The LORD called me from birth, from my mother’s womb he gave me my name. // Isaiah 49:1 Today the Church celebrates the Nativity of Saint John the Baptist. Although there is much that can be said about him, I want to invite you, sister, to turn with me for a moment first to his father, Zechariah.  Zechariah is sometimes only described as the doubter who did not believe the promise made to him by the angel Gabriel. But I think we can be a bit more forgiving, since he was, after all, an “old man” (Luke 1:18). In today’s Gospel  we can see that the faith of this man grew stronger and wider in the silence as John grew strong in the seclusion of his mother’s womb (see Luke 1:57-66, 80). The boldness of Zechariah’s deepening faith went on full display at the birth of his son.  As the relatives came and sought to name the child after his father—an honor, no doubt—Zechariah did not hesitate. He confirmed the words of his wife, Elizabeth, by writing, “John is his name” (Luke 1:63). He did not try to defend their decision or give an acceptable explanation as to why his only son was not going to bear his name. Instead, he spoke with the authority that comes when one knows and believes in the divine will that is revealed to him.  This son of theirs belonged to the Lord from the moment he was in his mother’s womb. There was a mission that the Lord had for John to fulfill. Zechariah was a witness to the miracle of life which is in fact true of each human being: the Lord knows us. We were hidden from others, yes, but not from His gaze. He has formed us in our mother’s womb (see Psalm 139:13). And He calls us (see Isaiah 49:1).  Sister, take a moment to reflect on your parents, the time you spent growing in the silence of your mother’s womb, your birth. The Lord formed you with purpose and care. You are here for a reason.  Saint John the Baptist, pray for us that we may know the Lord in greater measure and fulfill His mission for our lives. Amen.

Then [Jesus] said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands, and bring your hand and put it into my side, and do not be unbelieving, but believe.” // John 20:27 Have you ever wondered what it must have been like for Saint Thomas to show up late to the Jesus-seeing party? I often do. I imagine the feelings of being left out, overlooked, forgotten. I can relate because there are moments in my life where this lie of being set aside or forgotten makes its presence known. I have to remind myself of the truth. I am not forgotten. The Lord remembers me. Thomas was not forgotten, although perhaps it felt that way to him. He wasn’t set aside or a second thought. Thomas was remembered by the Lord. How can I be so sure of that? I invite you to go back and read Thomas’ prayer of rebellion. After being confronted with the striking testimony of the others—that they had seen the Lord—he demands, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands and put my finger into the nail marks and put my hand into his side, I will not believe” (John 20:25). Thomas’ unbelief was maybe not so much that Jesus appeared to them but that He appeared to them without Thomas. How could He forget him?  In the infinite mercy of our Lord—exactly seven days later—this prayer is answered. Our Lord appears again in the room and after greeting the others turns His gaze lovingly to the one who felt forgotten but was not overlooked. Maybe this merciful gaze was enough for Thomas to believe. Yet our Lord recites back to Thomas almost verbatim the prayer of his anguish. He does so as a command: “Put your finger here and see my hands, and bring your hand and put it into my side, and do not be unbelieving, but believe” (John 20:27). Sister, close your eyes and receive the Lord’s merciful gaze upon you. What is that prayer of rebellion, of anguish, you hold in your heart? Where are those places in your life where you feel forgotten or overlooked? Allow our Risen Lord to look at you and remind you that He remembers you too.

