The Heart That Watches Over Me

June 28, 1956

Dear Diary

After our morning chores, Sister Mary Claire handed me something she had tucked in her missal. It was an old holy card—lace-edged and glowing with color. Mary stood among white blossoms, with her Immaculate Heart shining like fire and roses. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

The card read:

“Sacro Cuore di Maria, siate la salvezza mia.”

Which Sister translated softly: “Immaculate Heart of Mary, be my salvation.”

It felt like she was speaking right to me—me! With eyes so kind they could melt winter. I held it to my chest and whispered, “I give you my heart too, Mary.”

She must have known I needed her today. Maybe that’s why Sister Mary Claire gave me this—so I could carry Mary’s heart close when mine feels small. I placed it in the center of my scrapbook and added a note underneath:

“I entrust myself to your pure heart, dear Mary. Please help me love Jesus the way you do.”

I want to go to the chapel tomorrow before breakfast, just for a moment, and place a small flower near the statue of Our Lady. Something white, like on the card.

Love,

Kathy

Feather From Heaven

June 27, 1956

Dear Diary,

Something beautiful happened on my way back from the grotto this morning. Mini and I were walking through the dappled light when a feather—long and soft like it belonged to an owl—came spinning down through the air. But it wasn’t just falling. It was twirling, like it had been caught in a silent song. The edges of it were blurred, not in a fuzzy way but like it was moving too gracefully for my eyes to keep up.

It swirled in slow loops, turning this way and that, as if it were being carried by something gentle and unseen. Mini didn’t bark. She just watched, ears perked, like she knew it was something special. And I did too.

The feather finally came to rest right near my shoe, soft as breath. I picked it up, and right then I remembered the letter Sister Mary Claire had left for me on my little desk. The red sticker seal said, “From His Heart to Mine.”

Her letter made me feel safe and loved—like Jesus Himself was drawing me close. She wrote, “He sends you reminders of His nearness, even when the wind carries them in silence.” I could hardly believe it—because that’s exactly what the feather felt like. A reminder from Heaven. A little swirl of love that found its way to me.

I slipped the feather inside her letter and pressed the page closed so it stays right where it belongs.

Love,

Kathy

P.S. I think even if someone else found that feather, they might not see the twirl. But I did.

My Hidden King

 

Dear Diary,

This morning, Sister Mary Claire read today’s meditation to me while I braided my pigtails. It was all about true glory hiding in the Blessed Sacrament—how Jesus is the greatest King even when He looks like just a little piece of bread. I kept thinking of how He chose a stable for His birth and now chooses our tiny tabernacle at St. Mary’s.

After chores, Mini trotted beside me down the path to the cave. The creek was gurgling loud after last night’s rain, and Shaggycoat popped his head out of the water with a happy splash—almost like he wanted to hear the meditation too! Inside the cave, everything felt hushed. I lit the stubby candle in front of the grotto statue of Our Lady and told Jesus I wanted Him to be the fire in my heart, just like Sister said. Mini flopped at my feet, ears perked, while Shaggycoat busied himself stacking little twigs near the stream. Even a beaver knows real work is done quietly!

On the walk home, I practiced letting Jesus be my hidden King. I thanked Him for plain things—the smell of fresh hay, the cool shade of the grotto, and the warm supper Sister made of soup and bread. No gold needed—just love.

Now it’s night. Mini is curled under my bed, already snoring soft squeaks, and I can almost hear Shaggycoat pattering around his dam. Before I blow out the lamp, here is my little prayer:

Evening Prayer

Dear Jesus, King of my heart, hide me in Your love like You hide in the Host.

Teach me to choose quiet ways instead of showing off.

Make my heart a tiny throne where You can rest.

Mary, help me say yes to whatever God wants tomorrow.

Amen.

Goodnight, Diary.

Love,

Kathy

Shaggycoat's Story

What I Believe

 

Dear Jesus,

This morning, I want to begin by telling You what I believe.

Please listen to my little prayers. I mean every word with all my heart.

O my God,

I believe in You with all my heart.

I believe that You are one God in three Persons—God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit.

I believe You made Heaven and Earth, and that You lovingly watch over everything.

I believe You reward what is good and just, and that You are fair in all things.

I believe that Your only Son, Jesus Christ, became man out of love for us,

that He died for us on the Cross,

and that He is really and truly with us in the Blessed Sacrament.

I believe that my soul will live forever,

and that we all need Your grace to reach Heaven.

I believe everything the Holy Catholic Church teaches,

because You, dear God, are Truth itself.

Please help me to live and die in this faith.  Amen.

The Presence in The Cave

Tuesday, Third Week After Pertecost.

Dear Diary,

Tonight I fell asleep in the cave again. Sister Mary Claire said it was alright as long as I had the warm blanket and my pillow, and Mini came down with me too, curling up the way she always does.

I had a dream that didn’t feel like a dream at all. It was more like I was still in the cave, only something holy was there. On the wall—right above where I lay—I saw the Blessed Sacrament, glowing softly in the golden monstrance. The light was quiet and warm, like it was alive. I couldn’t see everything clearly, but I just knew Jesus was there. I didn’t have to see His face. Somehow my heart recognized Him.

Mini sat up in the dream too—still and alert like she noticed something before I did. She didn’t bark or move, just remained on high alert, as if she understood something sacred was happening.

When I woke up, it was still dark, but I felt a calm so deep, like I had been with Jesus in the quiet. Not the kind of quiet that makes you feel alone, but the kind that feels safe—like someone is watching over you.

Maybe that’s what Jesus does in the Blessed Sacrament. He comes so close, even when we’re asleep. He hides His face, but He doesn’t hide His love.

Love,

Kathy

Further Thoughts

Shaggycoat

Dear Diary

At morning Mass, Father LeRoy said something I don’t think I’ll forget for a long time. He told us that Jesus doesn’t just visit us on Sundays—He wants to abide in us. That means He wants to stay with us all the time, even when we’re doing chores or just sitting still. Father said that when Jesus really lives in us, we become more like Him—kinder, braver, and more full of love.

