The two disciples heard what [John the Baptist] said and followed Jesus. Jesus turned and saw them following him and said to them, “What are you looking for?” // John 1:37-38 I tend to be a bit absent-minded, and because of this tendency, I sometimes misplace things. I can be forgetful. I get stuck in my thoughts and will do things without realizing it. I lose my phone, keys, shoes, half-drunk coffee, glasses, and laptop regularly. I spend far too much of my time looking for my misplaced items. Chapstick in the washing machine, cold coffee cup in the pantry, phone in the fridge—you get the picture.  One of the most useful phrases from my childhood I hear replayed in my mind is “Where does it belong?” Growing up, when I misplaced things, rather than asking me where I had last seen it (not helpful), my mom would encourage me to look again where it belonged. Because very often, I had absent-mindedly returned the shoes to the closet, or my keys to the drawer, and I just hadn't seen it at first glance. I have spent a great deal of time collectively looking for things, in all the wrong places, when I just needed to look where they belonged. They were there waiting to be rediscovered. In the spiritual life, too, sometimes we are absentminded. We look, but we don't see. Or we look for the Lord in all the wrong places. We seek fulfillment, happiness, satisfaction, approval, and belonging where we last found it, but not in the right place. People pilgrimage to far-off lands, climb vast mountains, and travel across the earth seeking what is accessible just down the road. Entire lifetimes have been spent searching for God, as He remains patient in His Real Presence in the tabernacle, waiting for us to discover Him. To discover a life through Him, and with Him, and in Him. Sister, what are you looking for? If it is goodness you seek, if it is love, stop searching in all the wrong places. Come to the tabernacle in the nearest Catholic church. Move your feet and go to His dwelling place. We know where He is and He is waiting to welcome you into a life more deeply lived.

See what love the Father has bestowed on us that we may be called the children of God. Yet so we are. // 1 John 3:1 “I don’t have a box for you; this is the last one.” I smiled at her, knowing the Father had saved it just for me.  I had come to the gift shop with high hopes of finding a beautiful vintage medallion of the Blessed Mother. Something large and preferably gold with a long chain. Instead I stood at the counter, debit card in hand, with a small silver medal of God the Father. Face serene, arms spread wide, one palm open, His other hand extended in blessing.   It wasn’t what I was looking for, but it was perfect. I’ve been in what I like to call my “Father era” lately, discovering in a deeper way the tenderness and closeness of God. I thought I knew the Father. I thought my “father-anguish” had been healed. But within me there is still a shy and reticent little girl, anxious to come out of hiding but never feeling safe enough to do so.  I’ve found rest for that part of my heart in my imaginative prayer in the loving arms of the Father. With the Father, I can be quiet or distracted, sad or fearful, silly or sleepy. My moods don’t affect the strength of His arms or the steady beat of His Heart. Instead I snuggle against His chest, exactly as I am, and the big emotions come back down to size. This is who I am, His little daughter. This is who you are, too: His little child. This is where we belong. In the Father’s arms, you don’t have to solve your problems or get over your pain. You don’t have to hold all the things when you let Him hold you. You simply get to rest. To be yourself. To match your breathing to the One Who breathed life into your soul and created the universe. And to feel the weight of His loving hand upon your life. This is where you belong—in the warmth of His embrace, lulled into peace by the strong beat of His Heart. You don’t have to come out of hiding alone, dear sister. The Father’s arms are wide open to receive you.

