn’t rest until he loved her tenderly. That made me sit up straight and whisper the same thing. I won’t rest either until I do.

But then I got a bit worried. If Mary’s so pure and I’m so plain—how can I ever love her rightly? She’s so holy and sweet and good, and sometimes I get grumbly or selfish, even just this morning when Mini chewed on my pencil again. But the book said Mary can change our hearts. So I asked her to take mine, just the way it is, and change it to be more like hers. Like she did for all the saints.

If I had a kingdom, I’d make it hers. If I had a thousand tongues, I’d praise her with every one. But all I have is me—and maybe that’s enough for her?

Before I go to sleep, I’ll say my little evening prayer:

Dear Mary,

You drew Jesus to yourself with your beauty and love. Please draw me too.
Take my little heart—it’s messy and sometimes selfish—and change it.
Make it clean like yours, and full of love.
Help me never forget how much you’ve already helped me, even when I didn’t thank you.
Let me love you like the saints did—with all my heart, every day.
Let me be more like you, so I can be more like Jesus.
And please bless Mini and Omelette too—they keep me company while I work and dream.

Goodnight, dearest Mother. I love you.

Amen.

Love,

Kathy

Ponder on This

The Glories of Mary

The Liturgical Year  

Meditations on Christian Dogma

Catholic Crusoe

A Crown of Clover for Our Lady

Dear Diary,

This afternoon, I sat on the back stoop with Mini snuggled up beside me and Omelette clucking around my boots like she had something important to say. I had my copy of The Glories of Mary opened on my lap—Chapter 3 Today—and I just couldn’t stop thinking about that poor shepherdess girl and her visits to the little chapel in the mountains.

She didn’t have much, but oh, how she loved Mary! Instead of fancy things, she gave what she could—a little crown of flowers she made herself. And do you know what happened? At the end of her life, Mary came herself, with a whole group of heavenly girls, to take her soul to Heaven! I could almost see it in my mind—a crown in Mary’s hand and music so sweet it could carry a soul home. Sister Mary Claire says Our Lady never forgets a single act of love we do for her.

That’s when I got an idea.

I tied a sprig of goldenrod and clover into a ribbon and made a small garland—just like the shepherdess did. I walked down to the grotto in the cave and placed it gently on Mary’s stone head. I said, “Oh Mary, I wish I had something prettier to give you, but please take this little crown from me. It’s just from a girl who loves you with all her heart.” Mini stayed real still and even Omelette stopped fussing like she was praying too.

Sometimes I feel so small. But then I remember what I read: Mary doesn’t need gold or greatness. She just wants our love. And if I keep loving her every day, even in my clumsy little ways, maybe she’ll come for me someday too.

I’m going to keep trying to be more like her—gentle and good and not so quick to pout when things don’t go my way. And maybe someday, if I love her enough, I’ll be a little flower in her crown too.

Love,

Kathy


Dear Blessed Mother,

Thank you for letting me read your beautiful stories today.
Help me to love you more and more,
even if all I have to offer is a crown made of weeds and wishes.
Please make my heart more like yours,
and don’t ever stop helping me become the kind of girl
Jesus would smile at.
Watch over Sister Mary Claire, Mini, Omelette, and me
while we sleep under this starry sky.

Amen.

“A New Way to Tell the Tale”

Dear Diary

This morning after chores and a little time with Omelette in the coop, I sat curled up by the ship’s lantern light (our pretend one, made from a jelly jar with a candle stub inside), trying to read more of Catholic Crusoe. I don’t mind saying it’s a hard book. The words are so old-fashioned and proper it feels like I need a shovel just to dig through each page. Some of the sentences go on forever like stormy winds without a place to land, and I kept having to read the same part over and over again.

Sister Mary Claire must’ve noticed me sighing and flipping back a page again, because she came and sat beside me with her sewing and asked gently, “Stuck at sea again?”

I nodded and held up the book. “I know it’s good,” I said, “but I can’t hardly understand half of what’s going on. It’s like sailing in fog with no map.”

She smiled at that and said, “Then why don’t you make a map?”

I blinked at her.

“I mean,” she continued, threading her needle, “why don’t you rewrite the story? Tell it the way you’d want to hear it. You already know the heart of it—a ship, a storm, a longing for Heaven, and a faithful little band. Use your own words. Add Mini, and Father LeRoy, and even Omelette if you like.”

