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
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
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