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Can a thought become a sin? It’s time to reflect.
As long back as I can remember, I had been a good Christian, going to Church regularly and getting involved in Church activities, but nobody could guess that I was simply going through the motions. In 2010 however, an incident shook me to the core and led me to hear the voice of God amidst the anguish. This revelation helped me begin my journey to becoming a true Christian.
Veronica and I were not the best of friends; we hung out together because our boys brought us together. But we were friends who genuinely liked each other and mothers who loved our children. She was sweet, beautiful, and a genuinely kind person. My son was her son’s best friend.
On August 28, 2010, Veronica called me and asked if my son could spend the night at her house. Though I had allowed him to, dozens of times before, that night, for some reason, I was uneasy. I told her no, but that he could go over and play for the afternoon and that I would pick him up before dinner. Around 4 o’clock, I drove over to her house to pick him up. As I stood in Veronica’s kitchen area and chatted about our boys, she told me how each of them had a gift and what special children they were. She had taken them to the grocery store to buy their favorite ice cream. My son also wanted cereal, which she generously bought for him and gave me to take home for him. I thanked her and drove away.
The next morning, I woke up to the news that she had been murdered. Right there, where I had stood talking to her the evening before…Her soon-to-be ex-husband had hired a hitman to murder her because they were separated, and really who knows why else. I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t stop crying.
In my agony, I lay on my bedroom floor crying, wailing really. A beautiful young mother, 39 years old, murdered, leaving behind her 8-year-old son motherless. And for what? I cried out to God in anguish and anger. How could You let this happen? Why Lord?
In the midst of my anguish, a thought came over me. And for the first time in my life, I recognized this thought as the voice of God. God said, “I don’t want this; people choose this.” I asked God, “What, what in the world can I do in this awful place?” He answered me, “Susan, good in the world starts with you.” I began to think. I thought about how I had seen Veronica and her husband in church together, and I wondered how a person who was plotting murder could even attend church. God answered me again.
He told me that her husband did not start out as a murderer but that his sin had grown in his heart, gone unchecked, and he had been led down a long dark path. I remembered the Bible verse, “But I tell you that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart” (Matthew 5:28). That moment, this verse made sense to me. I had always thought, “How can a thought be a sin?” After Veronica’s murder, it all made sense to me. Sin starts in your heart and takes over once you act on it with your hands. And if we never take the time to examine our conscience or think about what is right and what is wrong, chances are, we can really go down a wrong path.
So Lord, “What can I do?” He told me that the only person I could control was myself—that I could choose to love and spread that love outward. For me, this meant examining my own conscience and trying to become a better person. Did I love my enemy? Or even my neighbor, for that matter? The answer, unfortunately, was a resounding NO. I was dismayed when I realized I had not been loving towards the people around me.
In the Catholic Church, we have the Sacrament of Confession, where we go to a priest and confess our sins. I had always disliked this Sacrament and dreaded going for it. But here, in this place, crying on the ground, I found it to be a gift. A gift I was actually grateful for. In telling my sins, I was able to encounter Christ. I had a confession like I had never had before. In this Sacrament, I received the grace that Jesus offers to us when we choose to ask for it. I took a good hard look at myself, and my selfishness started to burn away because of my encounter with God’s unconditional love at the confessional. The Sacrament makes me try to do better, and though I know that I am a sinner and will continue to have failures, I can always look to receiving His sanctifying grace and forgiveness no matter what. This helps me to spread His goodness forward. I don’t think you have to be a Catholic to understand this.
Veronica’s murder was not my fault, but I would definitely not let her die in vain; I would not let her life be snuffed out without letting others know the impact it had on me and that good could come out of the ashes of such awful circumstances. Thus, my journey toward being truly Christian began.
I thought of Veronica in the Bible. While Jesus suffered during His Passion, making His way to Golgotha, bloodied and beaten, He came across a woman also named Veronica. Veronica wiped the face of Jesus. A small act of kindness. This man, this God-man, was bloodied, beaten, tired, and in agony, yet this woman, Veronica, provided a brief respite. A few seconds where the sweat and blood were wiped away, and for a moment, however short, he felt love from this woman. It did not stop His Passion nor His suffering, but in a world that was mocking Him, scourging Him, that woman’s touch with the cloth must have felt glorious. So, He imprinted His image on her cloth.