Well, that idea lit something inside me. Like striking a match in the dark.

I started writing this afternoon, and the words came easier than I thought they would. I made it our ship instead—the Catholic Crusoe—with Sister Mary Claire, Father LeRoy at the helm, and me, holding on to Omelette as the storm rolled in. The sky was cracking open with lightning and Mini kept her eyes on the horizon like a brave little sailor. I wrote how we spotted land—a wild green island with a sugarloaf mountain and deep valleys—and how I wanted to go ashore and see what God had hidden there for us to find.

And suddenly, Diary, the story wasn’t hard anymore. It was ours.

Dear Jesus,

Thank You for Sister Mary Claire and the way she helps me see things differently. Help me not to be afraid of hard words or big ideas. Show me how to tell Your story in my own way, and always make You the Captain of my heart. Amen.

Love,

Kathy

Ponder on This

The Glories of Mary

The Liturgical Year  

Meditations on Christian Dogma

Catholic Crusoe

A Whisper Before Dawn

Dear Diary,

The room was still and dim when I heard the little click of Sister Mary Claire’s lamp and the soft rustle of pages. I hadn’t opened my eyes yet, but I could feel the morning starting all around us. Sister must’ve thought I was still asleep, because she began to read in that quiet, almost-whisper voice she uses sometimes, especially when the world is still tucked in.

“O my Jesus,” she began, “when shall perfect love of Thee fill my heart?”

The words floated across the room like something soft and warm. She kept going, something about our earthly ways holding us back, and asking the Holy Ghost to shine His light into the weak parts of our hearts. I wanted her to know I was listening, so I slid my hand out from under the quilt and gave her pajama sleeve the tiniest little nudge.

She smiled down at me and whispered, “Good morning, sweet girl,” then kept reading without missing a beat.

She read: “Come, O Holy Ghost… Give me courage and strength to vanquish self.” That part stayed in my heart like a little bell. I want to be brave like that—to clean out the clutter inside and be guided only by God.

Later, Mini and I went down to the cave. It was peaceful as always. The light filtered in through the crack above, and Mini curled up near me while I sat with my notebook and thought about how I wanted my heart to feel like this place—quiet, clean, and ready for something holy.

Dear Holy Ghost, I want to give You my whole heart. Please help me sweep out everything that doesn’t belong. Make me strong and brave enough to love Jesus more than anything. Stay close to me, even when I forget. I want to be guided by You always. Amen.

Love,
Kathy

Ponder on This

The Glories of Mary

The Liturgical Year  

Meditations on Christian Dogma

Safe in Mary's Heart

 
Dear Diary,

Sister Mary Claire read something today that really stayed with me. It was from a saint—St. Alphonsus Maria de Liguori. He said we should keep on loving Mary with all our hearts, and never stop honoring her as our Queen. He said to keep going joyfully, doing our best to help others love her too. Isn’t that beautiful?

He also said we don’t need to be afraid or full of doubt, but we can be sure—sure that our salvation is safe if we just stay faithful to Mary, all the way to the end of our lives. That made me feel so peaceful inside. Like, if I keep saying my Rosary, and loving Mary every day—even in little ways—I’ll be alright.

I want to do just what he said. I want to love Mary so much that other people see it and maybe they’ll love her too. I want to belong to her completely.

Love,
Kathy

Continue Reading

The Glories of Mary

Glories of Mary

Dear Diary,

Oh today was so wonderful I hardly know where to begin! Sister Mary Claire brought out an old book from the cedar chest—the one that smells like lavender and keeps our Christmas linens—and gave it to me. It’s called The Glories of Mary by St. Alphonsus Liguori, and she said it’s been in the family for a very long time. The pages are thin and yellowed and some are even marked by someone long ago, maybe Grandma. I’ve been reading Chapter One all day long, sitting by the window and under the quilt, and I feel like something inside of me has been lit up. It says Mary is not just a queen, but our Queen of Mercy, and that she especially loves the poor and the sinners and the forgotten ones—which made me cry a little. It means she loves me, even if I’m just a farm girl with smudgy knees and chores to do. I want to get closer to her. I want to be her little servant and publish her, just like it says in the beginning. I don’t know yet how I’ll do that, but maybe I’ll copy her stories into my scrapbook or tell them to the hens while I feed them. She’s my queen now.