He said: “I am the voice of one crying out in the desert, ‘Make straight the way of the Lord,’ as Isaiah the prophet said.” // John 1:23 My breathing begins to quicken and I start to feel the pounding of my pulse in my head. Thump thump. Thump thump. It has been a while since my last panic attack, but I know the tell tale signs. Chest tightening, thoughts racing, body trembling. Just breathe, I remind myself. Find something to focus on and slow down. I search for an object in the room to set my attention on. Nothing in particular. Just a solid object I can keep my sight on as I work through the waves of anxiety.You are okay. You are not alone. You are loved, I repeat, settling into a slower rhythm of breaths that I hope will remain steady and pull me out of the attack before my mind wanders back into a desert of isolation, ramping things up, forcing me to start the come-down again. You are okay. You are not alone. You are loved. The voice begins to change from my own to Another’s. Not a dramatic switch, but a slow, comforting transition as the exhaustion from what has happened begins taking over and my body cries out for rest. I know this voice. It is the One Who is with me in the desert. It is a voice of peace and consolation. It is the One Who reminds me that I am okay. I am not alone. I am loved. Saint John the Baptist echoes the words of Isaiah about a voice crying out from the desert to make straight the way of the Lord (see John 1:23). And I can’t help but wonder Who those messengers encountered in both the literal and metaphorical deserts of their lives. For Who else could meet us in our isolation? Who else could speak the truth over us and inspire us to share our encounter with one another in efforts to prepare the way for Him? So sister, today I invite you, whether in the desert or not, to stop and listen. Perhaps you will recognize the voice inviting you to prepare the way of the Lord. How will you respond?

Jesus said to His disciples, “Beware that your hearts do not become drowsy from carousing and drunkenness and the anxieties of daily life . . . ” // Luke 21:34 I have always loved my sleep. As a baby, I declined rocking and soothing in favor of snuggling into my crib for a blissful nap.  As a child, when company stayed late I’d pipe up to proclaim, “I’m tired, may I go to bed now?”   Nowadays, I find myself yawning to my teens, “Time for prayers! It’s past Mom’s bedtime!”  It’s ironic, then, that God called me to spend fifteen years in a profession where I regularly had to forgo precious sleep. Throughout my military service, I had to catch a wink whenever I could: on a cot before early musters, on a bed of rocks in a raging storm, in the back of a troop truck with my head propped against my battle buddy. I learned exactly how crucial rest is for our bodies to function—not only in the moment, but to persevere through future demands.  This rest is not just imperative for our bodies. It’s equally essential for our souls.  There are a thousand ways to become spiritually drowsy, deprived of spiritual rest in Jesus. Our Lord Himself cites a few in today’s Gospel: “carousing, drunkenness, and the anxieties of daily life” (see Luke 21:34). Beyond these we cling to countless other escapes and excuses: work or vocational busyness, materialism, perfectionism, self-sufficiency. They drug us into distraction from God and lull us into complacency in prayer—and in our growing drowsiness, the enemy catches us unaware.  The antidote? Intentional time with the Person of Rest: Jesus, Our Good Shepherd.  When it comes to our souls, Jesus is our only true rest and restoration.  Just as our bodies need hours of sleep each night, our souls need adequate time in honest relationship with Jesus—called prayer—every single day. Even when our schedule seems contrary to rest, we can still catch snatches of prayer throughout the day if we allow it. This Advent, let yourself prioritize this spiritual rest. During Advent, as we pause our daily devotions based on the Mass readings, we’re inviting our entire Blessed is She community to take refuge in the Good Shepherd’s arms through our Advent Devotional, Found. You can purchase the book in PDF or hard copy or just follow along in your daily devotional email. Come rest awhile, sister. He’s here: open-hearted and waiting for you.

“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.

The Scripture says, No one who believes in him will be put to shame. // Romans 10:11 I stood over a small saucepan at my stove, warming up my morning cup of coffee, noticing tiny bubbles forming on the edges. Sizzling sounds erupted as my wooden spoon prodded through the black liquid. I watched for the steam rising as it caught the window light. The sprinkles of cinnamon released their aroma, reaching for my nose.  I was reheating my coffee this way because we don’t own a microwave anymore. The morning brew from our coffee maker had grown cold because I had spent the morning getting my blood drawn. I was getting my blood drawn because my husband and I are in our fourth year of infertility, and we recently started a new round of testing.  So while I stood over my stove, waiting for my coffee, I began contemplating the art of waiting on God’s fidelity. The kind of waiting that involves hope and surrender. Oh, how this virtue pushes and stretches us, doesn’t it?  My mind drifted to the birth of Jesus.  Having recently heard the genealogy of Jesus during Mass, I thought about the long line of generations that preceded His birth. I recalled how much waiting was involved in the Old Testament. How many thousands of faithful Israelites died before they saw the fulfillment of God’s promise of a Savior? Yet, as we hear in the First Reading, no one who believes in Him has ever been put to shame (see Romans 10:11). As we approach this liturgical season of waiting, God invites us to believe in His promises to us over and over again. The first sentence of Saint Andrew’s Christmas Novena provides an eloquent reminder of this:  Hail and blessed be the hour and moment in which the Son of God was born Of the most pure Virgin Mary, at midnight, in Bethlehem, in the piercing cold.  Sister, do not be afraid to bring your heart full of hope to the edge of the wooden manger. Gaze upon the miracle that took thousands of years for God to reveal. Let the blessed moment of your Savior’s birth constantly remind you of God’s fidelity made flesh.

