Trending Articles
Does Jesus still heal and perform miracles today?
As a child of eight, I remember sitting with my mother watching an appeal on TV that was asking donations for the poor and starving children of Africa. I felt an ache and an almost magnetic pull towards one young boy of a similar age who was shown crying. I felt his eyes burn into mine as a fly landed on his lip and he did not even notice. At the same time, an overwhelming wave of love and sadness swept over me.
I was watching people who were dying from lack of food while I sat comfortably just metres away from a full refrigerator. I could not make sense of the injustice and wondered what I could do. When I asked my mother how I could help, she said we could send money, but I felt compelled to do something personally, directly. That feeling echoed in my heart at various times of my life, but I never really knew what doing something more direct and personal could be. I grew up believing I had a calling in my life, that I existed to bring about change, and that I was born to love, serve and help others. But life always seemed to get in the way of acting on those convictions.
In 2013 I spent time in an English prison. It was there that I encountered the risen Lord in the most life–changing experience of my life. Space does not permit me to elaborate (Refer my bio credited at the end of the article to get the link to the Shalom World TV program “Jesus My Savior” episode where I tell that part of my story), but after that encounter I surrendered my life to him and have been on a most incredible journey ever since.
In 2015, when I met an American religious brother who worked with the poor in Calcutta, India, I finally recognized my opportunity to serve among the poor. Within months I was on a plane headed to India to volunteer with Mother Teresa’s Missionaries of Charity.
As soon as I landed, I looked at the night sky and felt God’s presence. When I sat back in the taxi I immediately thought, ‘I’m home’. Yet here I was in a place I had never been before. When I began my volunteer work, I understood why I felt at home: Home is where the heart is.
I encountered Jesus countless times in the poor and beautiful people of India. Mother Teresa said the Gospel can be described on 5 fingers: ‘you… did… it… to… me’ (Matthew 25:40), and in the poor I regularly saw the eyes of Jesus. From the moment I woke up and prayed each morning to the moment my head hit the pillow at night, I experienced love. Each night before bed I sat on the roof terrace writing in my journal until the very early hours. People wondered how I kept going, why I did not collapse in a heap. There is only one explanation—the fire in my Heart which is The Holy Spirit.
They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. I often connect with people through the eyes. I connected this way with a disabled young man I cared for who each day invited me to play cards with him. Since he was both mute and lacked the use of his arms and legs, he would point to which cards he wanted me to turn. As the days passed, we communicated more and more even though no words came from his mouth. We communicated through the eyes in the universal language of love.
One day, he asked me to wheel him inside the house and led me to a floor-to-ceiling image of The Divine Mercy. I asked if he loved Jesus and he smiled and nodded. We went into the chapel and as I wheeled him close to the tabernacle, he threw himself out of the wheelchair, face down. Thinking he had fallen I went to help him, but he pushed me away and performed one of the most beautiful acts of worship I have ever witnessed. Using all his strength he pushed himself up onto his knees. I knelt next to him with tears in my eyes. As I led the Our Father, Hail Mary, and Glory Be he made noises matching my words perfectly in rhythm and tone. From birth this man had been dealt a life of suffering, rejection, and isolation. His body was crippled, yet he knelt praying and giving thanks to God, radiating light and teaching me how prayer should be done.
Another day, he showed me all his earthly possessions. He opened a small shoe box that contained photographs which he was eager to show me. The photographs were of him when the Missionaries of Charity Brothers first found him and brought him into their home. Another was of his Baptism, one of his First Holy Communion, and another of his Confirmation. He loved showing the photos and I loved seeing them and seeing the pleasure he took in showing them to me.
When the time came for me to return home, I was in floods of tears and found it almost impossible to say goodbye to my new friend. We were next to his bed when he pointed to his pillow. I didn’t understand, but another resident, a child with Down’s syndrome, lifted my friend’s pillow and revealed a set of Rosary beads. My friend grabbed them the best he could with his crippled hand and moved towards me to give them to me. Knowing how little he had, I told him I could not take them. He stared at me with his frowned eyebrows telling me I had to. Reluctantly I held out my hand and he dropped them into my palm. As soon as the Rosary touched me, I felt love go through my body. The Rosary was made from string and plastic, but it was more valuable than gold or precious stones. I kissed him and the Rosary and left absolutely staggered at how much God had blessed me through the beauty and love of this amazing human being. Like the widow in the gospel, he had given out of his extreme poverty.
On 4th September 2016, Mother Teresa was declared a Saint. I had the privilege of being in St Peter’s Square for the Canonisation Mass. Early on the morning after (September 5, her feast day), I decided to visit St John Lateran Basilica before my flight home to thank God for my experience and for Mother Teresa. Early in the morning, I entered the church and found it empty except for two nuns at the front who stood next to a first-class relic of Mother Teresa. I asked if I could touch my new Rosary beads to the relic whilst I prayed. I explained who gave them to me and then thanked her for saying yes.
She returned the Rosary with a holy card of Mother Teresa which read on the back: ‘All for Jesus through Mary’. As I kissed the Rosary, that phrase exploded in my heart. I had been asking Jesus to show me what was most pleasing to Him and this card provided an answer to my prayer. As I prayed in gratitude, I felt a tap on my shoulder. A lady wearing a surgical mask was looking directly into my eyes. “Whatever you are praying for,” she said, “do not be afraid. God is with you”. I immediately stood up and with love erupting from the very core of my being, I kissed the woman.
The woman told me she had cancer. “But the crazy thing is,” she said, “I can’t cure myself”. “That’s true,” I said, “you can’t heal yourself, but God can and for that to happen you must have faith.”
She replied that she had little faith. I told her that was fine because Jesus tells us we only need ‘faith the size of a Mustard seed’ to move mountains (Mark 11:22-25). “If we can move mountains,” I said, “then we can certainly move cancer.” I asked her to repeat with me ‘believe that you have received it and it will be yours.’ (Mark 11:24). As we parted, I gave her a Rosary from Medjugorje and we exchanged phone numbers. In the coming weeks I encouraged her, by email and text, to trust Jesus and continue claiming her healing.
A few weeks passed. One day, just as I was entering the church, she sent me a text asking for prayer before her hospital check-up. Her last exam showed the cancer had spread. As I prayed, I felt reassured by the warmth of the sun shining on me through the stained-glass window. It hardly felt surprising when she delightedly shared her good news. The doctors could not explain it!
Not only was she better, but the cancer had completely disappeared. Later, I remembered something about the moment she tapped me on the shoulder in Rome when I felt that strong urge to kiss her. Moments before that kiss, I had kissed the Rosary beads which had just touched the relic of Mother Teresa. When I explained this to her she was stunned and told me how Mother Teresa had asked her to join her community when they had met years before. Afraid to say yes to that call, the woman wound up marrying instead. But now, in this dramatic healing she was unexpectedly connected—through me, the Sisters in the Rome Basilica, the sacred relic—to the Holy woman whom she had met many years before.