Dear Blessed Mother,

Thank you for being my Queen of Mercy. Please help me to love Jesus more and more like you did. I want to be yours forever. Show me how to tell others about you, even if it’s just through my little hands and quiet heart.

Love,

Kathy

Wednesday Morning With St. Thomas

Dear Diary

This morning was cool and quiet, and Robert's old pickup truck rumbled down the lane right on time. Sister Mary Claire had packed her little Meditation Book again, tucking it under her arm like always, and Mini was already dancing around the porch steps, ready to hop in. As soon as Robert opened the door, she wiggled in first and curled up right between us on the seat.

Sister read today’s meditation aloud while we bumped down the road. It was about the Apostle Thomas—you know, the one they call “Doubting Thomas.” He didn’t believe the other Apostles when they said Jesus had risen. Not until Jesus came right to him and told him to touch His wounds. That’s when Thomas cried out, “My Lord and my God!”

Robert said he always liked that story because it shows how patient Jesus is. He said that Jesus didn’t scold Thomas, even though He could have. Instead, He just gave him what he needed to believe. Sister Mary Claire said that Jesus always comes looking for us when we’re lost—like a shepherd for His little lambs—and that sometimes, we just need to whisper a short prayer like “My Lord and my God” to let Him back into our hearts.

At Mass, Father LeRoy talked about that too. He said Jesus appeared just for Thomas and gave him a second chance because His love is stronger than any of our doubts. I like that. I like thinking Jesus would come back just for one person who needs Him.

This afternoon, after chores, I thought about Thomas while brushing Mini. Sometimes I feel like I mess things up or forget to pray, and I worry if Jesus is mad at me. But today I realized He doesn’t get mad like that. He waits, and He helps, and He gives us faith if we ask.

I said a tiny prayer down by the creek: “Lord, increase my faith.” It felt like a pebble dropping into the water—small, but real.

Evening Prayer
Dear Jesus,
Thank You for loving me even when I get unsure or afraid. Like St. Thomas, I want to believe with my whole heart. Help me say with him, “My Lord and my God.” Teach me to be patient with others too, and to speak kindly when they make mistakes. I want to love You with all my heart and come running to You when I fall.
Amen.

Love,
Kathy 

Feast Day of Our Lady of Fatima

Dear Diary,

Feast of Our Lady of Fatima

May 13, 1956

This morning, the sun peeked through early, and Sister Mary Claire was already dressed and humming when I opened my eyes. She smiled and said, “Up you get, Kathy—it’s a day for celebrating!” I was out of bed in a flash, and Mini was already scratching at the door like she knew it was a special day too.

The air smelled like lilacs and dew, and it was already 60 degrees when we made our way down to the mailbox rock. Mini leapt right up, her tailless little bottom giving a wiggle as she looked down the gravel road. She gave a sharp bark the moment we heard the rumble of Robert’s old pickup, just like always. I climbed in first, then Sister, and then Mini—who nestled right between us, ears perked up and ready for church.

We meant to talk about the meditation Sister had opened to—about poor St. Thomas and how he missed Jesus’ first visit. But we kept getting pulled back into the joy of today’s feast—Our Lady of Fatima! It’s hard to talk about unbelief when your heart is full of light.

Sister reminded us that in 1917, on this very day, our Blessed Mother appeared to **three little shepherd children—Lucia, Jacinta, and Francisco—**in the fields of Portugal. She wore white brighter than the sun and asked them to pray the Rosary every day, offer little sacrifices for sinners, and love Jesus with all their hearts. Sister’s eyes glowed when she told the story, and I could almost see the scene in my mind. Even Robert, who doesn’t talk much in the morning, nodded and said, “That’s a real gift, that is.”

At Mass, Father LeRoy gave a brief homily on Thomas’s unbelief. He said there’s a warning in that story for all of us—about missing out on graces when we hold back or try to do things our own way. But after Communion, he gently turned our hearts back to Our Lady, saying her message at Fatima is as needed now as it ever was: prayer, penance, and peace.There was a little statue of Our Lady on the altar, and someone had placed a crown of fresh daisies on her head. It was so simple and beautiful.

