Jesus said to him, “If you wish to be perfect, go, sell what you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.” // Matthew 19:21 It’s easy for me to check off boxes, to fall into the habit of doing what I am supposed to be doing for the sake of doing—even things like prayer or other spiritual habits. Of course these things are typically born of love, and often motivated by love, but they can also slip into a steady rhythm of doing—and it is in that mindless place that love can fade away. We become robotic, and automatic, and we fall out of touch with the source.  See, the rich young man in today’s Gospel had it all on paper (see Matthew 19:16-22). He followed the commandments faithfully, and he couldn’t understand what more he could possibly lack. But Jesus desired for him to see something deeper, something transcendent, something beyond action, the thing only born in a free act of love—to give up everything and follow. This sort of following is far beyond the physical. Perhaps, in the case of the young man, he was truly meant to literally follow Jesus in His traveling ministry—but for us, for you and me, our following takes place in a quieter, more hidden way. We follow when we stop to listen to a child in the middle of a hurried afternoon. We follow when we meet one another with a smile even when we don’t feel it inside. We follow when we set aside the task at hand to spend a moment in prayer. We follow when we sacrifice and when we struggle. We follow when we love. There is something deeper here than just acting like a believer, something deeper than doing all the right things. Am I really ready to lay down whatever is holding me back—my attachments, my habits, my vices, even the many good things in my life—so that I can offer myself completely in love to Love Himself. Am I ready to follow?

“A sower went out to sow. [ . . . ] But some seed fell on rich soil, and produced fruit, a hundred or sixty or thirtyfold.” // Matthew 13:3, 8 God’s grace is abundant. This is a simple truth we all know, for the most part. We know it comes to us in many ways—through prayer, through the Sacraments, through our own vocation, and even through hidden, everyday means. The mystery and wonder of the grace of God knows no bounds. It can reveal truth to the blind and heal the lame. It can sanctify, purify, and renew. A seemingly magic fount, yet a reality beyond comprehension, that can be readily tapped by us who so desperately desire this transforming power, by a God Who so generously gives His grace to us.  But are we ready for it? Much like the rocky ground in the parable of the sower from today’s Gospel (see Matthew 13:1-9), our hearts can be brittle. And while the grace of God still freely flows into us, there is no rich soil for it to penetrate. We remain callous and distant, and oftentimes, unmoved.  Maybe this is the reminder for us today, sister. That we need to have souls ready for the influx of grace as it comes. We need to dig deep to uproot the weeds of vice. We need to purify ourselves in prayer and sacrifice to till the soil of our hearts. We need to feed ourselves with truth and prayer and God Himself in the Holy Eucharist. We need to water our souls in the practice of the virtues and expose our hearts to the sunshine of our divine filiation. And then, when grace pours in, our hearts will be ready to receive it, and we will be changed.  Lord, help us to turn our hard places into fertile ground so You can sanctify us, and, in turn, the hearts of those around us.

 “Lord, if you wish, you can make me clean.” // Matthew 8:1-4 I recently heard a wise priest say that humility is simply living in reality. The reality of who we are—human, fallen, in need of grace, yet still a child of God. It is also the reality of who God is—all giving, all merciful, all good and loving Father. The leper in today’s Gospel simply says, “Lord, if you wish, you can make me clean” (Matthew 8:1-4). In so many ways, this line is the picture of humility. It is not a request for more than just what’s needed, it is not excuse making, or lengthy explanations; it is simply an honest acknowledgement of a real and true need, and an unwavering trust that the God of all creation can do it. I would be remiss not to use this image of the poor leper when examining my own conscience and, in particular, my own struggle against pride. It’s too easy to be falsely humble, to demur and to shy away from either our struggle or our need. It’s too easy to reason away our reliance on the healing touch of the Father, and too easy to rationalize our own sin as the fault of others, or an accident, or whatever else we might come up with to dumb down the reality of our state. It is also too easy to think that the mercy of God is conditional, and not free.  We are in need of healing, and God is a God Who desires to heal. He is not asking for a lengthy explanation for whatever sickness of sin we currently face, and He does not require the perfect circumstance to bring His mercy down. He is asking us to be simple, to be children, and to reach out fearlessly for His healing touch. To be truly humble.  Lord, if you wish, you can make me clean.