Later in the afternoon, Mini and I walked down to the cave with our little lunch and my scrapbook. The breeze was cool and the creek was rushing gently over the rocks, like it was humming a song just for us. I sat in my usual spot near the grotto and was about to open my book when I heard a rustle from down by the water. It was Shaggycoat!

He waddled up from Indian Creek, his paws all wet and muddy. I was so happy to see him. He came right up like he wanted to be part of everything. And wouldn’t you know—Mini scooted in from the other side, eyes wide, like she wasn’t going to let a beaver take over her spot!

Next thing I knew, they were both crowding onto my lap at once. Mini leaned into me like she needed protection, and Shaggycoat just plopped right down like he belonged there (which he kind of does). I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. I told them both there was room for each of them in my heart—and I think that’s just how the Holy Spirit is too. There’s always room for more love.

Evening Prayer:

Dear Jesus, thank You for coming to live in my heart. Help me make it a soft, warm place for You to stay. And thank You for little joys like muddy beavers and faithful corgis who don’t want to be left out. Abide in me always. Amen.

Love,

Kathy

A Special Story

June 22,

 

Dear Diary

Today Sister Mary Claire read to me about a special story Jesus told called the Parable of the Supper. It was in our meditation book for the second Sunday after Pentecost. It’s all about a man who made a big supper and invited lots of people—but when it was time to come, they all made excuses. One said he bought a field, another said he got married, and another bought oxen. The man who made the supper got upset and told his servant to go out into the streets and bring in the poor, the crippled, the blind, and the lame so his house would be full.

Sister said that supper is like Holy Communion, and Jesus is the one inviting us! He wants everyone to come to His table. But some people are too busy with the world and don’t even notice. That made me a little sad, but then Sister said that the ones who do come are the ones who know they really need Jesus—like people who are poor in spirit or weak and just trying their best. That made me feel better.

Sister reminded me that even if we feel small or not very holy, Jesus still wants us to come to Him with all our hearts. He fills up hungry souls with good things! We talked about how we’re sometimes blind (like when we forget to pray), or lame (when we don’t have courage), or poor (when we don’t feel very good inside)—but Jesus still wants us close.

I told Sister I wanted to be like the ones who came to the supper, not the ones who made excuses. I’m going to remember that next time I go to Holy Communion and say thank You to Jesus for letting me come, even if I feel a little poor or weak.

Spiritual bouquet: “Bring in the poor and the feeble and the blind and the lame.”

Love,

Kathy 🕊️

Saturday Night Blessings

 
Saturday Evening

Dear Diary,


Tonight we went to evening Mass, and it turned out to be one of those nights I know I’ll remember. Robert came to pick us up just before six, and I noticed right away he had on his best tie—the dark blue one he saves for special occasions, which always means it’s Saturday evening and we’re headed to vigil Mass. Mini gave a little bark when she saw him and tried to hop into the front seat before me! Sister had to remind her she’s just a passenger like the rest of us.

As we rattled along the gravel road toward church, Sister Mary Claire opened her little prayer book and began to read aloud the meditation she’d bookmarked earlier. It was all about Our Blessed Mother—how she prepared her soul so perfectly for Jesus. Sister said Mary’s silence, her humility, and her obedience made her the perfect model for anyone getting ready to receive Our Lord in Holy Communion.

Robert nodded thoughtfully and said, “You know, I never thought about how Mary received Jesus into her own body before there was even an altar.” Then Sister said something beautiful, like she always does—“That’s what makes her our first monstrance.” I didn’t say anything, but I quietly reached over and held Mini’s little paw and looked out the window, thinking about that.

At Mass, Father LeRoy’s homily picked up right where Sister left off. He spoke softly and with such reverence about Our Lady. He reminded us that we can ask her to lend us her own heart so we can receive Jesus worthily. I closed my eyes for a moment before Communion and whispered that very prayer in my mind: “Mary, lend me your heart.”

Afterwards, when we were all buckled back into the pickup and Mini had curled into a ball on my lap, Robert turned and asked, “Well, girls, how about a little dinner?” And wouldn’t you know it—he drove us straight to the Dairy Queen! I got a hamburger and a cherry Dilly Bar. Sister had a chicken basket, and Robert got his usual—grilled cheese with a side of fries. Mini even got a little nibble of everything.

It was just the right way to end a Saturday night. Mass, Communion, a meditation that softened my heart, and ice cream with the people I love.

O Mary, help me always to make my heart quiet like yours, and ready to receive Jesus with joy and tenderness.

Love,

Kathy

Goodnight to All

 

June 20, 1956

Dear Diary,

Friday Evening — A Quiet Moment

It was a busy day today, full of little tasks and bigger thoughts. But never too busy to kneel down and whisper a prayer before bed. My heart is full tonight just thinking about how Jesus stays with us always, quietly waiting in the Tabernacle—just so He can be near.

So here’s my little prayer before I turn out the light:

Dear Jesus, thank You for loving me enough to stay.

Help me remember to come visit You more,

even if it’s just to sit and be still.

Good night, dear Jesus.

Good night to all.

Love,

Kathy

Thy Will be Done

 

June 19, 1956,

Dear Diary,

After we got home from Church, Sister Mary Claire made us some tea and opened up my old German prayer book—the one Vreni sent me all the way from Zurich. She found a beautiful little prayer and read it to me in English, translating softly from the old German words. It was about doing God’s will, just like Jesus did. I loved it so much, I told her I was going to write it in my diary right now while it was still fresh in my heart.

Dear Jesus,

You always did what your Heavenly Father wanted, even when it was hard.

I want to do that too.

Please help me to say, “Thy will be done,” with all my heart.
Let your will be done in me—
in how I think, and how I talk,
when I’m happy or when I’m having a hard day,
when I’m feeling strong, and when I’m sick or tired,
when I’m playing, or praying, or helping with chores—
and even someday, when I go home to Heaven.
I want to trust you in everything.
Please stay close to me and keep my heart soft,
so I always say yes to whatever you ask.

Amen.

It might be my favorite prayer in the whole book.