Over and over, my life events have shown me that God answers prayer, that Jesus still heals, and that miracles still happen. We have the intercession of Saints and the power of the Rosary to help us. And that is enough to move mountains.
Dear Jesus, I love You above all things in this world. Help me to see you in those around me, especially my family, and to share the joy of loving You. I want to love You more and more each day. Amen.
Sean Booth is a member of the Lay Missionaries of Charity and Men of St. Joseph. He is from Manchester, England, currently pursuing a degree in Divinity at the Maryvale Institute in Birmingham.
From being a healthy Uni-student to a paraplegic, I refused to be confined to a wheelchair… In the initial years of University, I slipped a disc. Doctors assured me that being young and active, physiotherapy, and exercises could make me better, but despite all effort, I was in pain every day. I had acute episodes every few months, which kept me in bed for weeks and led to repeated hospital visits. Nevertheless, I held on to hope, until I slipped a second disc. That's when I realized my life had changed. Angry at God! I was born in Poland. My mom teaches theology, so I was brought up in the Catholic faith. Even when I moved to Scotland for University and then to England, I held onto it dearly, maybe not in a do-or-die manner, but it was always there. The initial phase of moving to a new country wasn’t easy. My home had been a furnace, with my parents fighting among themselves most of the time, so I had practically run away to this alien land. Leaving my difficult childhood behind, I wanted to enjoy my youth. Now, this pain was making it difficult for me to hold down jobs and keep myself financially balanced. I was angry at God. Yet, He wasn’t willing to let me go. Trapped at home in acute pain, I resorted to the only available pastime—my mother’s collection of religious books. Slowly, the retreats I attended and the books I read led me to realize that despite my distrust, God really wanted my relationship with Him to be strengthened. But I was also not totally over the anger that He wasn’t healing me yet. Eventually, I came to believe God was angry at me and didn’t want to heal me so I thought maybe I could trick him. I started looking for a holy priest with good ‘statistics’ for healing so that I could get healed when God was busy doing other things. Needless to say, that never happened. A Twist in My Journey One similar day in a prayer group, I was in so much pain. Fearing an acute episode, I was planning to leave when one of the members there asked if there was something I would like them to pray for. I was having some trouble at work, so I said yes. As they were praying, one of the men asked if there was some physical illness that I needed praying over. They were way down on my ‘healing rating’ list, so I didn’t trust that I would receive any relief, but I said ‘Yes’ anyway. They prayed and my pain was gone. I returned home, and it was still gone. I started jumping and twisting and moving around, and I was still okay. But nobody believed me when I told them I was healed. So, I stopped telling people; instead, I went to Medjugorje to thank Our Lady. There, I had an encounter with a man who was doing Reiki and wanted to pray over me. I refused, but before leaving he gave me a goodbye hug which left me worried because I recalled his words that his touch has power. I allowed fear to take over and falsely believed this evil’s touch was stronger than God. I woke up the next morning in excruciating pain, unable to walk. After four months of relief, my pain returned so acutely that I thought I wouldn’t even be able to make it back to the UK. When I returned, I found that my discs were touching the nerves, causing even more drastic pain for months. After six or seven months, the doctors decided that they needed to do the risky procedure on my spine that they had been keeping off for a long time. The surgery damaged a nerve in my leg, and my left leg was paralyzed knee-down. A new journey began there and then, a different one. I Know You Can Do it The very first time I arrived home in a wheelchair, my parents were terrified, but I was filled with joy. I loved all the technological stuff…every single time someone pressed a button on my wheelchair, I was excited like a kid. It was over the Christmas period, when my paralysis started regressing that I realized the extent of damage to my nerves. I was admitted to a hospital in Poland for a while. I didn't know how I was going to live. I was just praying to God that I needed another healing: “I need to find you again because I know you can do it.” So, I found a healing service and was convinced that I would be healed. A Moment You Don’t Wanna Miss It was Saturday and my father had initially not wanted to go. I just told him: “You don't want to miss out when your daughter is healed.” The original schedule had a Mass, followed by the healing service with Adoration. But when we arrived, the priest said they had to change the plan as the team that was meant to lead the healing service was not there. I remember thinking I don’t need any team: “I only need Jesus.” When the Mass started, I did not hear a single word. We were sitting on the side where there was a Divine Mercy picture. I looked at Jesus like I had never seen Him before. It was a stunning image. He looked so beautiful! I never saw that picture anywhere after that. All through Mass, the Holy Spirit was enveloping my soul. I was simply saying in my head ‘Thank you’ even though I didn’t know what I was thankful for. I wasn’t able to ask for healing, and it was frustrating because I needed healing. When adoration started I asked my mom to take me to the front, as close to Jesus as possible. There, seated up front, I felt someone touching, and massaging my back. I was getting so warm and cozy that I felt like I would fall asleep. So, I decided to walk back to the bench, forgetting that I could not ‘walk.’ I just walked back and my mom ran after me with my crutches, praising God, saying: “You are walking, you are walking.” I was healed, by Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament. As soon as I sat down, I heard a voice saying: “Your faith has healed you.” In my mind, I saw the image of the woman touching the cloak of Jesus when He was passing. Her story reminds me of mine. Nothing was helping until I reached this point where I started trusting Jesus. The healing came when I accepted Him and told Him: “You are all I need.” My left leg had lost all its muscles and even that grew back overnight. It was very significant because the doctors were measuring it before, and they found an astounding, unexplainable change. Shouting it Out This time around when I received the healing, I wanted to share it with everyone. I wasn't embarrassed anymore. I wanted everyone to know how amazing God is and how much He loves all of us. I'm no one special and I haven't done anything special to receive this healing. Being healed also doesn't mean that my life became super-comfortable overnight. There are still difficulties, but they are much lighter. I take them to the Eucharistic Adoration and He gives me solutions, or ideas on how I can deal with them, as well as the assurance and trust that He will deal with them.