Jesus said to Nicodemus: "'You must be born from above.' The wind blows where it wills, and you can hear the sound it makes, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes; so it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit." // John 3:7b-8 How easy is it to be swallowed up by life. Whatever is right in front of me, whatever list is occupying my mind, whoever is tugging at my leg, the mess, the pile, the chore, the appointment. It doesn’t end.  While your life may not look exactly like mine, you, too, have the temptation to let the rhythm of daily life swallow you up. We go to bed just to wake up and face it again, and the monotony can drown us. Wake, rise, work, repeat.  That is, unless we are “born from above” (John 3:7). We are called to cooperate with the Holy Spirit to super naturalize our worlds, so that we can bring Christ to the world. And this is how we do it: supernatural perspective. We are re-born in Christ at our Baptisms, born in the Spirit, and new creations. Because of this it’s all made new, and it’s all made to make us new. The mess, the pile, the list . . . When seen with the eyes of Christ, with a supernatural perspective, He can transform it all. What was burdening us is now setting us free; what was the roadblock is now the path. We are all called to be saints, and we are called to be saints right where we are, in the middle of it all. That means it’s good—all of it—good for our souls, good for our growth, and good for our mission. We can transform the world by transforming ours, and little by little, the ripple ripples out. Because we are His, and He is ours, born from above.

Lent starts February 14, and so does the RESCUED Blessed is She Lent devotional. This year, you’ll be receiving an excerpt from the Lent devotional every day in your inbox (in lieu of our regular daily devo). We want to pray with one heart and one mind as the BIS sisterhood. If you prefer to have the book, purchase the 2024 Blessed is She Lent devotional RESCUED right here. Right upon purchase, you’ll receive a link to come into the free Blessed is She app to walk through the Lenten season with us in daily live prayer, small groups, and more. Together let’s look to the Lamb of God who came to rescue each one of us.   She replied and said to [Jesus], “Lord, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s scraps.”// Mark 7:28 Lord, that I may be like the Canaanite woman in today’s Gospel (see Mark 7:24-30). This woman really knew herself. She was no Israelite, no Pharisee, no “chosen” one of God(see 1 Kings 11:13). The culture at the time communicated this loud and clear, and in this interaction with Jesus Christ, she had nothing to cling to except for her utter dependence on His mercy. And He knew it.  I can imagine this moment shared between them, and I see it laden with such tenderness and humor. In the same way one of my kids might come to me and ask for a snack and I wrap them in my arms and say, “Why should I give you a snack? What will you give to me?” In humility and trust they know there is nothing they can really give, but that I will care for them no matter what. I see this moment shared between our Lord and the Canaanite woman similarly, with so much more at stake. For she was seen to be worth nothing in the eyes of the Jews, which Christ Himself was, and yet she threw herself at the mercy of Him so completely, so humbly, for she knew He was all she had. And truthfully, He is all any of us have. Summing up a homily of Saint John Chrysostom, Scott Hahn and Curtis Mitch explain this Gospel passage well in their commentary in the Ignatius Study Bible: New Testament: “The Canaanite woman signifies repentant souls. Incapable of boasting, contrite sinners lean wholly on God’s mercy; they recognize their weakness before God and can only beg for blessings, unable to demand from God gifts that he freely bestows” (source). Lord, help us to throw ourselves at Your most tender and merciful Heart, with no pretense and without reservation. Cover Your daughters in Your mercy, like the woman in this Gospel scene. Amen.

