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
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
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