This past week, on the wonderful solemnity of the Annunciation of the Lord, the refrain of the day’s responsorial psalm (Ps. 40) spoke powerfully to me. 

​Maybe Someone wanted to make sure I got the message😊…I had the opportunity to hear it twice due to my participation in the evening Mass at the parish where we teach religion, in conjunction with a special gathering there.

Within going into detail, I’ve faced some difficulties and uncertainties in the past several months.
 
The above-mentioned psalm really taught me a lesson, this week, about how I should approach challenging situations which are out of my control. 

I am learning (I hope), thanks to the inspiration from this psalm, to face these frustrations, not by trying to get my way or wondering why things aren’t happening as I think they should, but by repeating the prayer: “Here I am, Lord; I come to do your will.” 
 
It is becoming clearer to me that, even if things don’t fall into place as I’d like, if I keep turning to the Lord with trust and resignation, that is what matters.  He will take care of the rest.  He knows best, and is able to make “all things work together for good.”
 
In my American tendency toward self-reliance, it is easy for me to fall into the trap of wanting to figure out and handle things myself.  Of course, I pray about them, but sometimes I get the attitude that I know what is best and, if I fight hard enough, maybe it will happen. 
 
Reflecting on this verse, though, in company with Our Lady, I have been directed in a new and more freeing direction. 
 
Making the prayer: “Here I am, Lord; I come to do your will.” in moments of frustration or difficulty is comforting, and I hope it can become a fruitful habit for me in the weeks, months, and years to come.

​Last evening, as we concluded our celebration of the Epiphany, we watched the 1985 movie, The Fourth Wise Man.  This compelling story is actually based on a book with a slightly different title, The Story of the Other Wise Man. 
 
Saturday morning, when we met for our semi-monthly convent scripture sharing, where we prayed with and discussed the gospel for the morrow, this story came to my memory. 
 
One evening in my early adolescence, my dad had read the story to us kids.  It was so enthralling that we kept him reading far into the evening. 
 
Last night, as on that evening years ago, I was deeply touched by the story.  Its implicit urging to live the Gospel actually brought me to tears and encouraged me to be more generous in how I respond to “the least of my brothers”…whenever and however I may meet them throughout the day. 
 
The movie, and the book that preceded it, is not a sermon on social justice.  It does not quote from the Catechism, nor does it share adages from the saints on the moral life.  Instead it shares an imaginative account of a fourth magi who never made his rendezvous with Casper, Melchior, and Balthazar but found the sought-after King in each needy person before him.
 
I don’t want to say too much to give away the story for any readers here who have not yet experienced its simple beauty, but if you want to be renewed in your life of generous discipleship, watching or reading it could be a great help.   ​

Wow!  It’s been a long time since I’ve written…I’m sorry about that.  It seems that, between life getting busy and me not feeling inspired, the weeks have passed by.
 
I guess, to be honest, I’m in a better position to write today than I would have been for a couple of weeks. 
 
​I’ve been really struggling with a certain situation, wondering what I should do (if anything) and how it would all turn out.  It’s been a difficult time for me. 
 
I had been bringing it to prayer, trying to surrender and trust, but I’d been finding very little peace. 
 
A couple of days ago, I started praying more just for the grace to trust in this situation.  All along, though, I had been handing it over to Our Lord, sitting before Him in the Tabernacle and also at Mass. 
 
However, I wasn’t finding myself really able to trust that He would take care of the situation and make it work out ok. 
 
I had also, of late, renewed my efforts of praying for the intercession of “all the angels and saints.”    In particular, I called upon St. Pio (in light of his recent feast day and other circumstances) and St. Francis. 
 
Either late last night or early this morning, though, something changed.  I had a distinct realization which I am now struggling to put into words. 
 
It became clear to me that Jesus would make the situation work out as He saw fit, as He knew best.  As I had been reminding myself, He is all-powerful, all-wise, and all good.  He is totally able to take care of it and make things fall into place in the way that is best for all concerned.  I realized anew that it is not my job to take care of this situation.  I just need to step back, take a deep breath, and let Him work it out. 
 
I’m not promising that I will do this perfectly, but I am praying that I can persevere in this attitude, whatever comes. 

Sr. Christina M. Neumann, OSF

A couple of days ago, I was heading back from my home visit in Minnesota.  The fields were beautiful and green. 
 