And looking around at those seated in the circle [Jesus] said, "Here are my mother and my brothers.” // Mark 3:34 When I was preparing to marry my husband, one of the recurrent themes was family. I became deeply aware that more than anything else, Peter and I were becoming family to each other through the sacrament. Coming from the Dominican Republic, the word family in itself holds so much meaning for me.  I am immediately reminded of warm welcomes, big embraces, lots of laughs, tears, and love. So when I thought about the vows I would make before the Church, our family, and friends, I knew that through this act Peter would be welcomed into my family as son and brother, as I would be welcomed into his family as a daughter and sister. Moreover, together we would become our own new little family, bound by love and the vows of the marriage covenant. When I reflect on today’s Gospel passage (see Mark 3:31-35), I admit I have often only focused on the roundabout way in which Christ compliments His Mother. He says that those who do the will of God are His siblings and mother. We know that of all the disciples then and now, Mother Mary did the will of the Lord most perfectly. She’s the most deserving of the title of “mother.”  Yet, today, I am struck by what Jesus is doing by saying these words to those who were “seated in the circle” around him (Mark 3:34). He was extending to them the title of family. They were invited to come close to Him, not just as disciples following a teacher but as brothers, sisters, and mothers. The ones who drop in for that unexpected visit, who pass by just to say hello and ask how it’s going, who extend not only their hands but come in for a kiss and embrace.  The Lord invites you and me, sister, through our Baptism into His Church, to be a part of His family. He invites us each day to come and sit next to Him in the circle, have a meal, exchange words of love, and pass the time together—not as strangers, not even as friends, but as family.

Those who trust in him shall understand truth, and the faithful shall abide with him in love: Because grace and mercy are with his holy ones, and his care is with his elect. // Wisdom 3:9 (from optional memorial) *trigger warning—difficult birth* Today we celebrate the Memorial of Saint Andrew Dũng-Lạc and the 116 others martyred in Vietnam. I have always admired the martyrs and thought that I would endure a “white martyrdom” of prayer and penance when I briefly entered the holy doors of the Carmelite enclosure. Then I thought I would do so while in the missions, in a far-off land surrounded by desert sands and faces that did not yet know Christ. But the closest I’ve actually come to dying for another was in my vocation of marriage, in a wealthy country, on a sterile hospital bed. I had contractions for days. After lots of hormones, an epidural, and more hormones, I was pushing with my all but our precious boy wouldn’t come. As the doctor explained all of the details of the necessary emergency cesarean section, I nodded with a peace that was not my own. My only concern was for our baby’s safety. I was being laid down for his life. In that moment I told the Lord in my heart that I was ready—whatever He wanted. That was the work of His grace and mercy.  As an atheist made the Sign of the Cross over me while my arms were strapped down cruciform, I rested. The Lord gave me such peace and a sense of surrender. It was, I think, a glimpse into that impetus of grace the martyrs receive in their last moments when it would be easier to turn away from Christ than to face impending death. These martyrs gave their all, trusting in the Lord’s goodness and love. By God’s mercy the baby and I survived the ordeal. And I experienced that day the profound peace that comes when we entrust ourselves fully into the arms of a loving Father who is ready to embrace us at every moment, in every trial and circumstance. Sister, let us walk in the boldness of the martyrs and entrust ourselves entirely into His hands, singing of His faithfulness (see Psalm 31:5).

Then he looked for the crop of grapes, but what it yielded was wild grapes. // Isaiah 5:2 Bitterness: one of the differences between a good crop of grapes and wild grapes. After my first miscarriage I sometimes feared that I would become bitter. My heart felt tender and vulnerable, my grief real and valid as there had been loss of life and love. I mostly welcomed the grief except for the part that scared me—being upset with the Lord. If I opened the door to that sentiment, I thought, I might become bitter. I might look at life with pessimism and at the Lord with suspicion.  Suffering and heartache are interesting tools in the pruning, loving hand of the Lord. They are sharp and in fact, potentially quite dangerous, since things can really go sideways quickly in the spiritual life. The Lord wishes to allow these sufferings that some good might come of it but we, as free persons, can choose how we respond to these hardships. So that means there is a chance that things may go haywire. There is a possibility that we might become bitter and hardened.  And yet, as we see in today’s First Reading (Isaiah 5:1-7), the Lord is still willing to take that chance, to allow our security to be broken, our foundations to be trampled upon, and our dreams and hopes to be laid waste. Why does He permit this ruin? Why allow His beloved and cherished people to undergo turmoil and difficulties? He permits these things that the vines of the vineyard might become domesticated, cultivated—a renewed species to produce grapes that give sweet, choice wine.  I invite you, sister, to pray with me that when we are faced with life’s heartaches and difficult seasons—the ones that knock us down and shatter our defenses—we may still turn to the Lord, becoming “a people that will produce [His] fruit” (Matthew 21:43) and allowing Him to gather a good crop of grapes from our vineyard. When we are tempted towards bitterness and suspicion of His goodness and good intentions, may we ask Him to restore the ruins and make our hearts fertile places.