“It will lead to your giving testimony. Remember, you are not to prepare your defense beforehand, for I myself shall give you a wisdom in speaking that all your adversaries will be powerless to resist or refute.” // Luke 21:13-15 Driving home from serving with a homeless ministry, a student asked me if I was Christian. Strange question, considering we were a group from the Catholic center on the university campus, but I answered him, "Yes, I am. Are you?" He said, "No, I'm an atheist." I asked him, "When did you know you were an atheist? What moment were you aware God didn't exist?" He told me a story involving the death of a loved one and unanswered prayers. I listened, and then he said, "If I could see a miracle, I would believe in God." This is when I knew why God placed this young man in my car and what God called me to do. Unbelieving, this man wanted a miracle from God. He ached to be healed from chronic foot pain. I asked if I could pray over his feet for healing, and he said, "Sure, why not?" We exited the car, and then, standing on the sidewalk, I prayed once over his feet; his pain level went from eight to five. I prayed again; his pain went from five to zero. He stood in disbelief, speechless. I thanked God and exchanged numbers to check on him, and for a few weeks, we texted back and forth. His feet remained healed, his heart still closed. I wish I could say this young man suddenly believed in God and came into the Church, but as far as I know, he didn't. All I know is that God is awesome and places us in relationships daily to be his hands and feet. Walking the streets of my campus daily, I pray, Lord, give me the courage to speak with Your wisdom. Pour Your Holy Spirit over this campus and lead Your children to Your loving arms. Nothing could have prepared me for the conversation I had that day. Only the Lord could've given me the wisdom and courage to pray over that young man and listen to his heartache. Sister, pray for the courage to speak with the wisdom of God. When you do, no preparation is necessary. He will fill you with His Word.

Then they asked him, ‘Teacher, when will this happen?And what sign will there be when all these things are about to happen?”// Luke 21:7 “When will Mom and Dad be back?” my three-year-old grandson tearfully asked as I tucked him in at bedtime. “Soon, very soon,” I said, waiting for the inevitable clarifying questions. “Will they be back before I fall asleep or after? Will they be here when I wake up? Will you give them a good report? Will there be sprinkle donuts for breakfast?” Whether it was my reassuring tone, his own exhaustion, or the promised donuts, his questions ceased and soon he was fast asleep. Even as adults, we never stop asking questions and wondering about the future. Each day we face so many unknowns—both personally and globally—that threaten to strike fear in our hearts and steal our peace. Our world is oversaturated with information, images, and sources that claim to be true but are often unreliable and unsettling. Like the early disciples, we, too, want answers to those burning questions. Are we living in the final days of human history? How should we interpret the signs of decline and despair that we witness in our world? How can we prepare for what is to come? The same Lord Who, in today’s Gospel (see Luke 21:5-11), gave His disciples sneak previews of the coming travails and warned them not to be terrified, is also with us, speaking His plans and promises into our troubled hearts. Jesus repeatedly tells us in Scripture to be watchful and prepared, but there is so much we do not know that He chooses not to reveal. But we do know that we can trust the One Who knows everything, Who holds our futures, our families, the Church, and the salvation of the world in His hands. Like my small grandson who trusts that his loving parents will come home soon, we, too, can rest confidently in our Good Father’s promise to return again. Sisters, even as we ponder the unknown, let us walk by faith and cling to our blessed hope with unwavering joy and expectation.