It was a nice afternoon for a drive, as we passed farms and small towns along the interstate. 
 
Going past these agricultural areas reminded me of a verse of scripture which was appropriate for me at this time: “No one who sets a hand to the plow and looks to what was left behind is fit for the kingdom of God” (Luke 9:62). 
 
This time of heading back, of leaving my childhood home and loved ones, was an opportunity for me.  It led me to renew my response to our Lord’s invitation to follow Him in the Consecrated Life, to leave behind what I held dear. 
 
As we passed the verdant fields of growing crops, this scripture passage reminded me to look ahead and follow Jesus rather than dwelling on what is left behind. 
 
These reflections came after several days with my mom and family in the Twin Cities.  A couple of days before, one of our Sisters had brought a visitor from Germany to the Cities so she could see and experience the area before they gave me a ride back to Hankinson. 
 
She had commented on what a wonderful area it was and how vibrant the Church is there; she mentioned what a sacrifice it had been for me to leave the Archdiocese. 
 
I did not say much in response, but I sensed the truth in these words.  As I reflect on this further, now, I think about how much our Sisters from Germany gave up in coming to America…how countless others made similar or greater sacrifices than mine. 

I realize that each of us makes sacrifices in our life of discipleship.  Personally, I really appreciate the daily opportunity to bring such sacrifices and struggles, as well as joys and hopes, to the Mass as I join my Sisters in prayer.  Another wonderful part of living in the convent is having Jesus present in our own home.   The consoling realization that He is just down the hall can bring joy to even the dreariest of days, when the grass doesn’t look so green and the sun isn’t shining so brightly.
 
I hope that the beautiful fields and flowers and summertime bring us all to lift our hearts in gratitude as we set our hands to the plow…and…our eyes on our Lord.  

Today’s reading from Acts continues the theme from last week’s reflection here about unlocked doors. 

St. Luke’s description here is quite vivid. 

As I read it, I find myself picturing the scene in that Philippian prison two-thousand years ago. 

I can almost see Paul and Silas there, singing hymns at night. 

I imagine the scene of the jail shaking and the doors flying open. 

I almost cringe as I read the words about the soldier, as the picture of a uniformed man unsheathing his sword in despair, comes before my mind’s eye. 

Thankfully, Paul’s voice catches him in time, and the story takes a positive turn as we learn of the soldier’s subsequent hospitality, care, and conversion. 

What started in the darkness and uncertainty of that night ends in a bright new day of hope, joy, and new faith. 

A lot happened within the course of the night!

As the days of this beautiful Easter season speed so quickly past us, I pray that our faith, which has been thus renewed, may bear fruit in our lives in the world today. 

You and I probably won’t convert a soldier or be miraculously released from prison, but I suspect that Our Lord has a mission today for each of us. 

As we pray for the coming of the Holy Spirit, perhaps one of our intentions might be that He would help us to be open to that mission and attentive to His promptings. 

This morning’s reading from Acts recounts the Apostles’ miraculous departure from prison “during the night.”  By early morning, they were back to their task of teaching in the temple as charged by the angel. 
 
As I write this, I am nearing the end of my second consecutive night of working the 10 to 6 shift in our infirmary.  By early morning (after lauds and Mass), I hope to be napping!  😊
 
I wonder if the apostles were tired after their less than restful night, or if their excitement and enthusiasm for spreading the Good News drove out any feelings of fatigue.
 
In another account of imprisonment in the Acts of the Apostles (16:25), we hear of Paul and Silas spending their nocturnal hours in prayer and hymn-singing. 
 
It feels a bit backwards, when beginning the night shift, to say prayers like: “…watch over us when as we sleep” or “…grant us a restful night…”   It almost seems like I should switch these two “liturgical hours,” praying morning prayer at 10 p.m. and compline close to 6 a.m.
 
Nonetheless, whether I am sleeping normal hours or working through the night, I know that my heart should be lifted in praise, like the apostles’, to the one who knows “my resting and my rising” (Ps. 139).

​​As we approach these holiest days of the year, memories surface from Passiontides past­- both recent and from years ago. 

My understanding is that the last two weeks of Lent fall under this sub-seasonal category.

We are on the cusp of a somber, yet beautiful time, a particularly holy time. Soon, crosses will be covered.  