In the afternoon, we went back for a special talk on Fatima. Father told us about the Miracle of the Sun, when thousands of people watched it spin and dance in the sky. Even the newspapers had to report it. It made me think of Thomas again—how he wouldn’t believe unless he saw it with his own eyes. I wonder if he would’ve believed at Fatima? Maybe. I like to think so.

Later, Mini and I walked down to the cave. The grass was warm beneath my feet, and the little stream murmured like a lullaby. We stopped at the grotto and knelt in front of Mary’s statue. I told her about my day and set a few wild violets at her feet. The cave felt peaceful and safe, like it always does when I’m with her.

Here is the little prayer I whispered:

Dear Mary,

Thank you for coming to Fatima to teach us how to love your Son better.
I want to be brave like Lucia, Jacinta, and Francisco, and to pray like they did, even when it’s hard.
Help me not to be like Thomas when he doubted, but to believe and trust Jesus always.
Please watch over Sister Mary Claire, Mini, Robert, and all the people we love.
Tell Jesus I love Him with my whole heart.

Love,

Kathy

Shaggycoat Monday

Dear Diary

The sun was already high when I stepped out to the mailbox this morning, and the gravel was warm beneath my shoes. Mini was sniffing all around the fencepost, her little white paws prancing like she had a secret. It was 64 degrees and just breezy enough to make the cattails dance. I had on my soft blue sweater even though I probably didn’t need it. Somehow, it felt right for a day like today.

Robert pulled up right on time in the pickup, and the three of us—well, two girls and one corgi—climbed in together. I always like sitting in the middle, sandwiched between Sister Mary Claire and Mini, who rested her chin on my knee and kept her eyes pointed out the window like a proper little passenger.

Sister had brought her meditation book along again and began reading aloud before we were even halfway down the lane. Her voice was quiet but sure, like the stream at Indian Creek. Today’s meditation was all about peace—the first word Jesus spoke to His Apostles after He rose from the dead: “Peace be to you.” She said Jesus had earned peace for us by His suffering, and that He meant for us to carry it into the world.

Father LeRoy continued the thought in his homily, explaining how the Sacrament of Penance isn’t just about telling our sins, but receiving that peace from Jesus Himself, through the priest. He said, “When you hear ‘Thy sins are forgiven thee,’ that’s Heaven restoring peace to your soul.” I tried to hold those words close, but my thoughts kept wandering—first to the cave, then to Indian Creek, and then to Shaggycoat’s lodge nestled by the dam.

I thought about how still it is in the cave, how the air smells like moss and cool stone, and how even the stream inside trickles as if it doesn’t want to disturb the quiet. Shaggycoat’s dam holds the water like a little bowl, and nothing in that whole place seems worried. Not the frogs, not the minnows, not even the breeze that slips through the ferns.

Why can’t all the world have peace like that?

Sometimes I feel like I am already living in a world full of peace—here on the farm with Sister and Mini, with eggs to gather and fences to mend and oatmeal to eat in the morning. Maybe peace isn’t something far away. Maybe it’s something Jesus puts inside you, like a lamp lit behind your ribs.

Father said we ought to avoid every voluntary fault if we want perfect peace of heart. I don’t know if I can be perfect, but I do know I want that kind of peace. The kind that makes you still inside. The kind that makes you kinder.

Dear Jesus,

Thank You for the gift of peace. Thank You for gentle breezes and quiet creeks, and for Mini sleeping under my bed. Thank You for Sister’s voice reading Your words and for Father LeRoy who helps them take root. Thank You for a farm full of chores and love and stillness. Help me keep Your peace in my heart tomorrow and every day.

Love,

Kathy 

Good Shepherd Sunday

Dear Diary,

This morning was so gentle and calm that even the gravel road seemed soft underfoot. It was 63 degrees when I woke up, and I decided right away that a wool sweater would be just right for Good Shepherd Sunday. Sister Mary Claire said it suited the day beautifully, and she helped me button it while Mini watched from her little spot by the stove. Then I tied Mini’s tiny wool collar around her neck — she looked like a lamb herself, which made Sister laugh softly and say, “The two little lambs, off to meet the Good Shepherd.” That made my heart feel warm and safe.