“ . . . but she, from her poverty, has offered her whole livelihood.” // Luke 21:4 As I approached my junk-covered desk and tried to clear off some space, I attempted to quiet my mind and heart for prayer. My cluttered desk resembled my cluttered heart. Prayer was the last thing I wanted to do, yet I still knew it was the only thing I needed. I opened up a livestream of Eucharistic Adoration on my computer as my body weighed heavily on my desk chair. I wasn’t exhausted physically, but emotionally.  I attempted to keep my focus on the Beloved, but my mind was going in a million different directions. Although my atmosphere was quiet, my mind raged with commotion. Through my frustration, I told Jesus, I’m sorry, but no one prepared me for this. No one told me that my friend was going to be sent to the ER for suicidal thoughts. I’m overwhelmed and I have nothing to give You.  In today’s Gospel, we read, “ . . . but she, from her poverty, has offered her whole livelihood” (Luke 21:4). Much like the widow in this Gospel, I didn’t have much to give. The tender love of Jesus caught my attention when He gently whispered into my heart, Take comfort in My presence. It’s enough that you chose to sit here with Me.  Sister, Jesus knows the depths of our suffering. He knows how shocking these unexpected and heartbreaking experiences can be. He doesn’t expect us to “get it.” All He wants is you. He doesn’t even need your words; He just wants you. Even if in your prayer you can only sit in silence or just cry the entire time or express your need to be mad at Him, He wants all of that.  All we give to Him is a gift and it’s enough. It’s enough for Him.  Lord Jesus, we love You and we praise You. Help us to lift our hearts, our pain, our sufferings to You. Help us to know and root ourselves in the truth that You're always here. That You care. That You love us more deeply and infinitely than we can imagine. Amen.

“As a shepherd tends his flock when he finds himself among his scattered sheep, so will I tend my sheep.” // Ezekiel 34:12 I’ll admit I spent thirty minutes researching sheep for this devotional. "What are the characteristics of sheep?" I typed into Google. Turns out that sheep are not simply passive, unintelligent, or timid creatures, but incredible animals with their own complex personalities. Sheep have the ability to distinguish and recognize the voice and face of their shepherd. They are also “flock” animals that thrive in community. They can feel emotions, such as optimism and pessimism, based on their experiences . . . the list goes on. It’s wild, sometimes, how a simple (and silly, so it seemed) Google search can open our eyes, hearts and minds to a deeper understanding of who God is as our own Shepherd. We are His sheep—individual, unique, complex. We can distinguish and recognize His promptings in our lives when we take the time to rest in His holy presence. We seek relationships with those around us as we press on in the direction He desires us to go. But who is the Shepherd? He is Christ the King, the sacrificial Lamb of God. He understands what it means to be one of the flock, to be obedient to the Father, to follow the path set before Him, to trust that all that He encounters is ultimately for the Glory of God. He went before us as an example, the first Lamb among us. And He goes before us now, as our Shepherd—the one in whom we can follow with all of who we are, believing with confidence that where He leads, He leads to care for us and provide for us, and see to it that we are always found and brought back to the fold. Jesus, thank You for loving me and leading me as Your little sheep. Thank You for being a Shepherd who deeply knows and understands all of my intricacies. Be with me today as Christ my King and lead me where You will.  

"Some Sadducees, those who deny that there is a resurrection, came forward and put this question to Jesus [ . . . ]" // Luke 20:27 The days have been getting shorter, the nights longer, and the colorful leaves have been collecting on the ground. This is the way to new life next spring. It begins with an ending. Everything outside seems to be ushering us towards the end of this liturgical year. And at the same time, the readings focus more and more on the end times. And with the end in mind, we're about to begin a season that ultimately gives us hope for that end. Jesus has come—and is coming, and with Him, the hope of resurrection and life everlasting. So Advent is a beautiful time where we can renew our faith and hope in Him. The Sadducees in today's Gospel reading give us an example of one way we can do that, and that's by bringing our questions to Jesus (see Luke 20:27-40). We see in this exchange that Jesus heard their question and responded—even though their question may have been asked with bad intentions and to discredit Him. He went to the heart of their question about the resurrection and assured them that God is not God of the dead, but of the living. He tells them the resurrection is real. When it comes to prayer, you can bring your questions to Jesus. He, of course, already knows your thoughts, but if you enter into a conversation with Him about it, you give Him the chance to listen and respond. To get to the heart of your question. To remind you of the hope of the resurrection.