Things are going to be so different for me this year, living in a different place and not being sacristan anymore.  I can remember, in the past, wishing that I could just participate in the liturgies of Holy Week without having to coordinate or prepare for them.  Now, I am feeling somewhat nostalgic and almost wishing that I were still in that position. 
 
I can remember getting our brown suitcase down from the top cabinets in the sacristy; it held all the special things we would need: violet-colored cross covers, the wooden clapper, things for the Easter candle, and more. 
 
Even outside the liturgy, there are so many special and unique things tied to Holy Week  Two of my favorites are dyeing Easter eggs on Holy Saturday afternoon and making Hot Cross Buns to serve on Holy Thursday. 
 
I can also remember doing a thorough cleaning of the sanctuary and of candles and the vigil light rack during the last days of Holy Week.  The timing was perfect in more ways than one.  
 
It will be interesting to see what customs arise here for me.  

Have a blessed Passiontide!

When I work until 10 o’clock in our infirmary, I find it hard to get up at my preferred rising time to make it to chapel for a full hour before lauds at 6:30 a.m. 
 
Consequently, this morning, I made my meditation after Mass instead of before.  I heard the readings given us for this Wednesday of the 2nd Week of Lent.

Lately, I have been going through a list of scripture passages which were suggested to me for prayer, but this morning’s gospel from Matthew struck me.  I decided that I would use it, instead, for my scriptural prayer. 
 
“As Jesus was going up to Jerusalem, he…said to them on the way, ‘Behold, we are going up to Jerusalem, and the Son of Man will be handed over to the chief priests and the scribes, and they will condemn him to death, and hand him over to the Gentiles to be mocked and scourged and crucified, and he will be raised on the third day.’ ”   (Matt. 20:17-18) 
 
What struck me today was that Jesus knew what awaited Him.  He knew a horrendous death and untold sufferings were in store for Him in Jerusalem.  Yet, He was going there freely. 
 
What courage and love this must have taken!
 
I realized that I, on the other hand, do not know what my “cross” will be, this day or in the future.
 
I do not have the courage or strength to meet it on my own. 
 
Thankfully, I can ask strength and courage from “our brave shepherd,” as the liturgy calls Him (Collect of the Fourth Sunday of Easter). 
 
Today’s gospel provides us with beautiful inspiration as we strive to follow the One who “did not come to be served but to serve and to give his life as a ransom for many.” (Matt. 20:28)
 
What an example we are given! 
 
May we always take up the crosses that come to us with the love and courage He provides!

Last evening, I had a kind of wild shift in St. Mary’s (our infirmary unit).  Around 9 p.m., one of the Sisters told me that the big lights were on in chapel. 
 
There is a balcony there, we call it the choir loft, which overlooks the chapel. 
 
I had noticed the lights a little while earlier, but had kind of assumed that our chaplain was doing something in there.  Being busy, I hadn’t checked back on the situation. 
 
The concerned Sister told me that she had called out: “Is anyone in here besides Jesus?” 
 
I had to chuckle.  It was a dear, but practical witness to Our Lord’s Eucharistic presence.  She knew He was there.  What she wanted to know was if anyone else was there, explaining for this use of the lights. 
 
I told her that I would take care of it and hurried down the stairs to turn off the unused lights in the chapel. 
 
As I entered the chapel, I could here her call out her question again.  I turned off the lights and went back upstairs. 
 
Sometimes, something as mundane as conserving electricity can remind us of Christ’s love, His constant presence with us. 
 
Thanks be to God for these reminders and for the wondrous gift of the Eucharist in which He is always here!

Soon, we will be entering the holy season of Lent with its plentiful opportunities for deepening our faith and life of prayer…parish missions and Stations of the Cross, carefully chosen personal practices of self-enrichment and self-denial, group volunteer opportunities…and the list goes on.  
 
Sometimes, though, our entrance into the holy is not preplanned and is not part of any community-wide program for formation or renewal.  Sometimes, oftentimes, the holy comes to meet is right where we’re at.
 
Last night, I was helping a Sister with bedtime preparations as I neared the last leg of my shift in our infirmary.  As I was doing so, I happened to catch a glimpse of the crucifix hanging on the wall in the adjoining room.  
 