“But as for the seed that fell on rich soil, they are the ones who, when they have heard the word, embrace it with a generous and good heart, and bear fruit through perseverance.” // Luke 8:15 My mom has a missionary group based in the US which serves the people of her hometown and neighboring villages in the south of the Dominican Republic. Every so often she makes an announcement at our home parish requesting donations. On this particular day, after making her appeal, she walked to the back of the church and was greeted by a familiar face. His frail hands and lean body housed a strong spirit and a good, generous heart. Arcadio quietly got her attention and extended his hand to her, slipping a folded up paper into my mother’s hand. It was a twenty-dollar bill. My mom insisted he take back the donation since she knew his financial situation was not good. But he also insisted. He challenged my mom’s thinking—enough that she still has not forgotten that moment from almost ten years ago. He reasoned with her, “It is not much, but I know it can help someone who is more in need than me. Please take it.” My mom was humbled by his generosity and simplicity.  She took his offering and on that day was inspired to begin a new aspect of the mission called in Spanish, “De Pobre a Pobre”—meaning, from one poor person to another. From the money collected from people like Arcadio, the missionaries would be able to personally bless those they would meet on the streets during their evangelization walks who were in obvious financial need. These would come to include families in need of money for groceries, parents needing to buy wheelchairs for their children, elderly lacking money to buy their medicine, the list still goes on. All of this because of one man’s good and generous heart. Arcadio passed away last year, yet I still think of him—a man small in stature and body mass, weakened by illness and old age, whose face was illuminated by the greatness of his heart. May we be like Arcadio and allow our souls to not only hear the word of God but to “embrace it with a generous and good heart” (Luke 8:15), that we may bear abundant fruit. 

Children were brought to Jesus that he might lay his hands on them and pray. // Matthew 19:13 I have to be honest with you, sister. As I read today’s Gospel, I could not think of a nice story to share that might be of some inspiration. Instead, my thoughts went elsewhere.  How many times in the past and even now in our churches and schools have our children undergone hurt and abuse at the hands of priests, religious, teachers, and laypeople? The stories we hear are countless. The children were supposed to be brought to the Lord, that He might lay His hand of blessing upon them. But instead, by hands impure these children were wounded. And so, I ask you to join me, sister, in praying for them with intention today, that Our Lord’s pure and healing hands would hold them and make them whole and healed and restored.  Please pray with me: Lord Jesus, the little children were brought to You and You laid your holy and precious hands on them to pray for them and bless them. We ask for Your mercy for the innumerable times that children have undergone deep hurt and abuse within the Church, Your Bride. In Your great goodness and love, won’t You bring healing and restore the places of ruin within Her?  Lord Jesus, lay Your healing hands upon us and make all things new. May each person affected by physical, spiritual, or mental abuse within the Church experience abundant, profound, and lasting healing. Let there be true conversion and repentance in the hearts of those who have hurt your most precious ones. Redress and redeem, dear Lord, the wounds inflicted by Your ministers and people. We ask this by the merits You won for us on the Cross, since it is by Your stripes that we are healed (see Isaiah 53:5). Jesus, we trust in You. Amen.