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).

And one of them, realizing he had been healed, returned, glorifying God in a loud voice; and he fell at the feet of Jesus and thanked him. // Luke 17:11-19* I stared down at the pregnancy test. Negative again, of course. I could have predicted the outcome because it was always the same. For a decade I took test after test after test, and they always resulted in that familiar singular line.  Please take this cross, I’d whisper into the depths of the darkness. It was my well-worn prayer, my plea for healing and hope.  It took nearly ten years for this prayer to be answered. The cross of infertility filled my heart with so many things for so long—doubt, bitterness, anguish. But now, as a mother, it fills my heart with something so completely different: gratitude. Because somewhere deep in the ache and the tears was an unforeseen gift, one that forever shifted my perspective of motherhood and gave me the ability to truly appreciate the wonder of it all.  Today we celebrate Thanksgiving in the United States of America, and though those outside of the country do not celebrate this holiday with us, it is still a wonderful invitation to reflect with gratitude on all we have been given. The Church has provided us with a Gospel reading for this particular celebration (see Luke 17:11-19) about the gratitude of one of ten persons healed from leprosy, and while reading it, I couldn’t help but reflect upon the goodness that so often springs forth from the crosses we carry.  There is always thanksgiving, it seems, in the healing or the answered prayers. Like the healed leper, we often return to Christ with a thankful heart once our particular problem has been solved. But I wonder, dear sister—what gift is God giving you in the hardships you are facing right now? What can you find gratitude for in the midst of this difficulty? Because while the cross is hard and heavy, He is still good.  Even in this.  *From optional readings for Thanksgiving Day in the United States.

“I tell you, to everyone who has, more will be given, but from the one who has not, even what he has will be taken away.” // Luke 19:26 I felt shocked walking into the grocery store near our family home. Nothing had changed in the store, but I was different.  I was returning from a weeklong service trip with the parish youth group. We had gone across the border to Agua Prieta, Mexico. At fifteen, I soaked up the enthusiasm of the leaders and other members of the youth group. I marveled at how well they knew the people we stayed with, the children at the orphanages, and the people running the facilities. The testimony of their love for these people, each other, and God still brings a smile to my face, even as I think of those long days and hard work. I can still see some of the cherub-faced children who swarmed our vans when we came to deliver food and clothing. Amid such rugged poverty, people there lived with ready smiles, gratitude, and blessings.  A spontaneous prayer arose from the core of my heart as I walked under those familiar fluorescent lights in the grocery store: Lord, help me to always praise You for what I have. My parents, Vietnamese refugees, often told us to thank God for what we have, and to be ready to be content with little. Mom reminded us that this is all we need: God, a bag of rice, a roof, and each other. Everything else is extra.  But how often do I catch myself striving? How often do I grasp at more, even in relationship with God? I’ve always been haunted by the words from the Gospel today, “[T]o everyone who has, more will be given, but from the one who has not, even what he has will be taken away” (Luke 19:26). Our Lord teaches us the flipside of the Gospel logic of multiplication today. God can multiply and wants to do so abundantly, but we have to surrender. May we surrender generously.

I am not only enduring terrible pain in my body from this scourging, but also suffering it with joy in my soul because of my devotion to him. // 2 Maccabees 6:30b It had been a day. There was more on my list than was possible to accomplish, between errands and kids’ activities and possibly-unwise commitments. Why do I always do this to myself? I thought. I have still not learned the art of asking for enough help, nor the maybe-more-important skill of saying no. And even when I do, I sometimes bear the small but real frustration of receiving imperfect help from imperfect people.  So at the end of the day, after Costco pizza and a movie, I piled the kids in the car and drove to the beach. The sun was setting in a rosy glow, and I sank steadily under the quicksilver surface of the water. I gave myself over to the therapeutic sensory feast: my eyes delighted in the color and texture of sky and water, my body felt buoyed and weightless and vibrant, and my ears heard the soft lapping of the waves on the shore and the happy laughter of my children. My body calmed, and my soul was still. Life this side of Heaven is a struggle. It’s filled with large and small suffering, things that chafe and ache and annoy, things that threaten to quench our hope. So we practice joy. We practice gratitude. We have to practice because we have not yet achieved perfect holiness.  In today’s First Reading Eleazar responded in joy when faced with his martyrdom (see 2 Maccabees 6:18-31), but I doubt that was his first try. I’d be willing to bet that most of his long life was spent practicing joy and gratitude, so that in the final test, that was exactly what he brought—a skill honed over decades of trying and failing and trying again to choose holiness. If you feel a complaint rise in your spirit when a large or small challenge comes your way today, take heart: you’re not finished practicing yet, and this is not a failure. It’s an opportunity.