Something in this struck a chord with me.  It was a beautiful reminder of Christ’s presence in this Sister, in this moment.  It spoke to my heart, telling me that this was, indeed, a holy moment.  
 
I may go about my day doing any number of things, updating a webpage, creating a flyer, promoting upcoming retreats, or even cleaning a bathroom.  What I do need not be something sophisticated, complex, or potentially beneficial to a large group of people.  
 
In caring for one person with patience, kindness, and even a little humor, I am given the privilege of caring for Jesus.  
 
I use the word “privilege" very intentionally here.  One of our recent popes commented on this, sharing that those involved in acts of mercy will realize that they are truly receivers in this role and not only givers.  The line in the prayer attributed to St. Francis that says, “it is in giving that we receive” rings true.  
 
As we anticipate the Lenten season of grace, I pray that you and I may be more aware of the special moments that fill our day and that you, too, may have beautiful glimpses into Christ’s presence in your everyday encounters.  This awareness, in turn, can lead to gratitude.
 
If we are aware, we have so many opportunities to meet our Lord in the mundane - or rather the holy - moments of our lives.  

​Things are quite lovely around our Provincial House here as we continue to celebrate Christmas.  As you might expect for a Franciscan convent, manger scenes are quite prevalent here.  I got to help put up one on the second floor here.
 
As Franciscans, this Christmas is a special one for us as we mark the 80th anniversary of St. Francis’ first reenactment of the nativity scene at the town of Greccio at the midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, 1223.  This allowed people to enter into what that experience must have been like. 
 
It is sometimes noted, even in our Constitutions, that St. Francis had great and special devotion to Jesus: “in the Crib, on the Cross, and in the Eucharist.”  
 
These pivotal aspects of our faith, especially as Franciscans, were beautifully depicted to us this Christmas in our chapel. 
 
Here, Sr. Mary Ruth and Sr. Susan Marie, made a lovely display which included a cross, the Baby Jesus and a chalice. 
 
As the new year approaches, may we rededicate ourselves to striving to grow in love for our Lord, who is so generous with us.  We would do well to make time to ponder on these three great mysteries with gratitude.

This morning, I got out of bed at the sound of my alarm and got ready for the day before heading down to chapel.  Since it was Saturday, we would use the small, Sacred Heart Chapel for Mass.  Before Mass, there would be Simple Exposition, where the tabernacle was opened and Jesus was visible.  
 
This would not be happening for a while yet, though, and so when I got to Chapel, I prayed the rosary, enjoying the dark stillness around me as I sat in His presence.  
 
I finished my formal prayers and, by this time, our Sister sacristan was preparing for Mass.  I got my missal ready for meditation on the day’s readings.  
 
I saw her light the candles by the tabernacle and prepare to open the door, kneeling for what I knew was soon to come.  
 
It was a treat being able to glance up at Jesus as I read and prayed with His Word.  When this form of Exposition takes place in our large chapel, I’m not able to see Him; I love the closeness of this smaller space where I have most of my private daily prayer time.  
 
At 8 a.m., we had Mass.  Father consecrated an extra large host to “refresh” the Blessed Sacrament ​in the luna.  When it came to Communion time, I received part of the same large Host which had been in the tabernacle earlier this morning.  
 
I was awed and grateful at the realization that the One whom I had adored and communed with during this recent time of adoration was now coming to me physically, entering my very being.  I really knew this already, but the logistical fact of receiving from the same Host illuminated this wondrous mystery for me today.
 
What an amazing gift!  
 
As we prepare to celebrate Christmas tomorrow night, I realize that this same One is also the newborn King whose birth we are anticipating in joyful hope.  
 
I would like to close with a simple, but beautiful prayer which we traditionally make in our community during these days of Advent.  I feel it fits with my musings this morning:
Jesus, Jesus, come to me; make my heart a crib for Thee

November 11th has long been known as “Armistice Day” or, in this country, Veterans Day, and rightly so.  It is the anniversary of the end of the first world war, in which countless lives were lost.  
 
Another connection making the eleventh day of the eleventh month a fitting time to honor those who have risked their lives for their country in military service is that the saint whose feast we mark was, himself, a soldier.  
 
Saint Martin of Tours considered himself a soldier for Christ, and would eventually resign from military service to embrace the monastic life.
 