By: Ania Graglewska
MoreWhat would you do when a stranger knocks at your door? What if the stranger turns out to be a difficult person? He says his name with emphasis, in Spanish, with a certain pride and dignity, so you’ll remember who he is—Jose Luis Sandoval Castro. He ended up on our doorstep at Saint Edward Catholic Church in Stockton, California, on a Sunday evening when we were celebrating our patron feast day. Somebody had dropped him off in our relatively poor, working-class neighborhood. The music and the crowd of people apparently drew him like a magnet to our parish grounds. Unveiling the Truth He was a man of mysterious origins—we did not know how he arrived at the church, let alone who and where his family was. What we did know was that he was 76 years old, bespectacled, dressed in a light-colored, well-worn vest, and was pulling his luggage by hand. He carried a document from the Immigration and Naturalization Service granting him permission to enter the country from Mexico. He had been robbed of his personal documents and carried no other identification with him. We set about exploring and discovering who Jose Luis was, his roots, his relatives, and whether they had any contact with him. He hailed from the town of Los Mochis in the state of Sinaloa, Mexico. Anger, vitriol, and venom spewed from his mouth. He claimed that his relatives had ripped him off and robbed him of his pension in the United States, where he had worked for years, as he went back and forth to Mexico. The relatives we contacted claimed they tried to help him on various occasions, yet he called them thieves. Who were we to believe? All we knew was that we had a wandering, regular drifter from Mexico in our hands, and we could not abandon him nor put the old, infirm man out on the street. Coldly, callously, one relative said: “Let him fend for himself on the streets.” He was a man of bluster, bravado, and gruffness, yet he flashed signs of vulnerability again and again. His eyes would water, and he would almost sob as he told how people had wronged and betrayed him. It seemed like he was all alone, deserted by others. The truth was—it was not easy to help him. He was ornery, stubborn, and proud. The oatmeal was either too chewy or not smooth enough, the coffee was too bitter and not sweet enough. He found fault with everything. He was a man with a gigantic chip on his shoulders, angry and disappointed with life. “People are bad and mean, they’ll hurt you,” he lamented. To that, I retorted that there were ‘Buena gente’ (good people) too. He was in the arena of the world where good and evil intersect, where people of goodness and kindness mixed together, like the wheat and chaff of the Gospel. More than a Welcome No matter his defects, no matter his attitude or his past, we knew we should welcome him and help him as one of the least of the brothers and sisters of Jesus. “When you welcomed the stranger, you welcomed me.” We were ministering to Jesus himself, opening the doors of hospitality to him. Lalo Lopez, one of our parishioners who took him in for a night, introduced him to his family, and took him to his son’s baseball game, observed: “God is testing us to see how good and obedient we are, as His children.” For several days, we put him up in the rectory. He was weak, spitting out phlegm every morning. It was obvious he could no longer roam and drift freely as he was accustomed to doing in his younger days. He had high blood pressure, over 200. On one visit to Stockton, he said he was hit behind the neck near a downtown church. A son in Culiacan, Mexico, said he “engendered me” and that he never really knew him as his dad, for he was never around, always traveling, heading for El Norte. The story of his life began to unfold. He had worked in the fields, harvesting cherries, many years ago. He had also sold ice cream in front of a local church a few years ago. He was, to quote the Bob Dylan classic song, “like one with no direction home, like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone.” As Jesus left the 99 sheep behind to rescue one stray sheep, we turned our attention to this one man, apparently shunned by his own. We welcomed him, housed him, fed him, and befriended him. We came to know his roots and his history, the dignity and sacredness of him as a person, and not just as another throwaway on the streets of the city. His plight was publicized on Facebook by a woman who transmits video messages of missing persons to Mexico. People asked: “How can we help?” One man said: “I’ll pay for his ticket home.” Jose Luis, an illiterate man, rough and unrefined, came to our parish fiesta, and by the grace of God, we tried, in some small way, to emulate the example of Saint Mother Teresa, who welcomed the poor, the lame, the sick, and the outcasts of the world into her circle of love, the banquet of life. In the words of Saint John Paul II, solidarity with others is not a feeling of vague compassion or shallow distress at the misfortunes of others. It is a reminder that we commit to the good of all because we are all responsible for one another.
By: Father Alvaro Delgado
MoreMy husband was given a death sentence; I did not want to live on without him, but his firm convictions surprised me. Five years ago, my world came crashing down when my husband was diagnosed with a terminal disease. The life and the future I envisioned were forever changed in an instant. It was terrifying and confusing; the most hopeless and helpless I’ve ever felt. It was as though I had been plunged into an abyss of constant fear and despair. I had only my faith to cling onto as I faced the darkest days I’ve ever known. Days of caring for my dying husband and days of preparing to face a life completely different than what I had planned. Chris and I had been together since we were teenagers. We were best friends and nearly inseparable. We had been married for over twenty years and were happily raising our four children in what seemed like an idyllic life. Now he was given a death sentence, and I didn’t know how I could live without him. In truth, part of me didn’t want to. One day, in a moment of brokenness, I confided in him that I thought I might die of a broken heart if I had to live without him. His reaction was not as desperate. He sternly but empathetically told me that I had to keep living until God called me home; that I couldn’t wish or waste my life away because his was coming to an end. He confidently assured me that he would be watching over me and our children from the other side of the veil. The Other Side of Grief Chris had an unshakeable faith in God’s love and mercy. Convinced that we wouldn’t be separated forever, he would often recite the phrase: “It’s just for a little while.” This was our constant reminder that no heartache lasts forever—and these words gave me boundless hope. Hope that God will guide us through this, and hope that I will be reunited with Chris in the next life. During these dark days, we clung to Our Lady in the Rosary—a devotion we were already familiar with. The Sorrowful Mysteries were recited more often than not because contemplating the suffering and death of Our Lord brought us closer to Him in our own suffering. The Divine Mercy Chaplet was a new devotion that we added to our daily routine. Like the Rosary, this was a humbling reminder of what Jesus willingly endured for our salvation, and somehow it made the cross we had been given seem less heavy. We began to more clearly see the beauty in suffering and sacrifice. I would mentally repeat the small prayer: “Oh, Most Sacred Heart of Jesus, I place all my trust in You” every hour of the day. It would bring a wave of calm over me whenever I felt a rush of uncertainty or fear. During this time, our prayer life deepened tremendously and gave us hope that Our Lord would be merciful to Chris and our family as we endured this painful journey. Today, it gives me hope that Chris is at peace, watching over and interceding for us from the other side—just as he promised. In these uncertain days of my new life, it’s hope that keeps me going and gives me strength. It has given me immeasurable gratitude for God’s endless love and tender mercy. Hope is a tremendous gift; an inextinguishable interior glow to focus on when we feel broken. Hope calms, hope strengthens, and hope heals. Hope takes courage to hold onto. As Saint John Paul II said: “I plead with you! Never, ever give up on hope. Never doubt, never tire and never become discouraged. Be not afraid.”