I guess I am trying to be a little lamb for Jesus — not just today, but always. I want to follow Him wherever He goes and know His voice the way sheep know their shepherd’s call, even if He calls in the dark or in the wind.

Robert’s truck rumbled up to the mailbox right on time, with the windows already rolled down to let the spring air in. Sister Mary Claire slid in beside him and I climbed up after her, Mini nestled quietly between us, her ears flicking with every sound. As we rolled toward St. Mary’s, Sister opened her little  Meditation Book and read aloud over the hum of the engine. She read:

“The Divine Shepherd calls His sheep by name. He walks before them. He gives His life for them.”

Robert nodded along and said he’d been thinking about that part — how a shepherd isn’t just someone who feeds and protects the sheep, but someone who knows them. “It’s like a good farmer and his animals,” he said. “You learn their ways.”

At Mass, Father LeRoy gave a beautiful homily. He said Jesus wasn’t just any shepherd, but the Good Shepherd, and the only one who lays down His life willingly, not just when danger comes, but always — every day — in the Sacraments, in His words, and in the way He leads us gently but firmly. Father said, “We are His flock, and each one of us is known, named, and sought after if we wander.” That part made me tear up a little because sometimes I do wander, even if just in thoughts or laziness.

On the way home, Mini curled up on my lap, and I held her close. Sister said the wool of her little collar looked like the fleece of a lamb freshly sheared. I told her I hoped Jesus could look down from Heaven and smile at both of us — His two wooly little lambs trying our best.

We had leftover roast for dinner, and I took a little walk to the edge of the field afterward. The sun was golden and slow, and the wind smelled like warm grass. I prayed quietly while I walked, thinking of Jesus walking ahead of me like a shepherd through the hills.

Dear Jesus, my Good Shepherd, thank You for calling me by name. Help me follow You always, even when the path is hard or I feel lost. Keep Mini and Sister close to Your heart too, and gather all of us into Your flock. I want to be a gentle little lamb who listens to Your voice and never strays. Amen.

Love,

Kathy

Dear Diary,

It was 62 degrees this morning when Sister Mary Claire and I sat out on the big rock near the mailbox, waiting for Robert. The sun had already warmed the gravel, and Mini was sniffing around like it was her job to inspect every single rock and weed. Across the road, a farmer was already out with his shiny new two-row planter, making the straightest rows you ever saw. The smell of the turned-up dirt reminded me that planting season is really here.

When Robert arrived, Mini trotted right over and stood patiently until he opened the pickup door—she knows she’s not allowed to jump in until she’s invited. I scooted in first, then Sister climbed in beside me, and Mini curled up at our feet, still and happy.

Once we were off down the road, Sister pulled out her little brown meditation book. “I didn’t get a chance to read it yet,” she said, “so let’s do it now.” Robert smiled and said, “Go ahead, Sister. I always like hearing them.”

Today’s reading was about the disciples on the road to Emmaus. Jesus had been walking with them the whole time, but they didn’t know it was Him. When they got close to town, He acted like He was going to walk on farther—but really, He just wanted to be asked to stay. The book said the disciples constrained Him, like they really insisted. Sister explained that sometimes Jesus seems far away just to give us a chance to call out to Him with our whole heart: Stay with us, Lord!

Robert nodded and said, “I like that part. That kind of holy stubbornness, right? Like, don’t just give up when you don’t feel Him close.” Sister laughed softly and said, “Exactly, Robert. The Lord wants to be invited to stay, not just noticed.”

She went on reading the part where the disciples finally sat down at the table, and Jesus broke the bread—and in that moment, they recognized Him. It wasn’t while walking, but once they welcomed Him into their home and sat with Him. I liked how the meditation said their hearts burned with love. That line always stays with me.

On the way home after Mass, I kept thinking about how many times I’ve probably been like those disciples—not noticing Jesus right there beside me until something gentle and quiet makes me look again. Sister said that every time we receive Holy Communion, Jesus is with us just as truly, and we should prepare our hearts like a little home for Him—full of faith, love, and welcome.

When we pulled back into the driveway, Mini hopped out with a stretch and headed straight for her favorite shady spot by the coop. The farmer across the road was still planting, still steady, still focused—kind of like how I want to be with Jesus.