A less-known fact about his feast day is that, in times past, it was seen as the beginning of a more penitential time in preparation for Christmas.  Just as, before Easter, we prepare by roughly forty days of fasting, prayer, and alms-giving, people would prepare for the Lord’s birth in a somewhat similar manner in late fall and early winter.  The time beginning on November 11th, St. Martin’s Day, became known as “St. Martin’s Lent.”  
 
This reminds me of St. Francis, who also could be called a soldier for Christ, as he would undergo periods of fasting outside of those prescribed by the universal Church.  He would fast between the feast of the Assumption (August 15) and the feast of St. Michael (September 29).
 
Even if you and I never engage in military service, we, too, can be soldiers for Christ like St. Paul who “fought the good fight.”  
 
A large part of this battle is against our own selves and our sinful desires.  
 
We can look to saints like Martin and Francis for inspiration and prayer as we seek to serve our King, whether by offering our fasting, forgiveness, faithfulness or friendship.

Recent circumstances in our chapel here made me think of the gospel passage of the “Greeks” who came to the apostles, wanting to see Jesus - and - of Zacchaeus climbing a sycamore tree to this end...
 
As I unpacked last week, I happily removed the pair of binoculars from a suitcase, realizing that they could come in handy for me here in my new home.  
 
In fact, they could come in handy in chapel!
 
The chapel where we pray our common prayers is very large, and I sit quite far away from the tabernacle.  Actually, the sanctuary and space in front of the high altar is large, so anywhere one sits in the pews is at a distance.
 
During the week, we have simple exposition every day, in which the tabernacle is open and Jesus is visible.  
 
However, with my limited vision and the distance, I can’t really see Him.  I can’t distinguish or make out the form inside.  (From where I sit, I had thought I was simply seeing the ciborium containing the Blessed Sacrament.)
 
Having been told that Jesus is actually visible in a special pyx (the exact term escapes me now), I had been wondering about this.  However, I couldn’t just walk up close during this time of prayer together, so my lack of clarity and curiosity remained.
 
Now, though, with my binoculars which had been given me when I was gardening in Grand Forks, I was prepared to finally see Jesus at this time of prayer.  
 
I brought them to chapel in the morning, and was able to see clearly where Jesus was visible in the tabernacle.  This was really neat!
 
I’m still faced with a dilemma, though.
 
I’d love to be able to use the binoculars to look at Him in adoration, but I don’t want to distract others or draw attention to myself.  (I don’t want to look silly, either, I must say.)  Maybe, I sound silly writing this!
 
I guess that maybe I should learn a lesson from Zacchaeus, though, who didn’t let any pride stop him and found salvation for his house that day.
 
What a gift we have as Catholics, especially in places where there is frequent or perpetual Eucharistic adoration.  We can see, can have an audience with our King, without any special appointment.  Even if we can’t see Him, we can still visit and spend time with Him!  
 
What a gift!

The opening line of this Sunday’s epistle is one that makes my heart take a little leap!  Paul tells us that “the sufferings of this present time are as nothing compared with the glory to be revealed for us.”  
 
Wow!  
 
I don’t know about you, but I feel like I’ve had a fair share of suffering in the last few years.  From dealing with the manifold affects of a pandemic to workplace struggles to everything in between, the beginning of this second decade of the century hasn’t exactly been a breeze.  
 
There isn’t a time in history, though, that’s been immune from suffering, unless maybe you count the time before Adam and Eve made a world-shattering decision.   So, suffering is part of life for everyone, but that’s not my point.
 
The striking part is that, here, Paul is teaching us that despite how burdensome our current sufferings may seem, God’s plan is for something far greater.  Even if we feel like we’re in an abyss of sorrow, His plan for us in heaven goes to the opposite extreme - and beyond.  
 
Now, that’s encouraging!
 
Later in his passage, Paul brings in the image of a woman in labor, which fits in well with the above reflections.  I’ve never been in labor, but the analogy of creation groaning in labor pains makes sense to me.  It strikes me because a couple of people I was with were recently discussing the pains of childbirth and how their memory is soon overshadowed by the joy of a new life among us.  
 
I hadn’t realized that this poignant passage was in Romans, chapter eight, but I guess it shouldn’t come as a surprise.  This chapter, which comes right in the middle of the letter, is really a treasure-house of scriptural gems.  
 