By: Mary Therese Emmons
MoreMartin de Porres was born in 16th-century Peru; he grew up facing the stigmas of both his mixed race and illegitimacy. After a barber-medical apprenticeship in his young years, he joined the Dominicans as a ‘lay helper’ and continued his barber work in the monastery. One day, Brother Francis Velasco Carabantes approached Martin, desiring to talk to this man whom people were already starting to believe was saintly. Martin was busy with his barber work; he absent-mindedly grabbed this novice and placed him in the barber’s chair. Brother Francis had no inclination to have his head shaved; he disliked the hairstyle that the Dominicans used. Before he could resist, Martin had finished his job, and Brother Francis was angry beyond expression. He started to shout, calling Martin all sorts of curse words. Martin was lost in prayer, and by the time he noticed that this novice was shouting, one of the rectors had seen the commotion and was scolding Brother Francis, who was severely punished and sent away. Martin, once he came to realize what had happened, went to the rector with all possible excuses. He begged forgiveness for this person who had verbally abused him, trying even to explain away the curse words used. Finally, he told the rector: “Everyone knows what a sinner I am.” The rector, who was aware of Martin’s saintly life, gave in to his request and forgave Brother Francis. Not satisfied with this, Brother Martin even sent fresh fruit, which was a rare delicacy in the monastery, to Brother Francis. How many times have we rejoiced in the ‘just’ punishments that our transgressors received? Let us pray to Saint Martin for the virtue of humility, to forgive and show the other cheek, as Jesus taught us to do.
By: Shalom Tidings
MoreWhen a terrible loss led Josh Blakesley into the light, music from his soul became a balm to many bleeding hearts. Growing up in the small town of Alexandria, Josh was a carefree child. He grew up listening to his Dad’s music; two elder sisters with a great music collection was a bonus that nurtured his musical taste. Without professional training or theoretical inputs, in an age with no internet and YouTube, Josh had what he would later call ‘a side entry’ into the world of music. Starting on the drums and simultaneously learning to sing, he was enamored by the likes of Don Henley and Phil Collins, following their legendary works through magazines and books. With his mother, though, Church was a non-negotiable matter. Thanks to her insistence, he went to Mass every Sunday. But he would leave God there and live the rest of his life on a totally different plane. Diving Deeper They met in Spanish class when he was 15, and unlike any other 15-year-old, she took him along to a prayer meeting. This was new and different from anything he had experienced before. Teenagers his age were coming together to worship the Lord. This worship experience was modern and engaging…with music, talks, and skits by people his age! He was intrigued, but he wouldn’t have kept coming back every week if Jenny hadn’t asked him to. Several months later, Jenny was hit by a drunk driver and killed in an accident. Her loss was a huge blow to the entire community. As he struggled with the grief of losing her, it triggered a realization that life here is finite, and there must be purpose in it, a reason that we are living. From that very moment, he began a journey, searching for answers to the questions that fascinated him…‘What is the reason for me? What is the purpose of what I’m doing right now? Why has God put me on this planet? What’s my role while I’m here?’ He started diving more into why we were here on this planet. In realizing that his gifts were from God, and in searching for a purpose in the use of these gifts, he realized that he wanted to give back to God and return the love. A Bolt of Realization He started playing music for Mass and getting involved in the liturgy. As he puts it: “There has been a faith part to my music and a music part to my faith as well. Those are still ingrained. I pray through music a lot”. And it is this experience of prayer that he tries to hand over to his brethren through writing and playing music. The “awesome and overwhelming” experience of leading people into worship and hearing them singing along makes him whisper so often: “The Lord is moving right now, and I don’t have to work.” Bridging the Gap Josh is now a full-time singer, songwriter, producer, music director, husband, and dad. Even while leading the music at Mass every Sunday, Josh knows that Mass can happen without music—what a musician does at Mass doesn’t bring Jesus any greater into the room; He is there regardless. What a musician can do is “elevate the worship of the faithful by bringing some extra beauty through music.” This indeed, is one of his life goals—to try and bridge that gap and bring quality music into the liturgy. But he doesn’t stop there; in addition to adding beauty to the Sacramental experience, he goes another mile to bring God to the people. Right from His Heart As a Catholic musician, Josh writes songs for the Mass and writes from the heart. Sometimes, when it comes out, it might not be out rightly Mass-material, but what comes out is still a tribute to God for the gift of music. He relates that his song Even in This was such an experience right from his heart. The Church community he was part of had just lost a teen, and seeing them go through the pain, the tragedy, and the devastation took him back to his own experience of losing a dear friend in his teenage years. Diving into the pain, he wrote that even in these darkest nights, God is with us. In the ‘valleys of pain’, in the ‘shattered, broken things’, in the ' hurt you cannot hide’ and the ‘fear you cannot fight’, he reassures his listeners that though you cannot see God, “You are not alone.” This is one message Josh wants to repeat to the world: “God is moving with you.”
By: Josh Blakesley
MoreI remember a time in my ministry when I had felt a fellow minister distancing himself from me for no apparent reason. It seemed like he was struggling, but he wouldn’t share it with me. One Lenten day, burdened by this thought, I stood in my office and cried out to the Lord in my heart: “Jesus, I feel so left out of this person’s life.” Immediately, I heard Jesus respond with these sad words: “I know how you feel. It happens to Me every day.” Wow! I felt my own heart pierced, and tears flooded my eyes. I knew these words were a treasure. I continued for months to unpack that grace. Since my Baptism in the Holy Spirit twenty years ago, I had considered myself to have a deep personal relationship with Jesus. But this Word from my precious Savior and Lord opened a whole new insight into Jesus’ Heart. “Yes, Jesus, so many people forget You, don’t they? And me too—how often am I going about my tasks, forgetting to bring my problems and thoughts to You? All the while, You wait for me to turn back to You, who looks on me with such love.” In my prayer, I kept processing those words. “I know better now how You feel when someone rejects You, accuses or blames You, or does not talk to You for days or even years.” I would more consciously take my own sorrows to Jesus and tell Him: “Jesus, my Beloved, You feel this same sadness that I am feeling. I offer my little hurt to console You for so many people, including myself, who fail to console You.” I saw in a new way my favorite image, Jesus with His Sacred Heart’s rays of love flowing out, lamenting to Saint Margaret Mary: “Look at My Heart that loves people so much—but receives so little love in return.” Truly, Jesus gives me little trials daily so I can have a tiny taste of what He endured for us. I will always remember that moment of agony that brought me closer to the amazing, tender, long-suffering love of our dear Lord Jesus.