Love,

Kathy

"All for the Glory of God"

Dear Diary

This morning started out just about perfect. As I went down to the mailbox with Mini, I saw something resting right there on the big rock—an owl feather! It was striped and soft, and I could hardly believe it. That’s the third feather I’ve found this year. I tucked it right into the band of my straw hat, and Sister Mary Claire said it gave me a thoughtful sort of look, like I’d been out walking with Saint Francis.

Robert came by in his pickup truck and we all piled in—me, Sister Mary Claire, and Mini too, who sat like a proper lady between us. On the way to church, Sister read aloud from our meditation book about praising the Blessed Trinity. It said every time we say “Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost,” with love, it becomes a little gift to God.

At Mass, Father LeRoy talked about the same thing. He said our Sign of the Cross should be like a holy ribbon tied around our day. On the way home, we talked more about how praising God with our words should match our hearts. Robert said that even the way we do chores can become a prayer if we offer it up.

When we got back, Sister Mary Claire invited Robert in for breakfast. She made toast from her white Wonder Bread and fried up two of Omelette’s big brown eggs. I churned the butter yesterday with cream from Kelowna Dairy, and the strawberry jam we used was from last summer’s canning. Robert said it was the best breakfast he’d had all week. Mini sat by his boots, hoping for crumbs.

The rest of the day I kept thinking about the Trinity and my feather, and how everything can be a prayer if I give it to Jesus.

Evening Prayer
Dear God,
Thank You for today’s little treasures—the feather, the sunshine, and our warm kitchen. Help me make my Sign of the Cross with more love, and help every “Glory Be” I say float up to Heaven like a little song. Bless Robert, and Sister Mary Claire, and all of us at Littlemore Farm. And thank You for Mini, who always watches over me.
Amen.

Love,
Kathy

A Quiet Flame of Love

June 17, 1956

Dear Diary,

Last night, I asked Sister if I could sleep in the cave. She didn’t ask why—just nodded and went down ahead of me to make up the bed. The cool air felt so nice after the warm day, like God’s own way of tucking me in. She made sure everything was safe, kissed my forehead, and left the little candle ready.

This morning, I woke up before the light changed at the cave mouth. Mini was curled close and wiggled her bottom when I stirred, but didn’t ask to play.

I knelt beside the candle and held my crucifix. Then I told Jesus how much I love Him.

Not just for the good things He gives—but for who He is. I told Him I want to love Him more than anything else in the world. I said I want to love others too—even the ones I don’t always understand—because that’s how He loves me. I asked Him to let my heart be quiet and full of His love all day long.

Like a small flame that doesn’t go out.

Love,

Kathy 

Safe in The Cleft of The Rock

June 16, 1956

Dear Diary

There was no Church today, but thankfully not because of the weather. Father LeRoy had to visit an old priest friend who’s been poorly, so Sister Mary Claire said we’d keep the day prayerful and quiet from home. She suggested I bring my little green book, Jesus the Model of Religious, and spend some time down by Indian Creek. I tucked it under my arm, called for Mini, and off we went.

Mini raced ahead as usual, her little white feet barely touching the trail. I was hoping for some stillness by the water while I read the meditation for the second Monday after Pentecost. It talked about imitating Jesus in His holiness, goodness, and mercy. One line said, “Holiness is the very end of our vocation,” and that part settled into my heart like a soft stone in a pocket. I underlined it twice. It made me think—Jesus didn’t just do good things. He was goodness itself. I want to be like that.

I had just looked up from my book when I noticed the creek was moving fast. The rain to the north must’ve been heavy all morning, because Indian Creek was already swollen and frothy at the edges. Then came a loud, splitting crack of thunder that shook the tree branches. I barely had time to grab my book before Mini barked once, spun around, and started tearing up the slope toward the cave.

That’s when Shaggycoat appeared—my beaver friend, with his slick brown fur soaked and his flat tail dragging leaves as he scrambled up the path. He’s been living near the creek ever since I first found the sanctuary cave. He didn’t even pause to say hello, just rushed past me like he knew exactly where to go.

So we all ran—Mini in front, then Shaggycoat, then me—slipping a little on the muddy trail but making it just in time. The rain hit hard, and the sky turned as dark as evening. Inside the cave, everything felt still and safe. I shut the carved walnut door and lit the stubby candle in the wall. Mini circled once and settled beside me, and Shaggycoat sat at the entrance, his nose twitching toward the storm.

With the thunder rolling outside, I read the meditation again. It said we must imitate Christ in His mercy—“Let your mercy be like His: tender, tireless, and wide.” That part stayed with me. I thought of how Jesus is always ready to forgive, even when we’re not ready to be forgiven. I told Mini in a whisper, “That’s what I want to be when I grow up—mercy with feet.”

We stayed in the cave for two hours until the storm passed. Then we picked our way home, the earth smelling like wet leaves and new air. Sister Mary Claire met us on the porch with warm towels and tea. I told her the whole story—how Mini led the way, how Shaggycoat didn’t hesitate, and how the cave became our strong little fortress. She gave me that smile that always makes me feel loved and said, “God knew where to find you—in the cleft of His rock.”

Here’s my evening prayer:

Dear Jesus,
You are goodness and mercy and shelter all in one.
Thank You for the cave, for high ground,
And for friends who know how to run toward safety.
Help me grow in holiness,
So I can be more like You tomorrow.

Amen.

Love,

Kathy

Three in One

June 15, 1956

Dear Diary,

This morning started with the rattle of Robert’s old pickup pulling up the lane. Sister Mary Claire had just finished pinning her veil and I was still tying my shoelaces when Mini barked twice and ran to the door with her bottom wiggling like always. We slid into the seat beside Robert, Mini curled right up on my lap, and we bounced down the gravel road toward St. Mary’s for Holy Mass.

The church bells rang just as we reached the front steps, and Father LeRoy was already lighting the altar candles when we entered. He preached today on the mystery of the Most Blessed Trinity, and it felt like every word soaked into me like warm light. “The Father who made you, the Son who saved you, and the Holy Ghost who lives in you,” he said gently. He told us to remember we were created not just by love, but for love—real love, which gives everything and keeps nothing for itself.

Sister squeezed my hand during the final hymn. I don’t know why, but I felt like crying just a little during the Gloria Patri. I didn’t, but I sang as loud as I could.