Perhaps my favorite passage in the entire Bible comes a little later in the chapter, in verses 35-39, where Paul ponders over the power and steadfastness of Christ’s love:
“What will separate us from the love of Christ? Will anguish, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or the sword?…No, in all these things we conquer overwhelmingly through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor present things, nor future things, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

I was doing a bit of reading earlier today from a book discussing the Divine Mercy devotions.  
 
Interestingly, the author was trying to make a distinction between one of St. Faustina’s experiences and other some visions of saints.  He mentioned how, at that time, children outside of her convent had been drawn by a bright light coming from there, concluding that Jesus had actually come to the saint’s cell in His glorified body.  
 
I had never heard this before and found it thought-provoking, if nothing else.  
 
Without giving this assertion much additional consideration, I went on with my day, which included a visit to the Blessed Sacrament for some prayer time.  
 
As I was praying before the tabernacle, it dawned on me that Jesus had actually come here in His glorified body as well.  
 
In the tabernacle, there He was…there He is!  
 
We are so blessed!  We need not be a mystic or visionary to experience our Lord’s physical presence!  
 
I am not meaning, in any measure, to diminish the significance of one of the greatest saints of the past century, but, these reflections stirred my heart to greater appreciation for the gift of Christ’s Eucharistic presence.
 
His wondrous, physical presence is only as far away as the nearest tabernacle!
 
In the meantime, before I visit Him next there, I remain grateful for His presence with us spiritually.
 
He is faithful to His promise: “…I am with you always, until the end of the age!”

This morning, as Father was praying the Collect, a phrase stood out to me: “The brave shepherd.”  In this prayer, he also referred to us as the humble flock and to Jesus as the brave shepherd. 
 
Brave isn’t an adjective that I usually associate with Our Lord, but it really should be.  As I thought about it more, I realized what heroic courage it must have taken for Him to undergo His passion and death willingly, when He easily could have said “No thanks; I don’t think I’m up for it.” 
 
This bravery of Jesus speaks to me as I am faced with challenging circumstances which are pretty much out of my control. 
 
How do I face difficult days?  Do I run to my room and hide, or do I turn to my “brave shepherd,” relying on His grace and strength. 
 
Unlike Him, left to myself, I do not have what it takes to deal with my crosses.  However, as I prepare for Pentecost, I am reminded to ask Him to send His “Spirit of wisdom and understanding…of right judgment and courage,…of knowledge and reverence” (Rite of Confirmation) to help me. 
 
I need this “Gift of God Most High” to guide, strengthen and sustain me on the journey to where “the brave Shepherd has gone before.”

This guiding, shepherding presence was certainly with me last night as, despite my weariness, I was intent on getting a little table with the Good Shepherd statue set up behind the office for today’s “Good Shepherd Sunday.” 

Sr. Rebecca had always done this before, and I hadn't been able to locate the soft green cloth that she used. 
 
Dealing with another situation that I had not bargained for (and about which I was less than excited), I happened to go with a coworker into Sr. Rebecca’s storage room. 
 
There, sitting out, was the lovely green cloth that she had always used (or one that certainly resembled it). 
 
I spotted it with delight! 
 
After a little work, I had it on the table and a decorative square cloth even in place.  It will stay there for several weeks, if not months!
 
Now, whenever I pass by this area, I can be reminded of the brave Shepherd, on whose grace and help I am completely dependent.

Recently, I was reminded of a beautiful practice some of our friends in Europe have.  I was told the John Paul II even discussed it in his letter on the Rosary.
 
I’m trying to implement it, myself, now.
 
This custom, which I was first introduced to some years ago by my mother’s Austrian friend, is to insert a little phrase, which refers to the mystery at hand, in the middle of each Hail Mary. 
 
An example for the Third Joyful Mystery would be to pray each Ave as follows: “Hail Mary, full of grace…blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus, who was born at Bethlehem…Holy Mary…”
 
I had kind of forgotten about this custom, but, the last two days, it’s been really helpful in keeping my mind on track and preventing me from drifting off into other unrelated thoughts and preoccupations. 
 
As we approach Lent and pray the Sorrowful Mysteries more frequently, introducing this custom could be a very beautiful way of entering more deeply into Christ’s sufferings. 
 