By: Sister Jane M. Abeln SMIC
MoreWould my life ever return to normal? How can I possibly continue my work? Brooding over these, a terrible solution popped into my head… I was finding life extremely stressful. In my fifth year at college, the onset of bipolar disorder was hindering my efforts to complete my teaching degree. I had no diagnosis yet, but I was plagued with insomnia, and I looked frazzled and unkempt, which impeded my prospects of employment as a teacher. Since I had strong natural tendencies toward perfectionism, I felt so ashamed and feared that I was letting everyone down. I spiraled into anger, despondency, and depression. People were concerned about my decline and tried to help. I was even sent to the hospital by ambulance from the school, but doctors could find nothing wrong except elevated blood pressure. I prayed but found no consolation. Even Easter Mass—my favorite time—didn’t break the vicious cycle. Why wouldn’t Jesus help me? I felt so angry with Him. Finally, I just stopped praying. As this continued, day after day, month after month, I didn’t know what to do. Would my life ever return to normal? It seemed unlikely. As graduation approached, my fear increased. Teaching is a tough job with few breaks, and the students would need me to remain level-headed while dealing with their many needs and providing a good learning environment. How could I possibly do this in my current state? A terrible solution popped into my head: “You should just kill yourself.” Instead of casting off that thought and sending it straight back to hell where it belonged, I let it sit. It seemed like a simple, logical answer to my dilemma. I just wanted to be numb instead of under constant attack. To my utter regret, I chose despair. But, in what I expected to be my last moments, I thought of my family and the type of person I had once been. In genuine remorse, I raised my head to the heavens and said: “I’m so sorry, Jesus. Sorry for everything. Just give me what I deserve.” I thought those would be the last words I would utter in this life. But God had other plans. Listening to the Divine My mother was, by providence, praying the Divine Mercy Chaplet at that very moment. Suddenly, she heard the words loud and clear in her heart “Go find Ellen.” She obediently set aside her rosary beads and found me on the floor of the garage. She caught on quickly, exclaiming in horror: “What are you doing?!” while she pulled me into the house. My parents were heartbroken. There’s no rulebook for times such as these, but they decided to take me to Mass. I was totally broken, and I needed a Savior more than ever before. I longed for a come-to-Jesus moment, but I was convinced that I was the last person in the world He would ever want to see. I wanted to believe that Jesus is my Shepherd and would come after His lost sheep, but it was hard because nothing had changed. I was still consumed by intense self-hatred, oppressed by darkness. It was almost physically painful. During the preparation of the gifts, I broke down in tears. I had not cried for a really long time, but once I started, I couldn’t stop. I was at the end of my own strength, with no idea where to go next. But as I wept, the weight slowly lifted, and I felt myself enfolded in His Divine Mercy. I didn’t deserve it, but He gave me the gift of Himself, and I knew that He loved me the same at my lowest point as much as He loved me at my highest point. In Pursuit of Love In the days to come, I could barely face God, but He kept showing up and pursuing me in the little things. I re-established communication with Jesus with the aid of a Divine Mercy picture in our living room. I tried to talk, mostly complaining about the struggle and then feeling bad about it in light of the recent rescue. Weirdly, I thought I could hear a tender voice whispering: “Did you really think I would leave you to die? I love you. I will never forsake you. I promise to never leave you. All is forgiven. Trust in my mercy.” I wanted to believe this, but I couldn’t trust that it was true. I was growing discouraged at the walls I was erecting, but I kept chatting with Jesus: “How do I learn to trust You?” The answer surprised me. Where do you go when you feel no hope but have to go on living? When you feel totally unlovable, too proud to accept anything yet desperately wanting to be humble? In other words, where do you want to go when you want a full reconciliation with the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit but are too scared and disbelieving of a loving reception to find your way home? The answer is the Blessed Virgin Mary, Mother of God, and Queen of Heaven. While I was learning to trust, my awkward attempts did not displease Jesus. He was calling me closer, closer to His Sacred Heart, through His Blessed Mother. I fell in love with Him and His faithfulness. I could admit everything to Mary. Although I feared that I could not keep my promise to my earthly mother because, on my own, I was still barely mustering the will to live, my mother inspired me to consecrate my life to Mary, trusting that she would help me get through this. I didn’t know much about what that meant, but 33 Days to Morning Glory and Consoling the Heart of Jesus by Father Michael E. Gaitley, MIC, helped me understand. The Blessed Mother is always willing to be our intercessor, and she will never turn down a request from a child wanting to return to Jesus. As I went through the consecration, I resolved never to attempt suicide again with the words: “No matter what happens, I will not quit.” Meanwhile, I started taking long walks on the beach while I talked with God the Father and meditated on the parable of the prodigal son. I tried to put myself in the shoes of the prodigal son, but it took me some time to get close to God the Father. First, I imagined Him at a distance, then walking toward me. Another day, I pictured Him running towards me even though it made Him look ridiculous to His friends and neighbors. Finally, the day came when I could picture myself in the arms of the Father, then being welcomed not just to His home but to my seat at the family table. As I envisaged Him pulling out a chair for me, I was no longer a headstrong young woman but a 10-year-old girl with ridiculous glasses and a bob haircut. When I accepted the Father’s love for me, I became like a little child again, living in the present moment and trusting Him completely. I fell in love with God and His faithfulness. My Good Shepherd has saved me from the prison of fear and anger, continuing to lead me along the safe path and carrying me when I falter. Now, I want to share my story so that everyone can know God’s goodness and love. His Sacred Heart is welling up with tender love and mercy just for you. He wants to love you lavishly, and I encourage you to welcome Him without fear. He will never abandon you or let you down. Step into His light and come home.
By: Ellen Wilson
MoreThrough the darkest valleys and toughest nights, Belinda heard a voice that kept calling her back. My mother walked out on us when I was around eleven. At the time, I thought that she left because she didn't want me. But in fact, after years of silently suffering through marital abuse, she couldn’t hold on anymore. As much as she wanted to save us, my father had threatened to kill her if she took us with her. It was too much to take in at such a young age, and as I was striving hard to navigate through this difficult time, my father started a cycle of abuse that would haunt me for years to come. Valleys and Hills To numb the pain of my father’s abuse and compensate for the loneliness of my mother’s abandonment, I started resorting to all kinds of ‘relief’ mechanisms. And at a point when I couldn’t stand the abuse anymore, I ran away with Charles, my boyfriend from school. I reconnected with my mother during this time and lived with her and her new husband for a while. At 17, I married Charles. His family had a history of incarceration, and he followed suit soon enough. I kept hanging out with the same bunch of people, and eventually, I, too, fell into crime. At 19, I got sentenced to prison for the first time—five years for aggravated assault. In prison, I felt more alone than I had ever been in my life. Everyone who was supposed to love and nurture me had abandoned me, used me, and abused me. I remember giving up, even trying to end my life. For a long time, I kept on spiraling downwards until I met Sharon and Joyce. They had given their lives to the Lord. Though I had no clue about Jesus, I thought I'd give it a try as I didn't have anything else. There, trapped inside those walls, I started a new life with Christ. Falling, Rising, Learning… About a year and a half into my sentence, I came up for