The name “Veronica” means “True Image.” Jesus left Veronica the mark of His love. And so, because of my friend, Veronica, who also provided me with love and respite during a tough time in my life, I must spread love and kindness wherever I go. I cannot stop suffering, but I can offer that respite to those who are lost, poor, lonely, unwanted, or unloved. And so, for me, I will wipe the Face of Jesus for as long as His grace and mercy allow me to.
Susan Skinner is a wife, mom, caregiver, and writer. Currently, she is the director of Adult Faith Formation and RCIA at Saint Philip Catholic Church in Franklin, TN.
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
MoreAs a cradle Catholic, I was taught that forgiveness is one of the cherished values of Christianity, and yet I struggle to practice it. The struggle soon became a burden as I started focusing on my inability to forgive. During Confession, the priest pointed to the forgiveness of Christ: “He did not just forgive them, but he prayed for their redemption.” Jesus said: “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” This prayer of Jesus reveals an often-neglected fragment. It clearly unveils that the gaze of Jesus was not on the pain or the cruelty of the soldiers but on their lack of knowledge of the truth. Jesus picked this fragment to intercede for them. The message dawned on me that my forgiveness has to sprout from giving space to the unknown fragments of the other person and even myself. I now feel lighter and more joyful because previously, I was dealing exclusively with the known factors—the hurt that others caused, the words that they spoke, and the brokenness of hearts and relationships. Jesus has already left the gates of forgiveness wide open for me, I just have to tread on this path of humbly acknowledging the unknown fragments within myself and others. The awareness of the unknown fragments also adds layers of meaning to what Jesus means when He invites us to walk the extra mile. It occurred to me that forgiveness is a journey commencing from the act of forgiveness to an honest intercession. This moment of walking the extra mile, by praying for the good of those who have hurt me, is my walk through Gethsemane. And this is my total surrender to His will. He has lovingly called everyone to eternity and who am I to cause a barrier with my ego and resentment? Opening our hearts to unknown fragments mends our relations with one another and leads us to a deeper relationship with God, giving us and others access to His abundant peace and freedom.
By: Emily Sangeetha
MoreDoes God have preferences and favorites? My father, a first-generation Italian immigrant, had a warm, colorful, and inviting family. You’d be welcomed into their homes with double-cheeked kisses just as ever-present aromas of either espresso, garlic, focaccia, or cannoli welcomed your nose and stomach. My mother, on the other hand, had generations of thick deep multicultural roots in Kentucky. Her side of the family made the best southern apple pies, but had more distant and refined demeanors and affections. Each side of the family had its own set of behaviors and custom expectations to follow, and it was confusing to understand which way was correct. These differences and the perceived need to choose between both have been a foundational dilemma for me. It seems as though I’ve always been trying to understand the world by seeking the ultimate source of truth. Making Sense of it All Throughout life, I’ve tried to find reasoning in how and why the world, and all its parts, function together. God must have known I’d be destined to question things and be inquisitive of His creations because He made sure I was pointed in the right direction to turn to Him. The Catholic Elementary school I attended had a young wonderful nun as one of my teachers. She seemed to have the same love and curiosity of the world that God had given me. If she didn’t have all the answers, I was pretty certain she knew who did. We were taught that there was only one God and we were all made in the image and likeness of God. We’re unique, and God loves us all very much. He loved us so much that even before Adam and Eve knew the depth and ramifications of their sin, God already had the merciful plan of sending Jesus, His Son, to save us from that original sin. There was so much in that lesson for a little girl to unpack and understand. It still leaves me asking questions. However, it was the ‘image and likeness’ part of that lesson that I had to explore. Observing my family, classroom, and community, it was obvious there were vast differences in hair color, skin color, and other features. If we are all unique, yet made in the image and likeness of only ONE God, then what did He look like? Was He dark-haired like me? Or blonde like my best friend? Was His skin olive colored, that tanned deeply in the summer, like my father’s and mine, or was He fair-skinned like my Mom, who turned red and burnt easily under the hot Kentucky sun? Beautiful Varieties I grew up with variety, was comfortable with variety, and loved variety, but I wondered—did God have a preference? In Kentucky, in the 1960s, it was apparent that even if God didn’t have a preference, some people did. That was so hard for me to understand. Didn’t the young Sister tell me that God made all of us? Doesn’t that mean that He purposely made all the wonderful varieties in this world? I searched for the source of truth and sometime in my early 30s, a deep yearning to learn more about God led me straight into prayer and the Scripture. Here, I was blessed to learn that He was also looking for me. Psalm 51:6 spoke straight to my heart: “Behold, You desire truth in the innermost being, therefore teach me wisdom in my secret heart.” As time passed, God showed me there was a difference in the way He saw things versus how the world viewed things. The more I read the Bible, prayed, and asked questions, the more I came to know that God is the source of truth. “Jesus said to him, ‘I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.’” (John 14:6) How wonderful it was to finally understand that Jesus is the source of truth! However, that was not all! God was the teacher now, and He wanted to make sure I understood the lesson. “Again Jesus spoke to them, saying: I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life.’” (John 8:12) I had to read it again…Jesus said: ”I am the light of the world…” My brain began to speed up, gears began to engage, and things began to fall into place. My childhood science lessons taught me that ‘light is the source of all colors.’ Therefore, if Jesus is light, then He encompasses all the colors; all colors of the human race. That nagging childhood question was finally answered. What Color is God? Quite simply, He is light. We are made in His image and likeness, and He has no preference for color because He is ALL color! All His colors are in us, and all our colors are in Him. We are all God’s children, and we are to “live as children of light” (Ephesians 5:8). So, why is the world so sensitive about the many wonderful colors of human skin? God doesn’t prefer one color to another, so why should we? God loves us and all the variety of colors that He made us. It is quite simple, we are called to reflect Him. We are called to bring His light into the world. In other words, we are called to bring God’s presence into the world that doesn’t see things as God wants it to see things. He needs and wants all our varieties to complete His image. Let’s try to reflect Him in this world by being the light we are created from and for. As God’s children whom He loves, let us begin to appreciate all His images as part of the ONE God that made us.
By: Teresa Ann Weider
MoreThe auction was closing, but one item remained unwanted. It was fierce competition with buyers competing to outbid each other for everything that was on offer. They eagerly snapped up all the items and the auction was closing up except for one single item—an old violin. Keen to find a buyer, the auctioneer held the string instrument in his hands and offered what he thought was an attractive price: “If anyone is interested, I would sell it for $100.” A deathly hush filled the room. As it became apparent that even that price was not enough to convince anyone to buy the old violin, he reduced the price to $80, then $50, and finally, in desperation, to $20. After another bout of silence, an old gentleman who sat at the back asked: “May I have a look at the violin, please?” The auctioneer, relieved that someone was showing interest in the old violin, conceded. At least the stringed instrument faced the prospect of finding a new owner and home. A Maestro’s Touch The old man rose from his seat at the back, slowly walked to the front, and carefully examined the old violin. Taking out his handkerchief, he dusted the surface and gently tuned each string until, one by one, they were in the right tones. Finally, and only then, did he place the old violin between his chin and left shoulder, lift the bow with his right hand, and start playing a piece of music. Each musical note from the old violin penetrated the silence in the room and danced delightfully in the air. It stunned everyone, and they listened attentively to what was coming out of the instrument in the hands of what was obvious to all—a maestro. He played a familiar classical hymn. The melody was so beautiful that it quickly enchanted everyone at the auction and they were awestruck. They had never heard of or even witnessed anyone playing music so beautifully, let alone on an old violin. And they never thought for one moment it would catch their fancy later on when the auction resumed. He finished playing and calmly returned the violin to the auctioneer. Before the auctioneer could even ask everyone in the room if they would still like to buy it, there was a rush in the raising of hands. Everyone suddenly wanted it after the impromptu masterly performance. From an unwanted item a short while earlier, the old violin was suddenly the focus of the most intense bidding competition of the auction. From the starting bid of $20, the price immediately shot up to $500. The old violin was ultimately sold for $10,000, which was 500 times more than its lowest asking price. Astounding Transformation It took only 15 minutes for the old violin to be transformed from something nobody wanted into the star of the auction. And it took a maestro musician to tune up its strings and play a wonderful melody. He showed that what looked unattractive on the outside was actually a beautiful and priceless soul inside the instrument. Perhaps, like the old violin, our lives normally do not seem to have much worth at first. But if we hand them over to Jesus, who is the maestro above all maestros, then He will be able to play beautiful songs through us and their melodies will stun listeners even more. Our lives, then, will catch the world’s attention. Everyone would then want to listen to the music that He produces out of our lives. The story of this old violin reminds me of my own story. I was metaphorically just like that old violin and nobody thought that I would be useful or could be doing something worthwhile with my life. They looked at me as if I had no value. However, Jesus took pity on me. He turned around, looked at me, and asked me: “Peter, what do you want to do with your life?” I said: "Master, where do you live?" “Come and see,” Jesus answered. So I came and saw where He lived, and stayed with Him. On the past 16th of July, I celebrated the 30th anniversary of my priesthood ordination. To know and experience Jesus’ great love for me…how could I thank Him enough? He has turned the old violin into something new and given it great value. Lord, may our lives become Your musical instrument, like that old violin, so that we may produce beautiful music people can sing forever, giving thanks and praise to Your wonderful love.