Below are some examples of how we might pray these mysteries according to this fruitful custom:
1st Sorrowful Mystery: “…Jesus, who chose the Father’s will at Gethsemane…”
2nd Sorrowful Mystery: “…Jesus, who was scourged at the pillar…”
3rd Sorrowful Mystery: “…Jesus, who was crowned with thorns…”
4th Sorrowful Mystery: “…Jesus, who carried the cross for us…”
5th Sorrowful Mystery: “…Jesus, who died on the cross…”
 
I hope this practice helps you and me to pray more faithful and fruitfully.
 
Have a blessed Lent!

I went to bed pretty late (for me) last night – it was going on eleven, but I was filled with gratitude.  In keeping with this weekend’s theme of Gaudete, rejoicing, my heart was lifted. 
 
I had just returned from an evening out, having been invited for supper and a pinochle game at the home of a lady from our women’s group and her husband. 
 
They had taught me three-handed pinochle (I was only familiar with four-handed), and I even got to play with their two dogs!  I did have to borrow their lint brush before leaving, as evidence of this had been left behind on the bottom of my jumper!
 
It was such a refreshing break from the humdrumness of these cold, short December days.  I felt truly blessed! 
 
To top it all off, I actually won the pinochle game, with some coaching from my hosts, of course! 
~~~~~~~~~
It seems that this theme of rejoicing is bound to continue in the coming days. 
 
Liturgically, there are a number of special commemorations, my favorite of which is tomorrow, as we honor Our Lady of Guadalupe. 
 
Tuesday, we’ll celebrate St. Lucy, who is so loved and honored in the Scandinavian homelands of many of our ancestors.  She’s also the patron saint of people with vision problems, which is of significance to me. 
 
I have some work to do before her feast day, though, since I’m to make a festive taco dip for our annual staff in-service and potluck Tuesday afternoon.  I have cheese to grate, tomatoes to dice, and olives to slice for this tasty dish.  We already have the scoop tortilla chips to have with it. 
 
On Wednesday, which I’ll always remember as my dad’s birthday, the Church honors St. John of the Cross. 
 
Then, on Saturday, we start the O Antiphons, which are such a special part of these late Advent days.  I’m excited to get up the stand from the basement to display Sr. Elaine’s beautifully calligraphed verses. 
 
During the tough times of life, of which we all certainly have our share, it’s important to keep in mind words from today’s Mass:“Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say, rejoice. Indeed, the Lord is near.”  (Entrance Antiphon, Third Sunday of Advent)

This morning at Mass, Father reminded us of the importance of giving thanks.
 
The true meaning of this national holiday isn’t given the prominence it really deserves.  With Christmas decorations already up in many places, and big sales underway, one can easily forget the thanks giving part of this fourth Thursday in November. 
 
In speaking of the grateful leper in today’s gospel, Father pointed out that the Greek word used to refer to his action was Eucharisteo. 
 
As Catholics, that should sound very familiar to us.  After all, we come together to participate in the Eucharist on a regular basis. 
 
As you may know, this familiar sounding Greek word means: “He gave thanks.”  The Samaritan leper in today’s passage from Luke gave thanks for his healing, when his comrades did not. 
(How often I fail to give thanks to God for the many blessings I receive each day!)
 
Though I’m no scholar of ancient languages, I think the connection given us in the word used for the Sacrament of Sacraments, the Source and Summit of the Christian life, should definitely be a clue for us.
 
If eucharistia is at the very center of our faith, what does that tell us about the importance of gratitude to God should have in our lives?
 
I think this word gives us a glimpse into Christ’s own heart. 
 
The sacrifice of the Mass, which re-presents the paschal mystery for us, is an offering of thanksgiving to the Father.  Jesus wants us to be part of this thanksgiving.
 
Our thanksgiving, however, need not end when we walk out the church doors into a wintry morning. 
 
It can, and should, become a habit throughout our day. 
 
Thanksgiving is a pretty big deal!

Oh, Psalm 139!  I was blessed to be able to read it at Mass today. 
 
I had memorized much of it back in college, when I was accustomed to praying the Little Office of the Blessed Virgin Mary. 
 
For me, this psalm is a special scripture passage.  It touches and warms my heart.  I really like a couple of the hymns which have been adapted from it, such as “O God, You Search Me” and “You are Near.”  (We actually sang the former this morning at Mass.)
 
Amidst the struggles of life, it is wonderful to remember the message contained in this psalm.
 