“But blessed are your eyes, because they see, and your ears, because they hear.” // Matthew 13:16 We shuffled into the pew as quietly as possible and sat near a friend. She is single, praying for a spouse, and hoping for children. My husband candidly passed our son over to her, and she happily took him in her arms as we all sat down to hear the First Reading. We have spoken so many times about her dreams and desires—which look very much like my current blessings— that my heart tuned in to hers. I felt empathy for her and wished so much that she could also be blessed in this way one day soon. But I must also admit, I felt uncomfortable: my two great blessings beside me were highlighting what another woman longs for but does not yet possess. Why do I get to have these blessings? I understand the disciples questioning our Lord in today’s Gospel. Why are they spoken to plainly but the crowd only gets parables?  His answer ends with a further affirmation of their blessedness: “But blessed are your eyes because they see and your ears because they hear” (Matthew 13:16; emphasis added). They must have been humbled by that declaration of truth. Because truly, although it was perhaps uncomfortable for them to admit, they could not deny that they were blessed to see and hear what the prophets had longed for.  Sister, would you take a moment now and focus on a blessing that the Lord has given to you? Whether it was a clear answer to a tough prayer, a difficult situation transformed into something joyful, or simply some flowers from a friend on a gloomy day, name a blessing. Own it; it is yours, given to you by your Heavenly Father who loves you.  We cannot deny our blessings, even if they may make for awkward moments. When I accept my blessedness, I give testimony to the Lord’s faithfulness and mercy. Because I have also been that woman in the pew. I have sat with both the longing and the blessing. And in all seasons, He has been faithful and generous.

We are treated . . . as having nothing and yet possessing all things. // 2 Corinthians 6:8-10 I walked into the bare room, devoid of any color or decorations. I lamented that there were no pictures on the walls. But then I reminded myself that it wasn’t my college dorm room, after all, but my new cell in a Carmelite monastery. The straw mattress, wooden kneeler and a small shelf up on the wall plus the big cross at the head of my new bed was all I had. They were not even mine because in the Garden of Carmel, everything is referred to as “ours.” There I was, supposedly poor by the world’s standards, yet in just one year, I would be leaving back out through those doors, rich by Heaven’s standards. What does it mean to have nothing, according to society, and yet “possess all things” (2 Corinthians 6:10)? I thought it meant leaving my whole life as I knew it—my family and friends who loved and supported me, my ministry and public life—for a hidden life in the austerity of Carmel. That must be it, I thought.  Yet, truly, how abundant was my pride and self-reliance. I was stripped of all things exteriorly, but my heart was not yet poor enough to turn fully to Him who is the greatest treasure.  Most of my life I struggled with pride and vanity. In that small cell of the cloister, I experienced the extent of my true lack and my dire need for Him. I had become so rich in possessions: things, comforts, people, and their opinions of me. In the safe place of the enclosure, He slowly, but steadily, began removing from my hands all that I clung to. Until all that was left was Him and His steadfast love.  Sister, more than serving Him, more than being known, more than others considering us to be whatever it is we hope they see in us, more than all of these things, it is about Him. Possessing Him, knowing Him and loving Him—that’s it. That is what it means to be rich and yet have nothing to your name. He is our greatest treasure.

“He does not ration his gift of the Spirit.” // John 3:34 My then-fiancé was curious: what does it mean to be “charismatic”? All he could imagine were some weird hand gestures and swaying back and forth to cheesy songs. That, of course, was not attractive to him. His image of what it meant to be “charismatic,” or full of the charisms and gifts of the Spirit, determined his disposition towards it altogether. He was wary, rightly so, of something overly emotional and ungrounded. He agreed to come with me to his first praise and worship night of Eucharistic Adoration—that is, a night before Our Eucharistic Lord filled with silence, vocal praise, music, and communal worship. Often there are also moments of sharing with the community the gifts of the Spirit that have been bestowed on us. Saint Paul says some have the gift of prophecy, others of healing, and words of knowledge, etc (see 1 Corinthians 12:4-11). These gifts are meant for the building up of the Church. And so there we were at this night of praise and worship in a sketchy part of New Jersey. I had no idea how my German, never-exposed-to-praise-and-worship fiancé would respond to the whole experience. I stepped out of the chapel for some time for my turn to help babysit participants' kids. As the kids ran wild, I wondered if it was a mistake to leave my fiancé alone in the chapel for so long during his first “charismatic” experience. I thought I should be there to slowly ease him into everything and provide explanations if he had questions. I snuck back into the chapel to have a quick peek. What I saw set my heart at ease: there he was, eyes closed, hands lifted up in worship, voice singing out a song of praise to our Eucharistic Lord. I planned to ease him in slowly, but the Lord had other plans. When the Lord gives us His Holy Spirit—which we already received at our Baptism—He gives His Spirit freely and generously. The Lord does not hold back because of our fears and apprehensions. He does not ration His Spirit (John 3:34), but pours out His gifts extravagantly. Lord, You are generous. Give me more of Your Spirit; let me not be wary of His gifts, but open my heart wide to all that You wish to give me. Amen.