Obedience is better than sacrifice. // 1 Samuel 15:22 It is too easy for me to leap to conclusions in regards to what our Lord is asking of me. Oftentimes, self-imposed sacrifice seems the clear-cut path to holiness. I’ll give up this, I’ll do that . . . and on and on. Now, I don't mean to disparage sacrifice. What I do want to consider is this: What is the Lord asking of me in this moment? A few years back, I had an experience that has been burned into my heart with my then eight-year-old daughter. I had planned to spend my afternoon car ride to school totally alone so that I could pray. I don’t often find silence unless I’m in the car and I had said to Jesus and to myself, This is the moment! I had arranged my schedule accordingly, and I was sure this devoted time of silence was exactly what Jesus was asking of me. As I got ready to leave, I was followed outside by my daughter, who asked if she could come along with me. I quickly shut her down.  “This is my time to pray,” I told her. And I drove away. The situation didn’t settle well with me and I later brought it up to my confessor. After recalling the scene, the response was simple and to the point: “Maybe our Lord was asking you to make that your prayer—time alone with your daughter.” Thank God for those words. You see, I had contrived a very human plan for how God wanted me to spend my time, and I had become attached to it. Too attached to see our Lord offer me a new plan, and a better one. One that would have served my humility, and my flexibility, my cheerfulness, and my relationship with one of the little ones He had entrusted to me.  “Obedience is better than sacrifice” (1 Samuel 15:22). Lord, help me to see when my sacrifice only serves myself and to respond in obedience when You call. Amen.

“Consider the fig tree and all the other trees. When their buds burst open, you see for yourselves and know that summer is now near; in the same way, when you see these things happening, know that the Kingdom of God is near.” // Luke 21:29-31 The Kingdom of God is near. This morning as I swept the fifteenth pile of our random breakfast smatterings, snack overflow, and tiny, broken plastic toys from who-knows-where, all while my dishes loomed from the kitchen sink in my periphery, while the twin babies cried for a bottle or just to be held, and while the list of the weekly demands scrolled in my head like the Nasdaq 100, it wasn’t exactly easy to feel, or see, the Kingdom of God. Yet it’s here, with us. Left behind in the promises made to the apostles, and to us, through Sacred Scripture. After His Ascension into Heaven, our Lord made a way to stay with us to be even nearer to us, just in more hidden and in harder to see ways. Yet He is here—and therefore, so is His Kingdom. We know that God dwells within us, beginning with our Baptism. And we know Jesus also stays with us in the Eucharist, and through this Sacrament He infuses His very Self into our own beings. Truly staying with us and in us, nearer than ever before. And this is precisely why those piles I swept and those dishes that loom can become the altars of my domestic church. So can the desk, the computer, the diaper change, and the to-do list. All is made sacramental in its own small way, because Jesus entered into the material creation and stayed with us. And because He continues to stay, no little thing is wasted and all things are made new in this Kingdom of God come near. Lord, help me just to see it, this Kingdom You bring to me each day. In all the little things I often overlook or begrudge. It is all holy ground with You, Jesus. Help me just to see it.

He said to him the third time, "Simon, son of John, do you love me?" // John 21:17 (Gospel from the Optional Memorial of Pope Saint John Paul II) When I want my children to really know something, I say it a lot. Make your beds. Say you’re sorry. Be kind. Remember to say, “Thank you.” And on and on and on. If a simple human like me understands the importance of repetition when it comes to instruction, how much more does Our Lord? In today’s Gospel for the Memorial of Pope Saint John Paul II, He uses repetition in giving instructions to Saint Peter (see John 21:15-17). “Do you love me? Feed my lambs.” “Do you love me? Tend my sheep.” “Do you love me? Feed my lambs.” “Do you love me?”  It’s not hard for me to find the “lambs” in my life . . . I have eleven of them. And a husband, brother, parents, friends, and more. But how often do I really make a firm connection in my head and in my heart that my love for Jesus is lived out in my care for the people in front of me? Not often enough. Do you love me? Our hearts yearn to say the words just like Saint Peter—“Lord, you know that I love you” (John 21:17). “Tend my sheep.” Jesus, help us to see this reality in our lives each day. The tenderness of the Good Shepherd has been entrusted to us in each little action of every moment. We love Him in each meal, in each act of service, in each gesture of kindness, in each moment of patience, and in each second of self-gift. It’s what He is asking of us . . . again and again.  Lord, you know that I love You. Help me, then, to love You.