Then Jesus stopped and ordered that he be brought to him; and when he came near, Jesus asked him, "What do you want me to do for you?" He replied, "Lord, please let me see." Jesus told him, "Have sight; your faith has saved you." He immediately received his sight and followed him, giving glory to God. When they saw this, all the people gave praise to God. // Luke 18:40-43 I stood in the sterile, cold hallway, under the bright white lights and let my body lean against the stark white wall.  “Overwhelmed. I just feel overwhelmed,” I choked out into the phone as my nose tingled and the tears welled up. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, breathing in the smell that can only be described as “hospital.” If you have been there—you know that smell. It was more than being overwhelmed, though; I felt alone. Utterly alone. The voice on the other line was too far away to be of any comfort. Jesus, where are You in all of this? As I opened my eyes, there was a man standing in front of me. He simply smiled, his chaplain badge inviting me not just to lean on him, but to tell him everything. I unloaded in a torrent of tears, finishing with, “I know the Lord will bring good from this, but it is hard.” Suddenly, I wasn't alone. Not only was the kind chaplain there, but four stories below, and at the end of the hall, Jesus waited for me in the form of the Blessed Sacrament in the tabernacle. The following day I found Him, and as I knelt on the bare floor I let His warmth envelop me. Thank you, Lord, for letting me see You in the kindness of the chaplain and in the form of Your True Presence in the Blessed Sacrament.  Without eyes of faith, we are unable to see Him in our everyday life. Our blindness can be from grief, pain, sin, bitterness, disappointment, or a myriad of other afflictions. Simply calling out to Him in the dark gives Him the invitation to make His presence known. But we have to call out in faith: Lord, please let me see You.  Whatever you are struggling with, sister, you are not alone. Invite Wisdom to show you the places in your life that are blinding you from Truth. Call out to the Lord and ask Him to give you eyes of Faith so that you may see Him more clearly.

“Well done, my good and faithful servant [ . . . ] Come, share your master’s joy.” // Matthew 25:21 “I didn’t want to lose you. I didn’t want to let you go. Then, one day I just realized, you don’t belong to me. God let me borrow you, but I had to give you back.” This was my mom’s response when I commented on a new peace I had observed in her one weekend when she visited me in the convent. The tears of gratitude and love that filled my eyes as my mom articulated her willingness to entrust me back to the Father now fill her eyes as she witnesses me living my vocation. She now looks on with joy and maternal pride when, in the grocery store, a little girl comes up to me and asks, “Are you a Mary?” or someone approaches and asks me for prayers. Perhaps, too, as she reads this very devotion, she is aware of how her support, love, and encouragement of me over the years are now leading to others being supported, loved, and encouraged. My mom sees now that her struggle was feeling like she “wasn’t done with me.” I know I feel the same way when the Lord asks me to entrust back something, or someone, He has given to me for a time: Lord I’m not ready to do this, or let this go, or launch this idea . . .  Like the talents in today’s Gospel, the Lord entrusts much to us throughout our lives that we might help grow His Kingdom. These talents might be actual abilities we’re hesitant to share, or the gift of time to help others. A “talent” I think is often overlooked, for mothers especially, is that of children. As with any talent, we must nurture and help them grow, but then we must share them with the world in order for them to bear fruit. Sister, what is the Lord asking you to share with the world? Where is your heart reluctant to surrender what He has given you for the building of the Kingdom, that you, too, might hear the consoling words, “Well done, my good and faithful servant [ . . . ] Come, share your master’s joy” (Matthew 25:23)?