“You are the salt of the earth.” // Matthew 5:13 I was on a four-day pilgrimage to a Marian shrine, and it was glorious: the pain, the satisfaction, the sweat, the grace during walking Confessions, the music-filled air, and chanted Rosaries. I had learned two important things on my first go-around the year before: the speed at which one walked determined the conversations had and also whether or not one could hear the witness talks shared over the bullhorn. On this particular day, speed was in my favor for both reasons. A friend of mine began to tell me about a convert who was among us. He had been a Protestant mega-church pastor who decided to leave everything and become Catholic. I was intrigued! Just some moments after this conversation, a voice came over the bullhorn introducing the next speaker who would be sharing his testimony with us. To my surprise, it was the Protestant pastor-turned-Catholic, whom I had just heard about. He shared his powerful testimony with us—those of us close enough to hear it—and at the end of his talk, he reflected on this very line of today’s Gospel: “You are the salt of the earth” (Matthew 5:13). I had often read past this line and skipped to the “city on the hill” part since it was much easier for me to understand. I knew of some of the common interpretations of the image of salt. Yet this convert shared with us a new perspective I had not heard. He asked, “What does salt do?” There were many typical answers floating around in everyone’s mind, I’m sure. Then he interrupted these thoughts to say, “Salt makes us thirsty. We are called to make the world thirsty for God.” (Insert that mind-blown emoji because that is exactly how I felt). Many years have passed, and I still remember these words vividly. I hope I do not forget them. You and I are called, sister, to live in such a way that we make others around us thirst for God—the God Who also thirsts for them (see John 19:28).

“You are the salt of the earth.” // Matthew 5:13 I was on a four-day pilgrimage to a Marian shrine, and it was glorious: the pain, the satisfaction, the sweat, the grace during walking Confessions, the music-filled air, and chanted Rosaries. I had learned two important things on my first go-around the year before: the speed at which one walked determined the conversations had and also whether or not one could hear the witness talks shared over the bullhorn. On this particular day, speed was in my favor for both reasons. A friend of mine began to tell me about a convert who was among us. He had been a Protestant mega-church pastor who decided to leave everything and become Catholic. I was intrigued! Just some moments after this conversation, a voice came over the bullhorn introducing the next speaker who would be sharing his testimony with us. To my surprise, it was the Protestant pastor-turned-Catholic, whom I had just heard about. He shared his powerful testimony with us—those of us close enough to hear it—and at the end of his talk, he reflected on this very line of today’s Gospel: “You are the salt of the earth” (Matthew 5:13). I had often read past this line and skipped to the “city on the hill” part since it was much easier for me to understand. I knew of some of the common interpretations of the image of salt. Yet this convert shared with us a new perspective I had not heard. He asked, “What does salt do?” There were many typical answers floating around in everyone’s mind, I’m sure. Then he interrupted these thoughts to say, “Salt makes us thirsty. We are called to make the world thirsty for God.” (Insert that mind-blown emoji because that is exactly how I felt). Many years have passed, and I still remember these words vividly. I hope I do not forget them. You and I are called, sister, to live in such a way that we make others around us thirst for God—the God Who also thirsts for them (see John 19:28).

