When word got out that Jesus had cured this man of leprosy, others wanted to seek Him out and receive the same. Complete healing. A miracle. And Jesus could have given them that. He could have stayed and He could have cured, but He withdrew and He prayed instead in today's Gospel, Luke 5:12-16. When I look at this story from the perspective of those suffering, I want healing for them too. I want Jesus to stay and give them what they want. Probably because I am one of them, looking for Him, and asking for His healing. But when I look at this story from Jesus' perspective, I consider how tiring His ministry must have been, what weight was on His shoulders, and how He just might have needed to rest—the rest that can only come from prayer. I think of how He needed time with the God the Father to prepare for what was to come, for what was next, and for the healing He would eventually offer to every single soul through His death and resurrection. I have sought rest from many different avenues—whatever you've read in a self-care article in a magazine, I'm sure I've tried. A lot of those things seem to boil down to pampering, though, and while some of them have left me feeling better, I know that that sort of rest looks and feels different than the kind that comes from rest found in prayer. Rest in prayer is still something I'm working on. It can feel uncomfortable to sit in silence with the Lord. Your mind wanders off. You work your way through your prayer petitions. And then what? More silence. But that's a space where God can work, where He can speak, and where we can receive. And that's the key to resting in prayer: receiving. What did Jesus receive when He left to pray? I have no idea, but I believe it's worthwhile to try and see for ourselves what we might receive if we leave our crowds to pray, too. [bctt tweet="Silence is a space where God can work, where He can speak, and where we can receive. // @praymorenovenas" username="blessedisshe__"] listen to today’s devotion How's your prayer time? Resolve to start the day with one specific prayer and end it with one, too.

We're inching closer to Advent, a season that always reminds me to be open to any surprises the Lord might bring to me. And while I wish I could say I easily open my arms and hands to Him, it's actually something I struggle with a lot. I want to follow the Lord and His will for my life . . . but sometimes it scares me to do that. Because I know that following Him will likely entail more suffering—more giving of myself—and it's here where my self-protective mechanism wants to jump in, to keep me right where I am, where I'm comfortable and invulnerable. But in this comfort zone, my heart closes itself to the Lord and His surprises for me. I imagine it communicates to Him, "No, thank you, I'm good" even though He's standing right here before me, offering things I can't have without Him: peace, freedom, eternal life. When Jesus approaches Jerusalem in today's Gospel reading, Luke 19:41-44, He weeps because the people there have a similar response to Him, "No, thank you, I'm good." They have no idea what they're saying "no" to—just as I truly don't when I don't welcome Him into my heart or life as well. The people there were comfortable with the way things were and they didn't want to go out of their way to live differently. Pope Francis preached on this Gospel reading years ago, and I was moved by what he said: "The city was afraid to be visited by the Lord; afraid of the gratuity of the Lord’s visit. . . But the visit of the Lord, its surprises, those we cannot handle. . . . Jerusalem was afraid of this: of being saved by the surprises of the Lord" (source). Sometimes that's me too: being afraid to be saved by the surprises of the Lord—surprises that I imagine will ask more of me. We may not be able to handle the surprises the Lord has in store for us—not alone, anyhow. But with Him, we can. [bctt tweet="With Him, we can. // @praymorenovenas" username="blessedisshe__"] listen to today’s devotion Our Lady is the ultimate example of saying yes to the Lord. Listen to this glorious rendition of the prayer of her fiat.

I couldn't help but hear Lauren Daigle singing this during today's First Reading. It's from her song "Dry Bones." "As we call out to dry bones come alive, come alive We call out to dead hearts come alive, come alive Up out of the ashes let us see an army rise We call out to dry bones, come alive." The imagery in the First Reading and the lyrics in this chorus are so powerful: Jesus brings life and light out of darkness and death, out of despair, out of hardness of heart. He calls us and He renews us. I have felt far away from God in my sufferings in tough seasons in my life. At one point, the thoughts "why is this happening?" and "this hurts" occupied so much of my mind and prayer. Eventually, though, the greatest consolation came in the form of the living Word of God. It started as I began going to daily Mass as often as I could and praying through the readings when I couldn't. Out of the darkness, Jesus' words spoke life to me and my experience. My circumstances didn't necessarily change, but He reminded me: "Do not fear: I am with you; do not be anxious: I am your God. I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my victorious right hand” (Isaiah 41:10). I now realized that I've been in and out of seasons like that before and that Jesus' call to come alive is not a one-and-done thing. We don't just show up to Him once and the rest is history. His call happens every day—He wants life for us every day. He wants the fullest life we can have here—found only through Him, with Him, and in Him—and, of course, life everlasting with Him. [bctt tweet="He calls us and He renews us. // Annie Deddens " username="blessedisshe__"] listen to today’s devotion How is He asking you to come alive today? Which parts of your heart have been hardened and closed to Him? How can you let His breath and His Word breathe new life into you once again?

We all desire intimacy with the Lord whether we realize it or not. And in many cases, in prayer, we might find ourselves asking God for His nearness, like in Psalm 86, today's Responsorial Psalm: "Turn toward me." A prayer like this reminds me that if someone has turned away, it's me. I turn away from God by not creating space for Him in my life, by pursuing things that don't bring me closer to Him, by spending time doing anything but talking with Him. With these three words—"turn toward me"—I simultaneously turn towards Him and show Him my interest in Him and in our relationship. It's a small first step to reconciliation with Him during moments when I feel as though He's far away. In prayer, I ask Him to shorten the distance that I've created. I ask Him to do what feels difficult for me to do. "Turn toward me. Have pity on me; give your strength to your servant" (Psalm 86:9-10). It's this simple prayer—and ones like this—I like to put on repeat in my life. God doesn't want to hide Himself from us. He doesn't want to make it difficult for us to find Him, to be with Him, even when sometimes it feels like that, sister. Our Father in Heaven isn't someone who looks upon us condescendingly, but with deep heartache for the distance we've created—for us, His beloved daughters. With just a few breaths, with just a few moments, we can move closer to having that intimacy with Him that we desire. listen to today’s devotion [bctt tweet="Turn towards Him. // @praymorenovenas" username="blessedisshe__"] Let's say it again: "Turn toward me. Have pity on me; give your strength to your servant."

The ringing in my ears started a few years ago while I was gardening. It was constant for many months; now I only hear it a few times a week. When it was brand new, I would get reprieves from the ringing here and there, and in those moments, all I wanted to do was sit in silence and to hear what that sounded like again. I had had no idea before this happened how much I had taken silence for granted. But when the thought of losing it seemed within reach, grief overcame me—I wanted to be able to hear silence then more than ever. It was a jarring experience that got me thinking a lot about when I listen for God—how I listen to Him. It made me question: am I making it difficult for Him to speak to me? Have I been drowning Him out all along with music, podcasts, TV shows—noise in the background? And lastly, was this, maybe, a wake-up call to give Him that time of day? To give Him silence, and allow Him to speak in it? The way God speaks to us can sometimes be surprising. In today's First Reading, God's voice wasn't in the wind or the earthquake or the fire like we might have expected (see 1 Kings 19:12). No. It was in a tiny, whispering sound. Something you might only hear when everything else around you is quiet. Sister, I know it can be difficult to incorporate silence into your day. Sometimes impossible. Even then, maybe we can try to create a silent space in our hearts and minds to listen. To listen for that tiny, whispering sound that will tell us where to go—and what to do next. Let His small sounds work in our hearts today. [bctt tweet="Am I making it difficult for Him to speak to me? // @praymorenovenas" username="blessedisshe__"] Are you familiar with this religious order who lives in silence?