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
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