“The Kingdom of heaven will be like ten virgins who took their lamps and went out to meet the bridegroom.” // Matthew 25:1 Wisdom and fortitude.  A few weeks ago I was in a conversation with a wise priest about praying for my family, and how much I feel I lack when it comes to discipline in this area. He told me my prayer for them ought to be simple, and it ought to be for this—wisdom and fortitude. Wisdom to know what ought to be done, and fortitude to carry it out.  There was something so completely consoling in the distillation of these two virtues. When it comes to prayer, and when it comes to what we should pray for one another, it often feels an overwhelming task. I could pray for so much; how do I even know where to begin? The simplicity of this prayer was balm to my soul, because it was clear to me that it really covered it all. All other virtues are so beautifully blanketed in these two. Wisdom and fortitude.  I desire my children to know God—wisdom. I desire them to love Him and serve Him with their lives—fortitude. Patience? Fortitude. Purity? Fortitude. Humility? Wisdom . . . and fortitude. It’s all there.  And we see it displayed so beautifully in the Gospel today (see Matthew 25:1-13), in the image of these ten virgins waiting for the bridegroom—an analogy that, so clearly, speaks of us and Our Lord. Wisdom to know that we must prepare our hearts for the coming of our Bridegroom, and fortitude to stay awake. To not fall into comforts, or distractions, or a spiritual sleepiness. We’ve got to struggle to live these virtues well so that we, too, can be ready to see Him passing by.  Lord, help me to remember this simple prayer often, and to live it well: wisdom and fortitude, wisdom and fortitude.

Jesus said to him, “If you wish to be perfect, go, sell what you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.” // Matthew 19:21 Detach, detach, detach. I repeat these words to myself often. The things I cling to in this life are not necessarily the same earthly goods that the man in today’s Gospel could not let go of. They are probably simpler things. A sink free of dishes, the schedule going just as planned, a couch with no stains on the fabric, the house perfectly organized, and having the time to do it all. When I catch myself grumbling, that’s when I know I’m clinging. Clinging to some perception of perfection, and a vague sense of control that I can so easily convince myself that I have.  When I find myself in this space I can also feel the distance that I’ve wandered from Our Lord and His peace. He desires that I come to Him, so that He can fill me with the things that bring true serenity. But I cannot be filled if I am clinging, and I can’t drink deep of the well if I am full.  Let’s stop for a moment today to recognize what attachments are weighing us down. Are we stuffed to the gills with unreachable expectations? Are we satiating ourselves with an illusion of control? How tightly are we clinging? If we can pry open our fingers and let it go, we have nothing left to fill us but the only One who actually can. And we can follow Him then with abandon, knowing that the Living Water will quench us, and the Bread of Life will fill us. It’s only then that we are free to follow; it’s only then that we are free.  Lord, help me to see what it is I am holding onto, and detach. Detach, detach, detach.

“Just so, the Son of Man did not come to be served but to serve and to give his life as a ransom for many.” // Matthew 20:28 As a mother, I can relate to the mother of James and John. It’s not hard to find myself trying to shove my kids to the front of the line, so to speak—to defend them when they are slighted, to want them to be well-liked or have approval from others, to want them to have the best piece of the pie. I could imagine if Our Lord were standing before me, I might ask the same thing as this mother of two Apostles . . . and earnestly! The heart of a mother is fierce and protective, and wants the good for her children. In this regard, none of these things are objectively bad. It is good to want the good, and we should. But we should want a greater good even more. For Our Lord came to serve and to give Himself as a ransom for many.  Sister, just like Saints James and John, we are called to live in the footsteps of this same Lord—to love as He loved, to share this love with the ones we love most, and in sharing it, help them to love in the same way. In this spirit we can see so clearly that this type of love is a love of self-giving, self-denial, and even suffering. And if we love with our lives, then we choose to live with self-giving, self-denial, and even suffering. It’s hard to sort out how to get there when our natural fallen human state is so readily focused on self. But, with the help of grace, we can always just start, and in the simplest ways. If I can make a small sacrifice for another, then I will be more apt to make a slightly bigger one, and when a bigger one follows, I will be ready for that, and on and on all the way to the Cross. Jesus, help me to start small, knowing that nothing is small for You.