By: Father Peter Hung Tran
MoreLittle had I expected when I began this efficacious prayer... “O Little Thérèse of the Child Jesus, please pick for me a rose from the Heavenly garden and send it to me as a message of love.” This request, the first of three that compose the ‘Send Me a Rose’ Novena to Saint Thérèse, grabbed my attention. I was lonely. Lonely in a new city, longing for new friends. Lonely in a new life of faith, longing for a friend and role model. I was reading about Saint Thérèse, my baptismal namesake, without warming up to her. She had lived in passionate devotion to Jesus since she was 12 years old and petitioned the Pope to enter the Carmelite monastery at age 15. My own life had been so very different. Where’s My Rose? Thérèse had been filled with zeal for souls; she had prayed for the conversion of a notorious criminal. From the hidden world of the convent of Carmel, she devoted her prayer to interceding for missionaries spreading the love of God in far-off places. Lying on her deathbed, this holy nun from Normandy had told her sisters: “After my death, I will let fall a shower of roses. I will spend my Heaven doing good on earth.” The book I was reading said that since her death in 1897, she had showered the world with many graces, miracles, and even roses. “Maybe she will send me a rose,” I thought. This was the very first Novena I ever prayed. I didn’t think much about the prayer’s two other requests–namely the favor of interceding with God for my intention and to believe intensely in God’s great love for me so that I might imitate Thérèse’s Little Way. I don’t recall what my intention was and I had no understanding of Thérèse’s Little Way. I was focused solely on the rose. On the morning of the ninth day, I prayed the Novena for the last time. And waited. Maybe a florist will deliver roses today. Or maybe my husband will come home from work with roses for me. By the end of the day, the only rose that had crossed my doorstep was printed on a card that came in a pack of greeting cards from a missionary order. It was a bright red, beautiful rose. Was this my rose from Thérèse? My Unseen Friend Once in a while, I prayed the Send Me a Rose Novena again. Always with similar results. Roses would show up in little, hidden places; I would meet someone named Rose, see a rose on a book cover, in the background of a photo, or on a friend’s table. Eventually, St. Thérèse came to mind any time I glimpsed a rose. She had become a companion in my daily life. Leaving the Novena behind, I found myself asking her intercession in life’s struggles. Thérèse was now my unseen friend. I read about more and more Saints, marveling over the variety of ways these men, women, and children had lived a passionate love for God. Knowing this constellation of people, whom the Church has declared with certainty are in Heaven, gave me hope. In every place and in every life, it must be possible to live with heroic virtue. Holiness is possible even for me. And there were role models. Lots of them! I tried imitating Saint Francis de Sales’ patience, Saint John Bosco’s attention and gentle guidance for each child in his care, and Saint Elizabeth of Hungary’s charity. I was grateful for their examples that helped me along the way. They were important acquaintances, but Thérèse was more. She had become my friend. A Jump-Start Eventually, I read The Story of a Soul, Saint Thérèse’s autobiography. It was in this personal testimony that I first began to understand her Little Way. Thérèse imagined herself spiritually as a very little child capable of only very small tasks. But she adored her Father and did each little thing with great love, and as a gift for the Father who loved her. The bond of love was greater than the size or success of her undertakings. This was a new approach to life for me. My spiritual life was at a standstill at that time. Maybe Thérèse’s Little Way could jumpstart it. As the mom of a large and active family, my circumstances were far different from Thérèse’s. Maybe I could try approaching my daily tasks with the same loving attitude. In the littleness and hiddenness of my home, much as the convent had been for Thérèse, I could try to do each task with love. Each could be a gift of love for God; and by extension, of love for my husband, my child, the neighbor. With some practice, each diaper change, each meal I placed on the table, and every load of laundry became a small offering of love. My days became easier, and my love for God grew stronger. I was no longer lonely. In the end, it took far longer than nine days, but my impulsive request for a rose set me on a path to a new spiritual life. Through it, Saint Thérèse reached out to me. She drew me into love, to the love that is the communion of the Saints in Heaven, into practicing her “Little Way” and, most of all, into greater love for God. Ultimately I received far more than a rose! Did you know that Saint Thérèse’s feast is on October 1? Happy feast to the Therese-namesakes out there.
By: Erin Rybicki
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