parole. Somehow in my heart, I just knew I was going to make parole because I'd been living for Jesus. I felt like I was doing all the right things, so when the denial came back with a year set off, I just didn't understand. I started questioning God and was quite angry. It was at this time that I was transferred to another correctional facility. At the end of the church services, when the chaplain reached out for a handshake, I flinched and withdrew. He was a Spirit-filled man, and the Holy Spirit had shown him that I had been hurt. The next morning, he asked to see me. There in his office, as he asked about what had happened to me and how I was hurting, I opened up and shared for the first time in my life. Finally, out of prison and in private rehab, I started a job and was slowly getting a hold on my new life when I met Steven. I started going out with him, and we got pregnant. I remember being excited about it. As he wanted to make it right, we got married and started a family. That marked the beginning of probably the worst 17 years of my life, marked by his physical abuse and infidelity and the continuing influence of drugs and crime. He would even go on to hurt our kids, and this once sent me into a rage—I wanted to shoot him. At that moment, I heard these verses: “Vengeance is mine, I will repay.” (Romans 12:19) and “The Lord will fight for you” (Exodus 14:14), and that prompted me to let him go. Never a Criminal I was never able to be a criminal for long; God would just arrest me and try to get me back on track. In spite of His repeated efforts, I wasn't living for Him. I always kept God back, although I knew He was there. After a series of arrests and releases, I finally came home for good in 1996. I got back in touch with the Church and finally started building a true and sincere relationship with Jesus. The Church slowly became my life; I never really had that kind of a relationship with Jesus before. I just couldn't get enough of it because I started to see that it's not the things that I've done but who I am in Christ that's going to keep me on this road. But, the real conversion happened with Bridges to Life*. How can I Not? Even though I hadn’t been a participant in the program as an offender, being able to facilitate in those small groups was a blessing I hadn’t anticipated—one that would change my life in beautiful ways. When I heard other women and men share their stories, something clicked inside of me. It affirmed me that I was not the only one and encouraged me to show up time and again. I would be so tired and worn out from work, but I would walk into the prisons and just be rejuvenated because I knew that that was where I was supposed to be. Bridges to Life is about learning to forgive yourself; not only did helping others help me become whole, it also helped me heal…and I am still healing. First, it was my mother. She had cancer, and I brought her home; I looked after her for as long as she stayed until she passed away peacefully at my home. In 2005, my father’s cancer came back, and the doctors estimated he had at most six months. I brought him home too. Everybody told me not to take in this man after what he did to me. I asked: “how can I not?” Jesus forgave me, and I feel that God would want me to do this. Had I chosen to hold on to the bitterness or hatred toward my parents for the abandonment and the abuse, I don't know if they would have given their lives to the Lord. Just looking back over my life, I see how Jesus kept pursuing me and trying to help me. I was so resistant to feeling what was new, and it was so easy to stay in what was comfortable, but I am grateful to Jesus that I was able to finally completely surrender to Him. He is my Savior, He is my rock, and He is my friend. I just cannot imagine a life without Jesus.
By: Belinda Honey
MoreAre you quick to judge others? Are you hesitant to help someone in need? Then, it’s time to reflect! It was just another day for me. Returning from the market, weary from the day’s labor, collecting Roofus from the Synagogue school… However, something felt different that day. The wind was whispering in my ear, and even the sky was more expressive than usual. Commotion from a crowd in the streets confirmed for me that today, something was going to change. Then, I saw Him—His body so disfigured that I turned Roofus away from this fearful sight. The poor boy gripped my arm with all his might—he was terrified. The way this man, well, what was left of Him, was being handled must mean he had done something terrible. I could not bear to stand and watch, but as I began to leave, I was seized by a Roman soldier. To my horror, they commanded me to help this man to bear His heavy load. I knew this meant trouble. Despite resisting, they asked me to help Him. What a mess! I did not want to associate with a sinner. How humiliating! To carry a cross whilst all of them watched? I knew there was no escape, though, so I asked my neighbor Vanessa to take Roofus home because this trial would take a while. I walked over to Him—filthy, bloody, and disfigured. I wondered what he had done to deserve this. Whatever be it, this punishment was way too cruel. The bystanders were yelling out ‘blasphemer,’ ‘liar,’ and ‘King of the Jews,’ whilst others were spitting at him and abusing him. I had never been so humiliated and mentally tortured like this before. After taking only about ten to fifteen steps with him, he fell to the ground, face first. For this trial to end, he needed to get up, so I bent over to help him up. Then, in his eyes, I saw something that changed me. I saw compassion and love? How could this be? No fear, no anger, no hatred—just love and sympathy. I was taken aback, whilst with those eyes, He looked at me and held my hand to get back up. I could no longer hear or see the people around me. As I held the Cross on my one shoulder and Him on my other, I could only keep looking at Him. I saw the blood, the wounds, the spit, the dirt, everything that could no longer hide the divinity of His face. Now I heard only the beating of His heart and His labored breathing…He was struggling, yet so very, very strong. Amid all the noise of the people screaming, abusing, and scurrying about, I felt as though He was speaking to me. Everything else I had done till that point, good or bad, seemed pointless. When the Roman soldiers pulled Him from me to drag Him to the place of crucifixion, they shoved me aside, and I fell to the ground. He had to continue on His own. I lay there on the ground as people trampled over me. I did not know what to do next. All I knew was that Iife was never going to be the same again. I could no longer hear the crowd but only the silence and the sound of my heart beating. I was reminded of the sound of His tender heart. A few hours later, as I was about to get up to leave, the expressive sky from earlier began to speak. The ground beneath me shook! I looked ahead at the top of Calvary and saw Him, arms stretched and head bowed, for me. I know now that the blood splattered on my garment that day belonged to the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world. He cleansed me with His blood. *** *** *** This is how I imagine Simon of Cyrene recalling his experience of the day he was asked to help Jesus carry the Cross to Calvary. He had probably heard very little of Jesus till that day, but I am very sure that he was not the same person after he helped the Savior carry that Cross. This Lenten season, Simon asks us to look into ourselves: Have we been too quick to judge people? Sometimes, we are too quick to believe what our instincts tell us about somebody. Just like Simon, we may let our judgments come in the way of helping others. Simon saw Jesus being scourged and assumed that He ought to have done something wrong. There might have been times when we let our presumptions about a person come in the way of loving them as Christ called us to. Are we hesitant to help some people? Shouldn’t we see Jesus in others and reach out to help them? Jesus asks us to love not only our friends but also strangers and enemies. Mother Teresa, being the perfect example of loving strangers, showed us how to see the face of Jesus in everyone. Who better to point at for an example of loving enemies than Jesus Christ Himself? He loved those who hated Him and prayed for those who persecuted Him. Like Simon, we may feel hesitant about reaching out to strangers or enemies, but Christ calls us to love our brothers and sisters just as He did. He died for their sins as much as He died for yours. Lord Jesus, thank You for giving us the example of Simon of Cyrene, who became a great witness for following Your Way. Heavenly Father, grant us the grace to become Your witnesses by reaching out to those in need.
