I'd like to be the type of woman who has a real rhythm to her home-keeping. Rising, praying, preparing meals, and cleaning all in a fashion that remains steady through the years—a beacon to my children, a reminder of something constant. Instead I'm more of the fall-in/fall-out-of-step sort. Life tends to bump me here and there, and I regroup as best I can and keep moving. I don't often tend to one thing steadily, all the time. And so it is with bread. For as much as I'd like to make it all the time, the true story is that I make it sometimes. But sometimes is enough to know that when you're mixing a thing like dough, you've got to really mix it. There is no part of your hand that is spared as you dig your fingers in. If you want bread, every bit of salt, water, flour, and yeast has to come together. In the parable of today's Gospel, Christ tells us that the Kingdom of Heaven, which we understand to be the living Body of believers united to Christ Our Head, will indeed infuse the world with the light of Christ. But we've got to be mixed and tilled, into the world and into the culture, to set down the roots of evangelism and grow. There is no standing on the surface for us Christians, just as there is no yeast floating at the top of the batch. The beauty of this is that life offers us no shortage of opportunity to enter in as leaven and seed. You may not be called to the mission field or to the convent, but the world is at your fingertips. Enter in; enter deeply. And He shall renew the face of the earth. listen to today’s devotion [bctt tweet="You may not be called to the mission field or to the convent, but the world is at your fingertips. // @blythefike" username="blessedisshe__"] Look to Saint Zelie Martin (Saint Therese of Lisieux's mother) for inspiration on mothering, working, and home-keeping.

"I trust in the LORD; my soul trusts in his word" (Psalm 130:5). This year has been strange to say the least. After eight uneventful pregnancies, I lost two babies to miscarriage, and then we, along with so many, entered into the strangest time of quarantine, the loss of the access to the Sacraments, and isolation. So many have lost jobs, and homes, and security. Others have lost loved ones and the blessing of good health. This is the storm. And while I tend to want to come up with my owns answers as to why—Why did I lose these babies, Lord? Why have You allowed so much confusion and change? Why is there no publicly offered Mass?—I see myself in the shoes of the disciples out in that storm. And I hear Jesus admonish me too, so tenderly, "Why are you terrified, O you of little faith?" (Matthew 8:26) It's no surprise to me that the disciples found Christ in a storm. Suffering purifies us; it burns off the chaff and exposes us truly. All we can be in a moment of deep suffering is exactly who we are—desperate, hollowed out, and totally in need. And it is there that we find the one thing to cling to: the Cross of the One Who suffered for us and the Suffering One Himself. I am sure He will turn and calm these waves, just as He did on the Sea of Galilee. I may not see it yet, or feel the balm of His calming presence, but Our Savior is here. Lamb of God, God with us, Bread of Life, You are here. [bctt tweet="Suffering purifies us. // @blythefike" username="blessedisshe__"] Read what this Church Father preaches on Jesus in the storm.

When Jesus called the disciples it was so clear, wasn’t it? Come, He said, Come and follow Me. They saw His face, they heard the tone of His voice, and they all had a very real moment in which to ponder this life-changing call. They were standing face to face with it (see Mark 1:17). Our Lord’s call to me wasn’t so direct. A conversion of heart, yes. A loving resignation of my will to the will of God, yes! But did I realize what He was asking of me then? And do I comprehend it still now, all these years in? Although Christ has never spoken to me like He did the first disciples, He still calls me. And, in essence, His call to me is no different than His call to these men at the seashore that day: "I will make you fishers of men" (Mark 1:17). And yet despite my trepidation, the reality of Who I know Christ to be remains. His grace is sufficient to save us, and it is sufficient to turn us into great disciples, each one of us, wherever we are. Let’s lift our eyes up to the One Who redeems. Imagine Him on the shore of our life, beckoning us to Him like He did James and John, Peter and Andrew, and allowing Him to transform us into great souls with a hunger to share His Love with the world. [bctt tweet="He still calls me. // Blythe Fike" username="blessedisshe__"] Turn me into who You created me to be, Lord. Help me then to live it. Blythe Fike is the wife of Kirby and mother of 8 smallish kids. She loves the quiet life in small town SoCal. She is a contributing author to our children's devotional prayer book called Rise Up. You can find out more about her here.