Dear Jesus, I don’t want to let You walk on by. If You ever seem far, help me remember that You’re near, waiting to be asked. Come into my heart like You did with the disciples, and let my heart burn with love when You break the bread. I want to know You more and more each day. Stay with me, Lord. Amen.

Love,

Kathy

Oatmeal, Obedience, and a Quiet Yes

  Sister's Meditation Book

Dear Diary

This morning started just right. I woke to the smell of oatmeal and the gentle clink of the spoon against the pot. Sister Mary Claire was already up, standing at the stove in her apron with the morning light hitting her braid just so. She had made my favorite—oatmeal with a little brown sugar and a bit of cream swirled in. That’s all I ever want for breakfast. The kitchen was warm, and even though it was 55 degrees outside, everything felt cozy.

After I finished my oatmeal, we bundled up and walked down the gravel lane to the mailbox. Mini was ahead of us, sniffing everything like she always does. When we reached the big rock by the mailbox, she climbed right up on top and waited like a lookout. Just then, Robert’s pickup came around the bend. As soon as the tires crunched close, Mini leapt off the rock like a flying squirrel and made a beeline for the truck door. Robert laughed, reached over, and popped it open for her. The three of us squeezed into the cab—no back seat, just all together, shoulder to shoulder.

As we drove toward church, Sister opened her meditation book and read the first point aloud. It was about the Will of God. Jesus did His Father’s will in all things—even the hardest things—and He asks us to do the same. Sister said something I’ll remember always: “The will of God is our peace.” I didn’t say anything, but I let those words sit with me while I looked out at the green fields, just starting to grow.

At Mass, Father LeRoy gave a beautiful homily. He said when things don’t go the way we planned, we must still whisper, “Thy will be done,” just like Jesus did in the garden. He told us that’s the prayer of the saints and the prayer that makes us strong. I thought about that for a long time, especially when we knelt down for Communion.

On the way home, I remembered something I hadn’t thought of in a while—a little Pocket Pal crucifix I found at the thrift store once. It’s small enough to fit in my hand and made of pewter and wood. I used to keep it in my coat pocket. I don’t know where it is now, but I’m going to find it again. I want to carry it with me every day and hold it when I say my prayers. Just having it close makes me feel like I can say “yes” to God, even when I don’t understand things.

Mini was such a good girl during Mass. She sat by my feet under the pew, still as a church mouse. I think she even bowed her head when Father said the blessing.

Evening Prayer

Dear Jesus,

Let me do Your will with a happy heart,
And help me trust You every step of the way.

Amen.




Love,

Kathy

The Stranger Who Was Jesus

Read Today's Meditation from Sister's Book Here.

Dear Diary,

This morning the wind was blowing just enough to make my braid tips dance while I waited by the mailbox. Mini trotted around sniffing things, and Sister Mary Claire stood close by with her Meditation Book wrapped in a bread bag, just in case of rain. Soon Robert pulled up in his pickup, and we climbed in.

As we bumped along the gravel road, Robert looked over and asked Sister Mary Claire if she’d read today’s meditation aloud. She opened the little book and began. It was about the two disciples who were walking with Jesus after He rose from the dead—but they didn’t know it was Him. They even called Him a stranger. That made me stop and think. Maybe I’ve done that too—missed Him when He was right beside me. Sister said our hearts have to be ready to really see Him.

Father LeRoy’s homily was about the same thing. He said Jesus sometimes waits to show Himself until we’re ready, and that if we really want to love Him more, we’ve got to try to know Him more. He shared something St. Augustine once said: “Grant me to know Thee, that I may love Thee.” I wrote it on the edge of my bulletin and underlined it twice.

I want to know Jesus better so I don’t miss Him when He’s near. Even during chores or when I’m playing with Mini, I want to keep my heart open so He won’t ever feel like a stranger to me.

Dear Jesus,

Before I close my eyes tonight, I just want to whisper thank You for walking with me today, even if I didn’t always notice. Help me sleep with a heart that’s open to You, and wake up ready to love You more. Keep Sister Mary Claire, Mini, and everyone I love safe through the night. And please—don’t ever let me forget that You are near.

Amen.