God is not unjust so as to overlook your work and the love you have demonstrated for his name by having served and continuing to serve the holy ones. // Hebrews 6:10 Today, I would like to speak with you who are in full-time ministry, if you would permit me this moment. You come up with the fliers, you print the song sheets, you do rounds of pick-ups and drop-offs before the events, you spend countless hours brainstorming new icebreakers or attention-grabbers. You may even have to scrub the toilets after the prayer group is done or the Bible study has come to an end. Maybe you get paid to do this, or maybe it is all volunteer work and you still somehow manage a full-time job. As is inevitable for some, you may find yourself at a place of stagnancy, of feeling overlooked and overwhelmed. You not only feel that your team overlooks your work or your pastor does not see your sacrifices, you begin to think that the same is true of the Lord. You may try to push down those feelings and bite your tongue in prayer, if you manage to pray. And soon, a life of ministry becomes a life of drudgery. The author of the letter to the Hebrews reminds us that the Lord does not overlook our work and the love we have poured out in His name through service (see Hebrews 6:10). Yet, I must ask, sister, do we believe that? Or in our depths, are we suspicious of the Father’s gaze upon us that it is constant and tender? Trust from your heart that He sees you. Your work in His name is not overlooked by Him Who sees it all. Whether we are in full-time ministry or barely getting ourselves together, the truth is that, as Christians, we are not overlooked by our Heavenly Father. Are you living sluggishly because you feel unnoticed by Him? Or are you living as one who is already “inheriting the promises” (Hebrews 6:12)? Let’s start again today, sister, to live in the promise of His blessing, His presence, His sustenance. He sees us. Listen to today's audio devotion.

Nay rather, I have stilled and quieted my soul like a weaned child. Like a weaned child on its mother’s lap, so is my soul within me. // Psalm 131:2* Before I knew much about him, I found myself holding a prayer card of “Juan Dieguito” that I had stumbled upon. I decided to keep it safe in the little crevice of my dresser, and soon enough, I began to pray the prayer found on the back. I didn’t think he was very special until I was asked to take part in a play depicting the story of Saint Juan Diego and the apparition of Our Lady of Guadalupe. My heart became moved by the Mexican Saint I previously knew very little of. I began contemplating the conversation between Juan and the “Lady from Heaven” who appeared on Tepeyac Hill. She addressed him throughout their dialogue as the littlest of her sons and the most beloved. As I reflect on the readings for today’s memorial in his honor, especially Psalm 131, I cannot help but imagine Juan Diego as exactly that: a little son. I can envision him as a little child, “stilled and quieted”—at peace and undisturbed—on Our Lady’s lap. She holds him, caresses his face, and speaks to him in a whisper, reminding him that he has nothing to fear since she, who is his mother, is there with him. On this day, sister, close your eyes and imagine with me that Juan Dieguito gets up from that place of comfort and comes over to you with an extended hand, inviting you to now take your place. Will you go forward to her and rest your head upon her lap? Allow her to caress your hair, your tears absorbed into the beautiful turquoise blue of her mantle, and hear her whisper to you what she said to him: “Are you not under my shadow and protection? Am I not the source of your joy? Are you not in the hollow of my mantle, in the crossing of my arms? Do you need something more? Let nothing else worry you . . . .” (source). May Saint Juan Diego teach us to confide in our Heavenly Mother and place all of our worries and petitions in her care, allowing our souls to rest there in the arms of the one who carried Our Lord and God. * readings from the Memorial of Saint Juan Diego [bctt tweet="Rest in the arms of the one who carried Our Lord and God. // Rocio Hermes" username="blessedisshe__"] listen to today’s devotion

“Amen, I say to you, in no one in Israel have I found such faith.” // Matthew 8:10 *trigger warning of miscarriage* I prayed over my belly through the tears and the cramps, “Lord, I believe You are able. If You will it, restore life to my baby.” I prayed with humility and with faith. And yet, unlike the account in today’s Gospel, my prayer and my faith were not enough. The bleeding continued, and the ultrasound later confirmed nothing was left of our first-conceived babe. The grief of those days was palpable. I felt guilt, confusion, and an overwhelming amount of sadness. And yet, I didn’t let myself feel my sentiments toward the Lord. I was avoiding His gaze. The elephant in the room that I did not want to address was, “Why did You not hear my prayer and work this miracle?” Many would have us believe that the lack of a miracle is a sign of a lack of faith. Yet that is not always the case. When we look at the centurion in today’s Gospel, he did not rely on the strength of his own faith for a miracle. Instead, he relied on Jesus. He trustingly brought the matter to the Lord (Matthew 8:5) and submitted it to His wisdom and power. Our Lord responded simply, “I will come and cure him” (verse 7) even before He praised the magnitude of the centurion’s faith (verse 10). Can we hand over to the Lord our needs and intentions in this same way—to trust in Him? Not looking to the greatness of our faith as a means of entitlement to signs and wonders, but instead, asking Him to work according to His wisdom, not our own. More than our faith, perhaps it’s about submission to His sovereignty. I pray today, sister, that your heart will be filled with an overwhelming sense of this sovereignty and provision in your life, even when it is beyond what your mind can understand. Jesus, I believe in Your power, in Your wisdom, and in Your sovereignty over my life. Have Your way. Amen. [bctt tweet="Ask Him to work according to His wisdom. // Rocio Hermes" username="blessedisshe__"] listen to today’s devotion