On the ride home, Robert said he liked how Father called creation a temple of the Trinity, and Sister told him she once read something like that in the writings of St. Augustine. Robert said, “Well, if the animals can praise God, then so can this old truck,” and we all laughed as a patch of dust flew up behind us.

After lunch, I slipped away with my little prayer book—the one Vreni sent me from Switzerland with the lovely red ribbons—and Mini followed, wagging all the way down the hill. The cave was quiet and cool, the way I love it best. I curled up on John Hathaway’s cot and opened my book. It fell open on its own to Three in One, and I whispered a few lines to the Holy Trinity before my eyes closed just a little. I only meant to rest for a second, but I must’ve napped. When I woke up, Mini was curled under the little desk and the light had turned golden.

We walked slowly back, and Sister was already lighting the lamp in the kitchen. We knelt together before supper and said:

Dear God, Three in One,

Thank You for making us, saving us, and living in our hearts.
Please bless Robert, and Father LeRoy, and all our friends.
Let our little home always be filled with Your peace.

Amen.




Love,

Kathy

“Brushing Sister’s Hair (and the Gifts I Want to Keep)”

June 14, 1956 

Dear Diary

Robert stopped at the mailbox in his green pickup just before the sun peeked over the soybean field. Sister Mary Claire was already outside with her veil tucked just so, and Mini ran ahead to meet Robert like she was his best friend in the world. We climbed in—the usual cozy squeeze—with Sister in the middle and me by the window. Her little blue book was already open on her lap.

As the gravel crunched under the tires, Sister read to us about the Holy Ghost and the gifts He gives. Not gifts with ribbons, but ones you carry inside you forever. Wisdom, understanding, counsel… She said they help us grow holy, like how seeds need sun and rain. Robert said he thought piety sounded like peace. I liked that.

At Mass, Father LeRoy talked about the same thing. He said the Holy Spirit gives us courage even when we’re afraid, and light even when everything feels dark. I thought about how I feel when I’m down at the grotto—it always seems lit up, even on cloudy days.

Robert took the long way home. He said he wanted to check on a field, but I think he just liked listening to Sister talk about her favorite gift—Fear of the Lord, but not the scary kind. She said it means loving God so much you never want to hurt Him. That made me go real quiet inside.

All afternoon, I could hardly think of anything but getting down to the cave. I brought my rosary and my little Litany of Loreto card. The stream was chattering happily, and Mini drank from it before curling up near the statue of Mary. I knelt on the moss and said the whole litany aloud: Mystical Rose, Tower of David, Morning Star… It felt like I was naming the most beautiful jewels one by one and offering them to Heaven.

After supper, Sister said she had a bit of a headache from the long day, so we didn’t read or talk much. Instead, I brushed her hair, long and dark and soft like the night outside. She had taken off her veil, and I sat behind her on the bed, running the brush gently through. Mini watched from the foot of the bed with her head tilted. I think she liked the sound of the brushing.

Sister said it reminded her of when we were little and I used to pretend she was the Queen of Heaven and I was her handmaid. She laughed and said maybe I still am.

We finished the day with this prayer:

Holy Spirit,
Whisper to me when I forget to listen.
Make me gentle when I feel like being stubborn.
And remind me to love like Our Lady—
Quiet and full of trust. Amen.

Love,

Kathy

The Gift of Wisdom

June 13, 1956

Dear Diary,

This morning, the gravel was still damp from last night’s rain, and Mini didn’t want to go out until I promised she could ride on my lap. Sure enough, Robert pulled up in the pickup just as we stepped out. He gave his usual “Well, good morning, ladies,” and Sister Mary Claire climbed in beside him while I scooted across with Mini and my little prayer book.

On the ride to Church, Sister read out loud from her meditation book—it was all about the Gift of Wisdom. She said that wisdom is a gift from the Holy Ghost that lets us see things the way God sees them, especially when we love Him more than anything else. That part made me feel all warm inside.

Robert, who had one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the window, nodded real thoughtful-like and said, “Well, I suppose that’s why some folks can lose everything and still be peaceful. They’re seeing it all with God’s eyes.” Sister smiled at that and said, “Yes, Robert, it’s the kind of love that makes the soul quiet.” I didn’t say anything just then, but I thought about the way Mini rests her head on my knee without a care in the world—maybe that’s how I should rest in God.

On the ride home, the sun had come out and the truck smelled like hay and leather. Mini was curled like a cinnamon bun on my lap, and I was still thinking about that word wisdom. I told them both, “I think it’s kind of like borrowing Our Lady’s glasses so we can look at everything like it’s sacred.” Robert chuckled and said he hoped those glasses came with a good cleaning cloth.

After chores, I sat by the window and started a letter to Vreni. I told her about the meditation, and how it made me want to love Jesus better, and see the world the way Mary sees it. I even drew her a little sketch of Mini with a halo like a saint. She is pretty saintly when she’s asleep.

Sister pinned the picture from today’s meditation—Mary holding Baby Jesus—right above my writing corner. It looks so peaceful, like the whole world is hushed. I hope Vreni likes the letter. I miss her something awful sometimes.

Dear Blessed Mother,

Please let me grow in wisdom, so I can love what God loves, and hold His peace in my heart like you held Baby Jesus. Amen.

Love,

Kathy

One Mile to Heaven

Thursday Morning — Early June

Dear Diary,

Robert’s pickup rolled up to the mailbox right after sunrise, and Mini gave a proud little bark like she was in charge of the whole morning. She scrambled into the cab first and made herself comfy on the bench between Sister Mary Claire and me. Sister had her meditation book tucked under one arm—worn soft at the edges and tied with a ribbon. She opened it as soon as we pulled onto the gravel, reading by the light that spilled in through the windshield.

She read this out loud: “The just soul is made the very temple of God, where the Holy Ghost chooses to dwell.” I didn’t say much, just looked out the window at the corn rows as they passed, quiet and green and all lined up like a hymn.

Then we passed a patch of white daisies near the ditch, and I pressed my forehead against the window. The light on those flowers looked just like the meadow in Switzerland—the one where Vreni and I sat with our shoes off and talked about everything and nothing at all. I must have sighed without meaning to.