If you’re having a tough day, or are in need of a reminder of God’s closeness, I’d encourage you to take a few moments and reflect upon this beautiful passage.  It wasn’t just relevant 3,000 years ago; it’s “living and effective” today as well. 

O LORD, you have probed me and you know me;
you know when I sit and when I stand;
you understand my thoughts from afar.
My journeys and my rest you scrutinize,
with all my ways you are familiar.

Where can I go from your spirit?
From your presence where can I flee?
If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
if I sink to the nether world, you are present there.

If I take the wings of the dawn,
if I settle at the farthest limits of the sea,
Even there your hand shall guide me,
and your right hand hold me fast.

Truly you have formed my inmost being;
you knit me in my mother's womb.
I give you thanks that I am fearfully, wonderfully made;
wonderful are your works.

I know it’s been a number of weeks since I’ve posted any reflections here.  I’m sorry, but I guess I’ve been busy and also not had much inspiration. 
 
As I embark on the final stretch of a fifteen hour stint at the reception desk, I realized that it’s been a while and that, perhaps, I’d better come up with something. 
 
Glancing at the USCCB’s daily readings webpage for inspiration, I saw that tomorrow’s selection is again from Ecclesiastes.  Skimming the words: “There is an appointed time for everything…A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to uproot the plant. A time to kill, and a time to heal…a time of war, and a time of peace,” I was struck by their timeless beauty. 
 
The truths proclaimed thousands of years ago are no less relevant today.
 
In this time when I, for one, face so much added stress and uncertainty, it’s good to remember the lessons contained here. 
 
In times of weeping, mourning, dying, uprooting, killing, tearing down, scattering, not embracing, losing, casting away, rending, hating, and war, I need to keep my gaze directed upward. 
 
It’s so easy to get caught up in the turmoil around me, on the storm.  I need to strive to keep my attention on the One who’s “got it all” and who can calm the storm with a single word. 
 
Whether he decides to end the tempest suddenly or chooses to walk with me through it, I need to entrust myself and my situation to Him, asking Him to stay close to me through it all.

This morning’s gospel reading about the call of St. Matthew resonated with me on a personal level, as I sat in chapel.  I had planned to sleep in, after working a third night shift within a week’s time, but I woke up and was wide awake; my clock told me it was close to 5:30 a.m.
 
This morning’s gospel told of how Jesus called Matthew, the tax collector, from his post.  This was the beginning of a whole new life for this former government employee.  You could say, he “did a 180.” 
 
I, too, have experienced a turnaround recently, and not just in my sleep schedule! 
 
I’ve been having a hard time lately, facing various challenges; it’s been a tough stretch. 
 
Yesterday, though, an unexpected conversation with our administrator was a game-changer.  Some issues were covered, and I came away with a fresh outlook on life.  With a special grace from above (yes, I’ve sure been praying), I did a 180! 
 
Often the work of our Divine Physician, who came “to seek and save what was lost” is accomplished through the simple things of life, even in something as unpretentious as good communication.   

As I neared the end of our annual six-day silent retreat, I started getting a bit restless.  During these days of quiet reflection, words from our constitutions resonated in my mind.  Although not speaking specifically of retreats, I think the passage’s application here was appropriate: “General penitential times of the Church and days of recollection should awaken in us a wholesome unrest.”  (Constitutions, 3:7)
 
I couldn’t help but wonder: What in the world is wholesome unrest? 
 
I could understand the unrest part.  Over 140 hours of silence (except for common prayer, table reading, and instrumental music at dinner), coupled with lack of one’s usual work routine, can make those of us with extrovert inclinations a bit stir crazy. 
 
Why, I wondered, is such a feeling considered “wholesome” by the writers of our constitutions?  Usually, we don’t think of things that disrupt our peace of soul in a positive light.  Wouldn’t unrest seem to fall into the category of “desolation,” which spiritual masters advise us to be cautious of? 
 
There must be something to it, though, some benefit derived from this restlessness of spirit which we consciously inflict on ourselves each year. 
 
In his closing conference, our retreat master compared annual retreats to stretching in the morning, as his cat routinely does. 
 
Perhaps, then, wholesome unrest stretches our spiritual muscles for better functioning throughout the year.