Love,
 
Kathy

Hearts on the Road to Emmaus

Mary 7, 1956

Dear Diary,

Robert picked us up just as the sun was coming up, and the gravel was still damp from the night. Sister Mary Claire had her Meditation Book in her lap, already opened to today’s reading, and we read it together on the way to church. She read aloud that gentle question Jesus asked: “What are these discourses you hold one with another, as you walk, and are sad?” It was spoken to the two disciples on their way to Emmaus, but I thought how He could just as easily ask that of me.

Robert, who hadn’t even looked back at the road yet, said, “Seems like our Lord wants us to talk about things that lift the heart, not drag it down.” Then he added, “And don’t forget, it’s May—the month of Our Blessed Mother. Maybe our conversations should include her more too.” I liked that. I told him I had already picked some violets and tucked them near the little statue of Mary in our room. Sister smiled at me and squeezed my hand.

The meditation was all about what we say, and how our words reveal our hearts. I thought about that a lot during Mass. Do I always say kind things? Do I speak like someone who belongs to Jesus? Father LeRoy talked about how even correction, when it’s done with love, is a gift. That part reminded me of when Sister Mary Claire once told me I had spoken too sharply to Mini when she was just trying to get my attention. At first I had wanted to cry, but later I knew Sister was right. Mini’s a little soul, and so am I.

After Mass, we didn’t say much on the ride home. It was one of those silences that feels peaceful and full, like we were still walking with Jesus in our hearts like the two disciples. Sister said the Lord may be hidden sometimes, but He’s always with us, especially in Holy Communion and good counsel.

I want to speak better, and think better thoughts. Even if I mess up, I want to start over and over again, like the meditation said—with redoubled fervor. Maybe if I listen carefully, I’ll hear Him speak to me too, not with my ears, but somewhere deeper.

O Jesus, help me keep my words gentle and true. Let my thoughts be filled with You and Your Mother. If I forget, remind me kindly. I want to walk with You, even when I don’t see You.

Amen.




Love,

Kathy

Jesus Appears to James

Dear Diary

The rock by the mailbox was chilly as I sat on it this morning, pulling my sweater tighter around me. It was only 55 degrees, and a damp breeze came sweeping across the fields. Sister Mary Claire stood beside me, flipping through her Meditation Book with gloved fingers while Mini explored the edge of the ditch, sniffing at the wild smells of morning.

Before Robert came, Sister read out loud the first part of the meditation—about St. James and how Jesus appeared to him specially, before showing Himself to all the Apostles. I liked that. Not just because it was a private kind of moment between the Lord and James, but because of why it happened. Sister said it was because James loved the hidden life, the quiet life of prayer.

I closed my eyes right there on the cold rock and imagined James with a cave like mine. Maybe tucked away in the hills of Jerusalem or somewhere near the Temple, shaded by olive trees. I could almost see him there, kneeling inside a rocky little hollow with a trickling stream just outside. He might’ve had a clay jug to scoop the water with, and maybe even fish to catch if he needed to stay hidden for days. I imagined him listening to the water and praying in his heart, whispering to Jesus, “I miss You.” And one day, Jesus just appeared.

When Robert’s pickup came rumbling toward us, Sister closed the book gently. Mini perked up, tail wiggling. Robert grinned as he opened the door and said, “Well, we ready for the saints today?” He helped Mini into the truck and off we went to church.

At Mass, Father LeRoy preached right from the same meditation book. He talked about the “interior life,” and how even in the middle of busy work or noisy days, our hearts can stay like little chapels where Jesus lives. I thought about how much I treasure the silence of my cave and how sometimes I don’t want to leave it. It’s my own secret place where I talk to the Lord, where the candle flickers and the little stream outside hums just like a lullaby.

When Father said the word “sheep,” Mini wiggled at my feet and turned her head toward the pulpit. I smiled to myself. She knows that word as well as she knows “breakfast.”

On the way home, I kept thinking about how close James must have felt to Jesus, even before the apparition. That kind of friendship doesn’t come from being loud or clever. It comes from being still and quiet and longing for Him.

Dear Jesus, may my heart be like a cave where You are always welcome. Help me to live quietly and to love the hidden life like St. James did. Let my soul be a place where You rest and where I listen. Even if no one else knows I’m there, I know You do. Amen.