Sister lowered her book and looked over at me. “That sounded like a Swiss sigh,” she said, her voice soft and teasing all at once. I gave her a little smile but didn’t answer.

When we parked outside St. Mary’s, she reached for the car door, then paused and touched my arm gently. “Maybe you’ll write her today, hmm?” she said.

At Holy Mass, Father LeRoy’s homily followed the same thread. He said, “The Holy Ghost chooses to dwell where He is welcomed—not by grand acts, but by quiet faithfulness. A soul that makes room for Him each day becomes a true home, simple and shining.” He looked right at us when he said, “It’s the small things that open the door—an honest word, a gentle answer, a prayer before chores.” I tucked those words into my heart.

After Mass, instead of heading straight home, Robert turned the truck down a longer road. “Figured we’d take the back way,” he said, “I want to check how the wheat’s doing in the low field.” The sun was climbing, and the breeze smelled warm and sweet. As we bumped along past the hayfields and alfalfa, we talked more about the meditation.

Robert said, “You know, it’s something—that God wants to live in us. Folks think they need to go lookin’ for Him on mountaintops, but maybe He’s already sittin’ in the seat beside you, just waitin’ to be noticed.” He tapped the steering wheel once, kind of thoughtful. “Maybe being good ain’t so much about trying hard as it is about making room.”

I looked over at Mini, her eyes closed and her head resting on Sister’s knee. She always makes room. I want to be like that.

Later, I packed my letter paper—the kind with blue forget-me-nots around the edge—and my little tin ink pot and Sister’s fountain pen. Mini and I walked the narrow path down to the cave, past the Mary grotto, until we reached the patch of warm stone near the stream. The water sounded like it was whispering something important, and Mini curled up beside me with a sigh of her own.

I wrote to Vreni. I told her about the pickup ride and the daisies and how a sigh gave me away. I wrote about the meditation, Father’s words, and Robert’s quiet wisdom. I told her that sometimes the Holy Ghost stirs up missing someone—not to make us sad, but to remind us how loved we are, even from across the ocean.

Evening Prayer:

Come, Holy Ghost,

Thank You for making a home in me, even though I am little and still learning. Help me sweep my soul with gentle thoughts and kind words, so You’ll want to stay. Bless Vreni and her family tonight, and let my letter find its way safely. Bless Sister for noticing what I can’t say out loud, and bless Robert for taking the long way home just to look at wheat and think about You. Thank You for filling quiet places with peace.

Amen.




Love,

Kathy

Dear Diary

 

Dear Diary,

“The Holy Ghost gives us the gifts we need to be saints.”

This morning, while Mini circled the mailbox sniffing dandelions, Sister Mary Claire and I waited for Robert’s pickup. The rain from yesterday had settled the dust, and the air smelled clean and green. When Robert pulled up, he gave us that cheerful nod he always does, and Mini jumped into the truck like she’d been invited—which, of course, she always is.

Sister brought along our meditation on the seven Gifts of the Holy Ghost, and we read it quietly as we rode. She whispered little bits to me between turns in the road, and Robert listened while keeping both hands on the wheel. He said, “I’ve always prayed for wisdom, but I forget the Holy Ghost is the one who gives it.” I liked that he said “prayed” and not just “hoped.”

At Holy Mass, Father LeRoy’s homily followed right along. He said the Gifts—Wisdom, Understanding, Counsel, Fortitude, Knowledge, Piety, and Fear of the Lord—help us not only do what is right, but love doing it. He said it’s not enough to know the way—we need the strength to walk it and the love to keep going when it gets steep.

On the ride home, Robert spoke up again. “I think Fortitude’s the one I forget,” he said. “But maybe that’s the one I use most, just doing what needs done every day.” Sister nodded and said something lovely: “Sometimes we climb the ladder to Heaven by sweeping the porch or forgiving a neighbor.” I looked out the window and saw the corn standing straight and green, like each stalk was listening too.

After we got home, Sister and I packed a little lunch and went down to the big rock at the edge of the field. It’s just about a mile from St. Mary’s Church if you follow the winding lane. The breeze was soft, and the birds were chattering like schoolchildren. Mini curled up next to us, and we sat a long time, not saying much.

I thought about the Gifts again, and I wrote them out in my notebook—each one in its own line, like petals of a flower. I want to ask for them every day, even if I don’t understand them fully. Maybe the Holy Ghost likes it when we ask anyway.

Evening Prayer:

Holy Ghost, thank You for the ride to Mass, for kind voices and quiet fields, and for the Gifts You give. Please grow them in me: make me wise, gentle, and strong. Let me love You with all my heart and walk the mile to Heaven one quiet day at a time. Amen.

Love, Kathy

The Holy Ghost, our Teacher in the Art of Prayer

Tuesday, June 10th, 1956

Dear Diary,

This morning, Sister Mary Claire and I waited by the mailbox. The breeze was soft, enough to set the cornfields in motion—tall, green stalks moving ever so slightly, like they were preparing to lift their arms and sing when the wind finally called. They’re nearly high enough now to wave in the Iowa sky, and when I squint just right, they remind me of a congregation swaying in prayer.

Mini trotted a little ahead of us, ears perked, then turned her head quick when she heard Robert’s pickup coming up the gravel road. He slowed to a stop right at the mailbox. The window was down, and his hat was tipped back just enough to show his kind eyes. “Perfect morning for Church,” he said, and Sister smiled as she climbed in. I lifted Mini up and followed after, glad for the ride and the stillness of his company.

On the way, Sister read a few lines from today’s meditation—how the Holy Ghost helps us pray, not by our strength but by His, and how He forms the prayer within us. “Even when we’re tired or unsure,” she said, “the Holy Ghost lifts the prayer out of our hearts and up to Heaven.” Robert was quiet for a bit, then said, “Some mornings, I don’t say much at all. I just sit and ask the Lord to read what’s in me.” I liked that more than anything I could’ve come up with myself.