For where your treasure is, there also will your heart be. // Matthew 6:21 I’ve often felt that mothers have it easy. In some ways, no . . . the long days, the unending work, the physical, emotional, and mental giving that is required almost constantly. But in some ways, yes.  I think of the monks in their hair shirts, sleeping on stiff boards in the night in order to mortify themselves and suffer, even if just a bit, in union with the suffering of Our Lord. The life of a mother is so different from a monk’s that it’s hard to see the vocation, at times—it’s hard to see it “supernaturalized.” But as I examine my life, I see it littered with little sufferings. Some are simple—interruptions, inconveniences, annoyances. Some are a bit bigger—the disaster of a kitchen after a birthday party, the budget going awry, the really expensive broken window, the vomiting child in the middle of the night, and beyond—beyond to the suffering and illness and even death. Trauma, tragedy, it’s all there. It’s there no matter what our vocational state—suffering is part of all lives. Sister, it’s easy to let our daily sufferings go to waste, but we ought not to waste them. They are the little thorns handed to us to suffer through, and to suffer through well. We don’t have to look for our crosses. They are right here. In the Gospel today Jesus tells us to not store up treasures for ourselves on earth . . . for the things of earth are fleeting. We need to seek the things above by detaching ourselves from the things of this life. This might feel too lofty or cerebral, but remember, we have it easy—it’s all right here. Our little discomforts, the desire to be right, to smile when we’d rather not, to give even more when we feel we’ve got nothing left to give. This is how we store up our heavenly treasures, this is how we live a life detached, this is how we become souls who cling to Heaven. Lord, help me to see all the tiny crosses You offer me each day, and help me to embrace them with all the tenderness that You embraced Yours.  

"I am the bread of life." // John 6:48 I have a very vivid memory of struggling to get to daily Mass one particular morning. At the time I was pregnant, with two littles in tow, and everything in me was fighting it. Every excuse my brain could muster flooded my thoughts: "This is really asking a lot of you" . . . "Do you even have shoes in the car for the toddler?" . . . "It's the thought that counts!" Battling back my demons, I made a left-hand turn and parked the van. It had been one of those mornings, and I viscerally felt the push and pull of my spirit and my flesh: willing and weak. By God's grace I got out of the car and kept walking, and upon entering the church (a good ten minutes late, mind you), my eyes immediately rested on two other young mothers on their knees in the foyer, with no fewer than six other children worming around on the floor beside them. Immediately, almost miraculously, a balm swept over my soul and filled me with peace. In that moment, I knew I was not alone in my struggle, I knew the troubles of daily life were fleeting, and I knew how deeply I needed Our Lord in the Holy Eucharist, even, especially even, if I had to fight to get it. "I am the Bread of Life," says the Lord. Do I believe it? It struck me that day how close I had been to dismissing that urge that had called me to the Mass in the first place. If I really knew, Jesus, the grace You pour out on me in Holy Eucharist, if I really knew the power of this Living Bread. Help us, Lord, to know it and to long to meet You at the altar. [bctt tweet="Help us, Lord, to know it and to long to meet You at the altar. // Blythe Fike" username="blessedisshe__"] listen to today’s devotion

Of all the things I'm really bad at there is one that strikes me as the most problematic. I am bad at stopping. Now, I can lounge anytime day or night, but get me in a good flow of housework or creativity (or probably even lounging, let's be honest) and stopping what I'm doing feels like pulling teeth. I struggle with stopping my laundry folding to go get my kids from school, I struggle with halting the garage clean-out to break for lunch, and I struggle with quitting whatever I'm doing at the moment to spend time with Jesus in prayer. It's not terribly difficult to see which of those examples is the most problematic of the three. I have a hard time making time for Jesus. I see Him on the periphery, sort of waiting for me to finish up and come to be with Him, patiently, longingly, tenderly. Even for just a few minutes here and there. Maybe some time in the morning, and some time in the afternoon, or in the evening after the kids have gone to bed. And even though I have a fixed time for prayer each day, I find myself pushing it back so often—just after I finish the dishes . . . just let me straighten the couch first . . . just five more minutes . . . just . . . . It's hard to even write these words. Embarrassing, even. Because I know the truth, and I know how much my soul needs time alone with God, how much my soul needs sowing. A clean kitchen doesn't till our spiritual soil, neither does a consistent laundry flow. The act of stopping, and turning towards Jesus is what makes my heart ripe for the harvest, and the time in the quiet, waiting and watching, is where the seed can grow. Lord, help us to hear Your whisper and to stop for it, so that in spending time alone with You, You can continue to work the stones from our hearts, and make us souls who can root and grow. [bctt tweet="Jesus is what makes my heart ripe for the harvest. // Blythe Fike" username="blessedisshe__"] listen to today’s devotion  