Love,

Kathy

Cold and Rainy

Dear Diary

Tuesday Morning, Rainy and Cold

This morning started out dreary and drippy. Rain was splattering against the windows when we got up, and it hadn’t let up one bit by the time Sister Mary Claire and I were ready to head down to the mailbox. Mini is usually eager to come along—she’ll brave snow and even wind—but rain is her enemy! Just as Sister opened the door and we stepped out under the porch roof, I looked back and saw Mini trotting quickly down the hallway and diving under the bed, like she was heading for her own little cave. It made me smile. Sweet girl knew what was coming and wanted no part of it.

By the time we made it to the mailbox, the rain had picked up even more, making little rivers down the gravel road. Robert was already there in his pickup, wipers swishing back and forth, and he leaned over to push open the passenger door for us. Sister had tucked her Meditation Book into an empty bread bag to keep it dry—she said the Word of God ought never be soggy! That made Robert laugh.

At Mass, Father LeRoy preached straight from the meditation Sister had brought. He spoke about how the Risen Lord appeared first to Peter—how full of love and forgiveness Jesus must have been to go find the one who had denied Him! It was like Jesus knew Peter was still weeping inside. Father said Peter must’ve felt like his heart was bursting when he saw Jesus again. I think I would’ve cried too if it had been me.

On the ride home, Robert asked what Sister thought about Peter being chosen first among the men to see the Risen Lord, and Sister said it was just like Jesus—He always runs straight to the ones who need Him most. Then she turned to me and asked who I would run to first if I rose from the dead. I joked and said, “Well, probably Mini,” which made them both laugh. But then I added, “Maybe the person who hurt me the most… just to let them know I forgave them.” Sister smiled real soft, and Robert nodded like that made good sense. I think that’s what Jesus did—He went to Peter not to scold him, but to bring him peace. I hope I can love like that someday.

Evening Prayer

Dear Jesus,

Thank You for loving Peter so much, even after he denied You. Please help me to love others that way, even when they hurt me. Make my heart tender and quick to forgive. Keep me from ever doubting Your love, and if I ever fall, let me come back to You like Peter did—full of tears, but even fuller of hope.

Amen.

Love,
Kathy

Jesus As The Good Shepherd

May 4, 1956 

Dear Diary

This morning was quiet and cool when Sister Mary Claire and I walked down to the mailbox. The gravel was still damp and soft from the night air, and the wildflowers along the ditch had tiny drops clinging to their petals. Mini ran ahead, then circled back to check on us, her little paws clicking softly against the stones.

Sister carried the meditation book, and once we reached the mailbox, she opened it and began reading out loud. It was about Jesus as the Good Shepherd—the one who knows His sheep and lays down His life for them. I listened close and felt something warm settle in me. I’ve always loved the picture of Jesus holding a lamb, but this was something deeper. Sister paused and said gently, “He calls each of us by name.” That made me think about how sometimes I hear His voice in quiet ways—through her, or in a prayer, or even just in a moment when I feel peaceful and sure.

Robert arrived just as we finished, and we climbed into the pickup, Mini hopping in after us. On the way to church, we talked a little about the reading and how comforting it is to be known by someone as good and strong as Jesus.

At Mass, everything felt hushed and holy. The candles flickered gently, and the breeze coming through the window carried the scent of pine. Mini curled up under our pew like she always does. When Father LeRoy started preaching, he said the word sheep—and sure enough, Mini perked up. She wiggled just a little and looked around like she knew exactly what was being said. I smiled to myself. She definitely knows the word sheep, just like she knows breakfast. That little moment made the whole morning feel more alive somehow.

Father said that Jesus doesn’t stop calling us just because we don’t always listen. He keeps on, like a true Shepherd, until we find our way back. I held onto that thought all through Communion and afterward, while we knelt quietly before heading out.

Now we’re home. Sister is washing up the coffee cups, and Mini is fast asleep in her favorite corner with one ear twitching. The lamp by the prayer corner is lit, and the sky outside is all lavender and gray.

Dear Jesus,

My Good Shepherd, thank You for calling me and never giving up. Help me to know Your voice and to trust it, even when the way seems unclear. Keep me close to You, and let me follow with a heart full of love and gratitude. Let me always remember that I belong to You. Amen.

Love,

Kathy