Father LeRoy’s homily followed right behind those thoughts. He said the Holy Ghost is like the hand that gently shapes our prayer, helping even our silence speak to God. He said sometimes the best prayer is just a turning of the soul, the way a sunflower leans toward the sun without needing a word. I tucked that away to remember.

After Mass, Robert brought us back to the mailbox. We thanked him, and I gave Mini a pat as we started down the lane. The breeze had picked up, and the corn finally did begin to wave—softly at first, then all together in long green waves. I stood for just a second and listened. If cornfields could sing, that’s what it would sound like.

Later in the day, I packed a little lunch and took Mini with me to the cave. Inside, it was quiet and cool, like a hidden chapel. I opened the walnut door to my secret room and sat on the blanket I’d folded near the stone wall. Mini settled down beside me, and I must’ve fallen asleep for a while. When I woke, the light had changed and the hush in the cave felt like something holy. Not the kind you can touch—but the kind you can feel if you sit still enough.

When we got home, Sister had tea ready, and we sat together on the porch. We didn’t say much. The kind of peace I felt in the cave didn’t need words, and Sister seemed to know that. After a while, she said, “Some prayers take shape long after they’ve been whispered.”

And I nodded, because that felt true.

Like the wind that moves the corn—quiet at first, then all at once.

Evening Prayer:

Holy Ghost, live in me. Whisper the prayers I forget to say. Turn the quiet moments into music for Heaven. Let me move toward God the way the sunflowers lean toward the light, and help me trust that silence can be holy too. Amen.

Love,

Kathy

Dear Diary,

This morning after Mass, Sister Mary Claire invited Robert to stay for breakfast since he had brought us home and is always giving us rides to church. We had scrambled eggs and buttered toast with blackberry jam, and Mini settled herself under the table like she was hosting the whole thing.

After we finished eating, Sister read aloud today’s meditation from Jesus, the Model of Religious. It was called The Holy Ghost Dwells in the Souls of the Just. I didn’t read along—just listened while they talked and took notes in my little notebook.

Sister said something that stayed with me: “The Holy Ghost doesn’t just visit us—He dwells in us. That means He stays.” Robert added that our souls are like living chapels, and when we’re in the state of grace, the Holy Ghost is really at home in us. I wrote that down carefully.

Then Sister said, “Kathy, when you do your duties with love, when you forgive, when you pray, the Holy Ghost stirs inside you like a little flame.” That part gave me goosebumps. Robert nodded and said we need to guard our hearts like sacred places.

This evening, Sister read Psalm 84 to us before bed: “How lovely are Thy tabernacles, O Lord of Hosts.” It made me think—my heart is meant to be a tabernacle too.

Here’s my prayer tonight:

Come, Holy Ghost, stay in my heart and make it Your home. Keep me gentle and faithful and full of light. Help me live like someone You’d be proud to dwell with. Amen.

Mini’s already tucked under the bed, quiet as can be.

Love,

Kathy

Feast of Pentecost

Dear Diary

Church was filled with light and music this morning, and Father LeRoy said the apostles were changed forever when the Holy Spirit came. I pictured the wind and fire, and how they suddenly weren’t afraid anymore.

After Mass, Sister Mary Claire gave me the most beautiful cutout of Mary for my scrapbook. She’s praying with her eyes closed and a little golden flame above her head. Her mantle is crayon-blue and her dress is a deep red. I love her so much.

I packed a picnic basket with lunch for me and Mini, my scrapbook, the meditation book, and a carrot for Shaggycoat. The cave felt especially holy today. I sat by the grotto and read that the Holy Spirit is our light and strength. And that Mary didn’t say anything at Pentecost—she just prayed and waited, full of love. I glued her cutout in the center of the page and drew eleven little orange flames around her.

Mini had oatmeal and cream, and I saw Shaggycoat’s nose behind the rocks. I left the carrot and whispered, “Happy Pentecost.”

Evening Prayer:

Come, Holy Spirit, and help me be brave and loving like the apostles. And gentle like Mary. Amen.

Love,

Kathy

Hearts on Fire for Pentecost

June 7, 1956

Dear Diary

It rained again last night. A soft, steady kind of rain that made the gravel road hush and the world seem wrapped in a gray blanket this morning. Sister Mary Claire and I stood by the mailbox, reading from our daily meditation book called Jesus, The Model of Religious while Mini kept her nose low to the ground, sniffing the damp earth like it held secrets.

The meditation we started to read said the Holy Spirit doesn’t rush down on cold or distracted souls, but on those who are longing and watching and praying with hope. Sister said, “We must become little flames,” and I thought that was the most beautiful thing. I told her I wanted to be a little flame for God, and she smiled like she believed I already was.

We were still reading and whispering about how the Apostles waited in the Upper Room when suddenly—BARK! Mini’s sharp little bark jolted us, and we looked up just in time to see Robert’s pickup rolling up the hill. We must’ve been so deep into the meditation we hadn’t even noticed the truck. Robert leaned out and said, “Looks like I almost had to honk!” We all laughed and hopped in, Mini bouncing into the cab right between us.

On the way to church, Sister read again from the meditation, and Robert said something I won’t forget—“Maybe we spend our lives waiting with our hearts open, just like they did.” That stuck with me, because waiting is hard, but it feels different when you know Who you’re waiting for.

At Mass, Father LeRoy said Pentecost is like the soul’s ignition—when the Holy Spirit sets the heart on fire so it can go out and give light to others. He said the Holy Spirit doesn’t just soothe—He sends. And I thought of how sometimes I’m afraid to be sent, but I want to be brave for Jesus.

On the way home, we didn’t talk much. It wasn’t the sleepy kind of quiet—it was the kind where everyone feels warm inside, like something special had happened. Sister said softly, “Our hearts burn because we’ve been near the fire.”

Tonight we had egg salad sandwiches with pickles and mayonnaise, and I lit a little votive candle at my desk. Just a tiny flame. I hope He sees it.

Evening Prayer

Come, Holy Spirit,
Make me ready and still.
Help me wait with joy,
And burn with love for Jesus.
Let my heart be a little candle,
Always lit for You.

Amen.