By: Mishael Devassy
MoreJudging others is easy, but often enough, we go totally wrong in our judgment about others. I remember an old fellow who used to come to Saturday night Mass. He was much in need of a bath and clean clothes. Quite frankly, he stunk. You can't blame those who didn't want to be subject to this awful smell. He walked two or three miles every day around our little town, picking up trash, and lived in an old, run-down shack all by himself. It is easy for us to judge appearances. Isn't it? I suppose it is a natural part of being human. I don't know how many times my judgments about a person were totally wrong. In fact, it is quite difficult, if not impossible, to look beyond appearances without God's help. This man, for instance, despite his odd personality, was very faithful about participating in Mass every week. One day, I decided I would sit next to him at Mass regularly. Yes, he stunk, but he was also in need of love from others. By God's grace, the stink didn't bother me much. During the sign of peace, I would look him in the eye, smile, and greet him with a sincere: “Peace of Christ be with you.” Never Miss This When I entertain judgments about a person, I miss the opportunity that God wants to give me—an opportunity to see beyond the physical appearance and look into the person's heart. That is what Jesus did to each person He encountered on His journey, and He continues to look beyond our yuck and look at our hearts. I remember a time, being many years away from my Catholic faith, I sat in the Church parking lot, trying to muster enough courage to walk through the doors to attend Mass. I was so afraid that others would judge me and not welcome me back. I asked Jesus to walk in with me. Upon entering the Church, I was greeted by the Deacon, who gave me a big smile and a hug, and said: “Welcome.” That smile and hug were what I needed to feel like I belonged and was home again. Choosing to sit with the old man who stunk was my way of “paying it forward.” I knew how desperately I wanted to feel welcomed, to feel that I belonged and I mattered. Let us not hesitate to welcome each other, especially those who are difficult to be around.
By: Connie Beckman
MoreChristmas is not just a day but a season of celebrating joy and hope. Hanging lights, stars, and Christmas trees make the occasion colorful, but it is undoubtedly incomplete without a nativity scene. Have you ever wondered how the tradition of staging the nativity scene began? Greccio, a small town in Italy, was home to peasants who led a peaceful agricultural life. More than 800 years ago, Brother Francis, returning from a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, obtained permission from Pope Honorius III to re-enact the birth of Jesus, the scene of which he had just visited. So on Christmas Eve of 1223, inside a cave in Greccio, villagers disguised as Saint Joseph and Mother Mary acted out the historical event that only Bethlehem had seen. Francis welcomed more life to the holy night act with a rag doll representing the Christ Child; he even brought an ox and a donkey, giving the villagers a visual treat. He then stood before the manger, full of devotion and piety, his face bathed in tears and radiant with joy; the Holy Gospel was chanted, and he preached about the nativity of the poor King. Unable to even utter His name for the tenderness of His love, Francis called Him the Babe of Bethlehem. Master John of Greccio, a valiant soldier and a dear friend of Brother Francis, who, for the love of Christ, had left the worldly affairs, witnessed Francis cradling a beautiful infant in his arms so gently as if he feared the baby might wake up. Doubtless, the baby was the Christ Child Himself because a trail of miracles followed the scene. It is said that the hay of that manger, being preserved by the people, miraculously cured the cattle of many diseases and other pestilences! Brother Francis turned out to be none other than Saint Francis of Assisi, one of the most famous Saints in the Church’s history, whose very name excites every heart with the compassionate love of Christ!
By: Shalom Tidings
MoreI told my best friend: “The Church could really use someone like you in this broken world…” Somewhere, it resonated deep. My best friend and I met three years ago. We didn't become very close right away because, for starters, Dave takes a good while to warm up to people, and more importantly, people here in prison are a lot more guarded than those on the outside. Over time, however, that all changed, and Dave has since become my closest ally. Not long after I met Dave, it became clear to him that I was very serious about my Catholic faith. I had a Crucifix and pictures of Saints hanging on the wall of my cell. I watched and participated in Mass on television, and to be honest, I brought the topic up quite frequently. At first, Dave didn't make any comments or show much interest in my faith; he would just politely nod his head and move on, but something was telling me that I shouldn't let that hinder me from sharing all about what I believed and telling stories about the miracles and peace that I'd received directly from being Catholic. Returning to the Roots As time progressed and I became closer to Dave, he began to open up a little bit more about his own faith. He told me he was a Christian but he hadn't really been to services in years, partly because he had been locked in a cell for so long, unable to move around the prison compound. But as I dug deeper, I found out, to my astonishment, that Dave was actually raised as a Catholic. Not only that, but he had received all three Rites of Initiation! I immediately began to ask him question after question and learned a lot more about him and his faith journey. Of the many things I discovered, one really stood out. To this very day, Dave has had a fascination with the Catholic knights of old. Because of that, the favorite church he had ever attended was a Catholic church that was round in shape, reminiscent of the Knights Templar churches. I could sense through this fascination that there was still some interest in the Church, even if it was just a small one. Talking to Dave about a possible return to his roots was not as promising, however. Let me be clear—he was never rude or aggressive, but he didn't seem to have any desire for the Sacraments. He was resigned to his habits, and they didn't include Catholicism, and unfortunately, the Church had all but forgotten about him. A Glimmer of Hope As the months went on, Dave would ask little questions about the Church. Nothing big, just showing a bit more interest as time ticked by. Of course, I didn't want to make him feel pressured, so I patiently and prayerfully continued my mission to bring him back to the Church. I could sense that there was more of a glimmer of hope than before and I would sometimes say to him: "You know Dave, the Church could really use someone like you in this broken world." He never would answer me, only musing over my words silently, but for Dave, a lot is said in his silence. A few weeks ago, a group of Catholic deacons came to visit with us in our cells. They brought Communion for Catholics, and literature for everyone, and went from cell to cell asking if people would like to pray with them. Sometime after they left, Dave came to my cell and told me about how one of the men had surprised him because they spoke about a particular round shaped church the man was a parishioner of. This happened to be the very same one Dave had gone to as a kid. He said the man had told him he hoped to see him there one day. The next thing Dave told me was a big surprise: "You know, I've been thinking about it, and I might like to go back to the Catholic Church." I was dumbfounded. I'd been waiting for this type of interest for literally three years, and I knew it was possible it would never come. I’d prayed for it time and again. I didn't know what to say. After a prolonged silence, I asked him: "Would you be interested in receiving Communion again?" He said he was. The Open Door At 15, Dave was charged as an adult and sentenced to life in prison. He is now 48. When he went to prison as a mere child, he tried to fit into a world of adult criminals. There's been plenty of violence and bloodshed in his story. Most people who go down his road are so jaded in the end that it seems nothing can bring them back, but now, Dave was interested. Praise God! Last week, Dave received Communion for the first time in 33 years. He had never once received Jesus in prison, though it had been available all the time. He had been forgotten in the system. Due to the impossibility of receiving the Sacrament of Reconciliation, he did not go to Confession first but was allowed to receive Communion circumstantially. He is in a maximum-security cell block and has the highest security risk rating, so they have trouble allowing a priest to visit one-on-one. So, he made a thorough examination of conscience and an act of contrition and will make a Confession at the first opportunity. Never Forgotten There are innumerable forgotten people all over the world. There are men, women, and even children in your own community who need someone to just be a friend and share their love and the faith Christ has given us in His Church. Let's continue to spread the Good News. If you have been away from the Church and Her life-giving Sacraments, there is an open invitation for healing starting with the Sacrament of Reconciliation. The first step back into fellowship with God and His Church is confessing our sins, but remember, while we are certainly confessing our sins to God, even more so, God is using this time to confess to us in a very special way, His forgiveness and love. Nothing is too big to be forgiven, and nothing is too great to stand in the way of God's healing; the door is always open to forgiveness and mercy. Contact a local church or parish priest and make plans to attend the next scheduled Sacrament of Reconciliation. Be sure to show up a little early in case others are waiting as well. You'll be glad you've made this step, and the Angels and Saints in Heaven will rejoice at your homecoming.
