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
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