Love,
Kathy

“Lessons in Silence and the Art of Prayer”

June 6, 1956

Dear Diary

Just as we closed the gate behind us and started down the gravel road toward the mailbox, Sister Mary Claire handed me today’s meditation to read out loud while we walked. Mini trotted ahead, her little bottom bouncing as she took the lead, ears perked and on alert for field mice or the sound of Robert’s pickup.

The meditation was a continuation from yesterday—The Holy Ghost Instructs Us in the Art of Prayer. Sister said it was perfect timing, with Pentecost just a step away. I liked how it began, reminding us that prayer doesn’t start with us—it begins with God. It said the Holy Ghost first draws us into prayer, like a hand reaching gently for our hearts. I pictured it like when Sister Mary Claire tugs my sleeve softly when she wants to whisper something just to me.

The gravel was still damp from yesterday’s rain, so there wasn’t any dust when Robert’s green pickup came rolling to a stop by the big rock at the end of our lane. Mini dashed up wagging and sniffing at the wheels, and Robert leaned over, tipping his hat with a grin. “Good morning, Sisters,” he said, even though only one of us is a real nun. He always calls us that. We climbed in—Sister first, then me, with Mini squished on the floor between my boots—and finished reading the meditation right there in the cab.

It said the Holy Ghost teaches us how to pray too—not just with words, but with sighs and groanings. Robert chuckled and said he must be very advanced then, ‘cause he’s been groaning a good bit lately with his sore back and too much hay to stack. Sister laughed and said groanings don’t count unless they come from the soul, and I added that the Holy Ghost probably doesn’t mind a little humor either.

Father LeRoy’s homily matched the meditation exactly. He said when we pray, it’s really the Holy Ghost praying in us—and that’s why we can be sure God listens. He talked about Our Lady too, and how she was filled with the Holy Ghost when she said her “yes” to God. Sister whispered that when I pray, even the quiet kind in my heart, it’s like I’m standing beside Mary at the Annunciation, saying “yes” too.

On the way home, Robert asked what stood out to us most. Sister said that sometimes He teaches through silence, which is the hardest part. Robert nodded thoughtfully and said, “Well, I guess I’ve learned a little about that kind of silence, sittin’ out behind the barn most evenings, just me and Scout.”

Scout is his Australian Shepherd—she’s got a coat like storm clouds and rust, and she’s as faithful as the sunrise. Robert said she’ll sit beside him without a sound while the light fades out across the pasture, and somehow, that quiet teaches him more than words ever could.

Dear Holy Ghost,

Please take up rest in my heart like the hymn says. Fill me with the kind of peace Robert finds behind the barn, and let me be still enough to listen for You. Teach me the art of prayer one quiet breath at a time. Bless Robert and Scout in their peaceful pasture moments, and let Mini sleep warm and safe by my side.

Love,

Kathy

The Holy Ghost Teaches Me to Pray

June 5, 1956

Dear Diary,

This morning, the air still smelled like rain, and the gravel at the end of our lane was dark and damp under our shoes. Sister Mary Claire and I stood by the mailbox with our coats buttoned up to our chins, and Mini sat between us like a little bundle of warm fur. Her ears perked straight up when Robert’s old pickup came into view, its tires rolling quiet over the wet gravel.

Robert gave us a big wave as he pulled up, and Mini gave one excited wiggle before we all climbed in. On the way to Holy Mass, Sister started talking about   the meditation we read this morning—the one about the Holy Ghost being our teacher in the art of prayer. She said it reminded her that the Holy Ghost doesn’t try to impress us with big words or noise but leads us into the quiet places where Jesus lives.

Robert, with one hand resting on the wheel and his eyes on the road, said, “That sounds about right. Sometimes I try too hard when I pray, like I’m doing all the talking. Maybe I oughta just be still more.”

Sister nodded and said that prayer isn’t something we force—it’s something the Holy Ghost helps us with, like how a gentle hand guides a child. She said, “It’s the Holy Ghost who shows us how to enter the heart of Jesus.” I felt warm hearing that, like someone was already waiting for me there.

At Church, Father LeRoy stepped up for his homily and said something almost the same. He said, “The Holy Ghost is not only the Master of prayer—He is the soul of our soul. He prays in us, even when we don’t know what to say.” He told us to keep our hearts turned like sunflowers to heaven, so we don’t miss His light.

On the way home, Robert said sometimes he finds himself praying while doing chores—like when he’s driving fence posts or checking on the heifers—and he asked if those prayers still count. Sister said yes, especially when they come from a quiet heart. I said maybe that’s what it means when Saint Paul wrote about the Spirit groaning in us with sighs too deep for words. Sister said that’s exactly it.

Robert smiled and said, “Well, I reckon I’ve been prayin’ more than I thought.” He let us off by the mailbox again, and we thanked him before heading back up the drive way. Mini walked ahead, nose to the ground, but stopped every few feet to make sure we were behind her.

All day I’ve been thinking about how the Holy Ghost is like the wind that helps a sailboat move—not something we always see, but something that makes all the difference when we let it catch us.

Dear Holy Ghost, thank You for praying in me when I don’t have the words. Help me be quiet enough to hear You and still enough to follow Your lead. Show me how to love Jesus more. Amen.




Love,

Kathy

I Want to Give Everything

Dear Diary,

Before I close my eyes tonight, I want to give everything I am to Jesus, Mary, and good Saint Joseph. I mean it with all my heart—I give them my heart, my little body, and my soul too. I don’t want to hold anything back.

Then I whispered softly to my guardian angel, who always listens even when I can’t see him. I asked him to stay close and keep watch through the night, especially if a storm comes or I have dreams that make me stir. And I asked all the saints in Heaven, the ones who already made it home, to please say a little prayer for me. I need their help every day.

I asked God to bless me—God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. But not just me. I asked Him to bless Sister Mary Claire too, and even Mini, who already curled up at my feet and Omelette who is roosting on her roost in the hen house. Amen.

Love,  Kathy

P. S.

Sisters Translation from John Hathaway's handwritten prayer book.

Holy Guardian Angel!
All the saints and chosen ones of God, pray for me and protect me
throughout this night from all dangers to body and soul,
and lead me to eternal life.
May the blessing of Almighty God, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, come upon me, and upon my parents and siblings, and remain with us always. Amen.

