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
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