By: Jon Blanco
MoreI was so busy teaching my kids all about faith, that I forgot this integral lesson… “Wait! Don’t forget the Holy Water!” My six-year-old had decided he was ready to lead bedtime prayers by himself. Shaking the bottle of Holy Water—in case the ‘holy’ had sunk to the bottom—he blessed us and began: “God, we love You. You are good. You love us. You even love bad guys. We thank you, God. Amen.” My stunned silence filled the room. This simple prayer touched my heart deeply. My son had just shown me how to pray with the simplicity of a child of God. As a parent, sometimes it’s hard for me to step out of my ‘grown-up’ mindset. I spend a lot of energy trying to help my kids form good habits and grow in the faith, but often I lose sight of what my kids teach me about loving Jesus. When my son mustered courage and prayed aloud, he reminded me that simple, spontaneous prayer is important in my daily relationship with Christ. He taught me that, despite feeling unsure or clumsy, my prayers still please the Lord. A Real Challenge As adults, the swirling complexities of family life, schedules, and work responsibilities often consume us and make it difficult to simply talk with the Lord. Saint Teresa of Calcutta understood this real challenge and gave some advice to her own Missionary of Charity sisters: “How do you pray? You should go to God like a little child. A child has no difficulty in expressing his little mind in words, but they express so much … Become as a little child.” Jesus Himself showed us the importance of learning from children: “He called a little child to Him, and placed the child among them. And He said: ‘Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of Heaven. Therefore, whoever takes the lowly position of this child is the greatest in the kingdom of Heaven.’” (Matthew 18:2-4) How can you and I learn to pray like a child? First, ask God for courage and humility, and invite the Holy Spirit to guide you. Next, find a quiet place away from noise and technology. Begin your prayer with the sign of the Cross and your favorite devotional name for God. I have found in conversation that using someone’s name deepens connection. (The Hebrew name for Jesus–Yeshua–means ‘the Lord is salvation’ so if you are not sure which name to use, go simple. “Jesus” will do!) Securing a Direct Line Now, it’s time to talk with the Lord. Pray out loud, spontaneously, and tell God whatever comes to your mind—even tell Him if you feel awkward or distracted. Still unsure where to start? Thank God for something, ask Him to transform your heart and pray for someone by name. Do your best and be patient with yourself. Your willingness to discover the simplicity of child-like prayer pleases the Lord very much. God delights in His children! So, embrace the invitation to learn from your children. Together you can learn to enter into a deeper relationship with Christ. Pray for courage and humility as you learn to talk with the Lord. Be intentional, and you will discover the joy and simplicity of praying as a child of God!
By: Jody Weis
MoreSilence is difficult even for adults, so imagine my surprise when I was instructed to train kids in that language! Catechesis of the Good Shepherd (CGS) is a Catholic catechetical model developed by Sofia Cavalletti in the 1950s, which incorporates Montessori education principles. One of the pioneering aspects of Dr. Maria Montessori’s work was her cultivation of times of silence for her children. In Dr. Montessori’s Own Handbook, she explains: “When the children have become acquainted with silence … (they) go on to perfect themselves; they walk lightly, take care not to knock against the furniture, move their chairs without noise, and place things upon the table with great care … These children are serving their spirits.” Each Sunday morning, anywhere between ten and twenty children, aged between three to six, gather in our atrium for catechesis. In CGS, we say ‘atrium’ rather than a classroom because an atrium is a place for community life, prayerful work, and conversation with God. During our time together, we make time for silence. The silence is not stumbled upon but purposefully made. It is also not a tool for control when things get noisy; it is regularly prepared for. This is what I have especially learned from these children. True silence is a choice. Practise Makes Perfect In the CGS atrium, we speak about ‘making silence.’ We don’t find it, we aren’t surprised by it. With a regular routine, with intention and attentiveness, we make silence. I didn’t realize how little silence was in my life until I was asked to purposefully make silence each week. This is not for a long time, only fifteen seconds to a minute, two at the most. But in that brief period, my entire focus and goal was making my whole self to be still and silent. There are moments in my everyday routine where I might encounter a period of quiet, but the silence itself was not the goal of the moment. I may be driving in the car alone, perhaps a few minutes of quiet while my children read or are otherwise occupied in another area of the house. After reflecting on the practice of making silence, I have begun distinguishing between ‘found quiet’ and ‘made silence.’ Making silence is a practice. It involves not only pausing one’s speech but also one’s body. I am sitting in silence as I type these words, but my mind and body are not still. Perhaps you are sitting in silence while you read this article. But even the act of reading negates the making of silence. We live in a very busy world. Background noise abounds even when we are at home. We have timers, televisions, reminders, music, vehicle noise, air conditioning units, and doors opening and closing. While it would be lovely to be able to enclose ourselves in a soundproof room to practice making silence in the utmost quiet, most of us do not have such a place available. This does not mean we cannot make authentic silence. Making silence is about quieting ourselves more than insisting on quiet in our environment. The Art of Listening Making silence provides the opportunity to listen to the world around you. By stilling our body, stilling our words, and as best we can, stilling our minds, we are able to listen with greater attentiveness to the world around us. At home, we more readily hear the air conditioning unit working, which gives us the opportunity to be thankful for its cooling breeze. When outdoors, we hear the wind rustle the leaves of the trees or can appreciate more fully the birdsong around us. Making silence is not about the absence of other sounds, but about discovering silence and stillness within your own self. As people of faith, making silence also means listening with the ears of our hearts for the whispering of the Holy Spirit. In the atrium, every so often, the lead catechist will ask the children what they heard in the silence. Some will answer with the things one might expect. “I heard the door close.” “I heard a truck drive by.” Sometimes, however, they astonish me. “I heard Jesus say I love you.” “I heard the Good Shepherd.” We can learn a great deal from making silence. Practically speaking, we learn self-control and patience. But even more importantly, we learn to rest in the beauty of the truth of Psalm 46:10, “Be still and know that I am God.”
By: Kate Taliaferro
More