The Slope Toward Heaven.

Dear Diary,

This morning after chores, Sister Mary Claire surprised me by saying that she wanted to go to the cave with me and Mini. She thought the cool air would be good for her soul.

So we packed a little lunch—apple slices, a wedge of cheese, and our last two slices of sisters homemade Wonder Bread wrapped in wax paper—and headed down together. Mini trotted happily ahead of us, her ears bouncing like she was leading a parade.

When we stepped into the cave, the air wrapped around us like a hush. We passed the little grotto and the spring and went further to the old walnut door of my secret room. I like to call it my secret room, even though Sister knows all about it.

Inside, Sister made herself at home on an old wooden stool and sat with her hands folded while I opened the drawer of John Hathaway's desk. That’s when I found it: a little leather-covered book, all in German handwriting. I held it up, and Sister leaned forward and said “Ah—now that looks like something old and holy. Let’s see what it says…”

She opened the book and ran her finger along the top line of the first page, reading out loud in her gentle, steady voice:

“Zufall. That means Providence,” she explained. “It says that the whole path of a person’s life is like a slope toward Heaven. Even the ordinary days. Even the quiet ones.”

I looked down at Mini, curled near the wall, her head on her paws. Sister kept reading a few more lines about how we’re supposed to quiet down our earthly wishes and walk with patience—like St. Augustine wrote in one of his sermons.

I never thought about patience like a prayer before. But that’s what this page felt like. A prayer written in someone’s careful hand, maybe by John Hathaway himself.

Dear Jesus,

If my life is a path
that slopes toward Heaven,
please help me walk it patiently.
Quiet down the noisy parts of me.
Keep me close when I feel slow or small.
And if I forget,
please remind me with a soft nudge
that You’re walking with me.

Amen.

Love,
Kathy 

The Door to My Heart

Dear Diary

It rained lightly this morning, just enough to freshen the leaves and make the moss along the embankment soft underfoot. I packed Today’s Meditation from my book, a sandwich for lunch, and tucked it all into my satchel before Mini and I set off for the cave. She bounded ahead like always, her little bottom wiggling, but paused when we reached the opening—almost like she knew we were entering something holy.

Inside, it was dim and peaceful. The little grotto of Our Lady stood quiet and watchful beside the stream, which whispered along like a hymn. We walked past it slowly, and I reached for the old carved walnut door—John Hathaway’s door. I always feel something special when I open it, like I’m being trusted with a secret. Mini slipped in first, and then I followed, shutting it gently behind me. That’s when it becomes my secret room.

I spread out my little blanket and read today’s meditation: The Advantages of Interior Solitude. It said that those who detach from earthly things and enter into the solitude of their hearts are the ones who truly unite with God. That made me think. Even with Mini curled against my leg and the sound of the spring nearby, I felt still and quiet inside. Not alone—but alone with God. Maybe that’s what real solitude means.

The meditation talked about how souls who live in God begin to possess themselves and grow quickly in virtue. I want to be one of those souls. I want to learn how to close my eyes and ears to the world and listen only to the gentle voice of Jesus in my heart. The walnut door reminded me—it’s not just the room that’s secret. It’s the part of my soul where I meet Him, away from the noise and busy-ness.

For lunch, I had a tuna and egg salad sandwich—just enough mustard and a big slice of pickle in the middle. Mini got the corners, like always, and we sat together with the blanket spread near the desk John Hathaway used long ago. It’s nice to think that he prayed here too.

Here is my evening prayer:

Dear Jesus,

Thank You for the silence of today,
for the walnut door and the hidden room,
and for the gentle way You call my heart.
Teach me to be still inside,
to shut out the noise and let You in.
Let my heart become a little sanctuary,
where Your peace can grow like ivy along the stone.
Help me love You more than anything,
and seek You not in busy things,
but in the quiet You love best.
Bless Sister, bless Mini,
and bless all hearts learning how to be still.

Amen.

Love,

Kathy

Rain on the Glacier Ridge

Dear Diary

The rain began just as Mini and I reached the top of the old embankment where the cave is tucked away. Sister Mary Claire said it was shaped over ten thousand years ago by a glacier that might have been a whole mile high. She says it probably could’ve moved a mountain if it had to—just to make my little hideaway. I liked thinking that God let the glacier do just that, long before I was born, so there’d be a quiet place someday for a girl with a dog and a book.

Mini scampered in ahead of me, shaking off like she’d just walked through a waterfall, and I followed with our lunch in the brown paper sack. I had packed us each something simple: egg salad sandwiches on Sister Mary Claire’s homemade white bread. I always call it her Wonder Bread, because it really is wonderful—soft, thick, and still tasting like yesterday’s warmth from the oven. I tucked a few pickles in mine, and Mini got the crusts plus a few of her chicken treats.

After we ate, I opened The Glories of Mary and found my place in Chapter 2, Section 3—the one that says how Mary never leaves her children at the hour of death. The rain tapped soft on the stone overhead while the little spring beside me trickled along like it was listening too.

It told how the devil tries to frighten us when we’re weakest—right at the end of our lives—but Mary stays. She protects her faithful ones and even comes herself, with angels, to hold them and lead them to Jesus. One of the stories was about a holy man who was suffering so terribly that even his face turned dark, but his eyes kept searching for Mary, and he died with peace because she was there. I hope I can be like that, always turning toward her, no matter how scared I feel.

Sometimes I think about dying and feel afraid, even though I’m just twelve. But today in the quiet of the cave, with Mini asleep on my sock and the smell of rain all around us, I felt brave. I told Mary I wanted to belong to her forever, and I hope she heard me.

Here’s my evening prayer:

Dear Blessed Mother,

You stayed with Jesus at the Cross
and you stay with us too, even at the hour of death.
If I’m ever afraid or hurting,
please come and hold my hand.
Send angels to chase away anything scary
and let me look into your eyes and feel safe.
Thank you for this cave,
for Mini and our lunch,
and for Sister Mary Claire who bakes Wonder Bread.
Help me to love you more and more

Amen.

Love,

Kathy