I am amazed that you are so quickly forsaking the one who called you by the grace of Christ for a different gospel (not that there is another). // Galatians 1:6 In the early years of my conversion, I asked the Lord for the heart of this friend to be touched, the suicidal thoughts of that one to be overcome, for a miracle of healing here, and conversion there. It felt as though everything and anything I prayed for would come true. I was spoiled, one could say. And rightly so, I reasoned. How could there be suffering for one who has turned her life over to the Lord? Once we say yes to Him, follow Him and leave our old ways, it’s all uphill from that point onwards, right? I had subscribed to a false gospel of prosperity and constant earthly joys with no sorrows, to a world where the Lord fixed everything and made everyone feel good. The Lord treated me mercifully and only slowly began to show me the truth: Christians have a unique call to share in the sufferings and death of Christ, to follow where He has led, namely the Cross. He began to allow for me to drink from the Cup (Matthew 20:22-23)—at first, once or twice sporadically and then more often. As Christians, our suffering will have meaning and, moreover, it will have power. This power infused into our suffering as we unite ourselves more fully to Christ comes not from us, but purely from His merits. My suffering, then, becomes transformed and elevated to a storehouse of treasures for myself and others. Is this how I see my crosses? Do I realize they are overwhelmingly full of graces waiting to be dispensed? The Lord is present there, calling me higher, drawing me closer, and purifying my love and my faith. He has gone before us on the road of suffering and is, therefore, the best teacher on how to carry the load. Sister, may we kiss the Cross and embrace Christ there, rejecting all of the false gospels we have turned to for comfort. [bctt tweet="He has gone before us on the road of suffering. // Rocio Hermes" username="blessedisshe__"] listen to today’s devotion

Then he said to them, ‘But who do you say that I am?’ // Luke 9:20 “So, religion is really important to you and your husband?” he asked. We had just met this young man at a colleague’s goodbye party. Somehow I landed myself in a potentially polemic conversation. I had no idea where this man stood in terms of faith. Do I keep it light, I wondered, and just say, “Yes” then move onto the next topic? I couldn’t. So I responded vaguely, hoping to stir his interest and keep him open, “Yes, it is very important to us. I was raised Catholic, but that is not why I am Catholic now.” He wanted to know more, and so I was able to share a little of my story. I told him about the day when I began to follow the Lord not because of what “the crowds” were saying about Him (Luke 9:18). I began to live my life for Him when I discovered Who He was for me. There comes a moment in our lives, sister, perhaps even multiple moments, when we have to give an answer to this same question Jesus asked of the disciples: “Who do you say that I am?” (Luke 9:20). Is He our Savior, our Lord, our everything? Or do we still see Him as the crowds see Him: only as a prophet among other prophets, as a nice man with teachings of kindness, as a teacher but not of a definitive kind? Your answer and my answer to this question will determine how we live. Do we follow Him radically? Or do we simply forge our own path and ask Christ to work a wonder for us here and there whenever we need Him to? Sister, we are invited today to know the Lord more fully. His immense love for us, His identity and the character of His Heart, will transform and transfix us. When we discover Him truly, we cannot help but say, with Padre Pio, whose feast we celebrate today, “I live for Jesus Christ, I live for His glory, I live to serve Him, I live to love Him” (source). [bctt tweet="His Heart will transform us. // Rocio Hermes" username="blessedisshe__"] listen to today’s devotion