I'm often looking for opportunities to love big. You know—random acts of kindness, a grand gesture, a real measure of sacrifice. If Our Lord tells us the greatest of all the commandments is to love Him and love others then we must because this is our Divine Call (Mark 12:28-34). And so my radar is on for opportunities to love big. The funny thing is that this morning I had to opportunity to greet each of my children with a smile as they rose, even though I was up far too late last night with the baby, and I didn't. Just minutes later I had the opportunity as we piled in the car for school to listen to the silly parody my daughter had written, but I hushed her in my frazzled rush. Again, I had the opportunity to gently coach my eldest on her relationship with her obnoxious younger brother, but instead I reprimanded her for being too bossy, and I turned the music up louder. I think you get where I'm headed here. We know the Word is living and breathing, and we know it's up to us to activate it in our daily lives. But it's easy to see the billboard moments to love. To love big. They are usually so glaringly obvious, and often difficult not to respond to. But how often we fail, how I fail, in the tiny, practically unseen moments of every day. Perhaps these are more precious to Our Lord than any other measure of service I could give. Wisecracks and tension flow from my lips more readily than sweetness, and most often to the very ones He has given me to love. Oh, Jesus help to me love little. With a love that says "I will" to the call You gave to me. Is He calling you? Listen closely today. [bctt tweet="Jesus, help me to love little. // Blythe Fike" username="blessedisshe__"] listen to today’s devotion

I cannot fathom a scene that reveals any more deeply the profound respect Our Lord has for our freedom than the scene of Judas at the table at Passover. Jesus could have stopped it at any moment. He could have flipped the table like He did in the temple. He could have revealed to Judas that He knew who he really was—a traitor and a liar—and turned him out into the night. But this is not the way of Love, for Love Himself desires to be freely chosen, even if the freedom results in betrayal and leads to the Cross. Jesus’ countenance remains unchanged as they reclined together for the meal while saying, “One of you will betray me” (John 13:21). It was a sure reality, and Jesus accepted it and loved anyway. What I want to meditate on as we approach this Holy Triduum is the reality that I am not a slave to this Love, and neither are you. Our Lord is asking us to approach this great Feast in total freedom and with total emptiness, the fruits of a true love that show us how to freely choose God. Though truly we are indebted, Christ makes it so that our debt is utterly un-repayable anyway. And so we must sit at the table, incapable and small and unworthy, with the greatest and only gift we have for the King of Kings—the free gift of love. God deeply desires our free will to choose Him and His love, to want to be with Him, to respond to that call with love instead of feelings of an obligation we’d rather avoid. It is in this place of freedom in love that we will learn to love the One Who is Love Himself, in the school of His death and Resurrection. A cross freely taken up, a life freely laid down, a love freely given. listen to today’s devotion [bctt tweet="Choose Him and His love. // Blythe Fike" username="blessedisshe__"] Let your heart learn from Love Himself on how to love!  

The ways I see Jesus are not the ways that many saw Him, but the way Jesus sees me is no different. Some were approached on the road, some met Him over a meal, others were pierced by a mere glance and knew they had encountered Glory. But you and I? We see Our Lord in the many hidden ways He ordained for us in our current place in time. The point is you are seen, and that it is the Lord that sees you. It strikes me that Jesus desired to give Nathanael in today's Gospel (John 1:47-51) even more than the gift of His presence that day. Jesus says, "You will see greater things than this . . ." (John 1:50). What an embellishment of graces! And for a man that was able to meet Him face to face, as if that wasn't enough. What for me, Jesus? What for those of us who meet you in the hidden places? I often feel blindness creeping in over me. My own struggles of doubt, or lack of faith, or laziness can form thin layers of haze that obstruct my vision and the view of Jesus is lost for a moment in my weakness. But His view of me is never obscured and His divine gaze is constant. In the valleys and peaks, I am seen. Just like Nathanael, and just like every soul unknown to us that met Jesus of Nazareth on countless dusty trails. I am seen. Deeply and profoundly. In total affection and in total intimacy. Could there be a greater thing than this? [bctt tweet="In the valleys and peaks, I am seen. // Blythe Fike" username="blessedisshe__"] listen to today’s devotion Help me, Jesus, that I may see.