February 28, 2025 // Friday of the Seventh Week in Ordinary Time Read the Word // Open your Bible to today’s First Reading: Sirach 6:5-17 Reflect on the Word //  My heart warmed as I read this text from a friend: You are my priority. I read those four simple words once more, deeply touched by how much they moved me, meeting a need that I didn’t know I had.  Later that autumn, this friend and I found a few spare moments in our calendars to curl up on her couch with hot tea and squares of dark chocolate. She listened patiently as I shared all the goings-on in my life that were both hard and good, and I tried to do the same for her. I think we both left that evening with our cups full. “A faithful friend is a sturdy shelter,” we read. “[H]e who finds one finds a treasure” (Sirach 6:14). How beautiful it is that an entire passage of Scripture is devoted to finding and cultivating true friendship! These true friends show up for us when life is easy breezy and without care, and all the more so when life is tumultuous and full of sorrow. True friends are Christ-like, pouring themselves out for the good of the other. Hand in hand with these friends, we find shelter from the storm of life, with an abiding assurance that we are seen, heard, and loved. In a world in which loneliness is on the rise and it is far too easy to feel forgotten or passed over, we must not forget the deep importance of both having and being a good friend.  It is not lost on me that the friendship described above is one that was cultivated within the Blessed is She community. Let us remember as we journey through this Christian life together that we are not meant to go it alone. We are made for communion. And we are worthy to be a priority in the life of another.  Relate to the Lord // Who makes you feel like you’re a priority? Send them a text or a card to thank them for their love and friendship.

December 25, 2024  // The Nativity of the Lord (Christmas) (Holy Day of Obligation) Read the Word // Open your Bible to today’s Gospel from the Mass at Dawn: Luke 2:15-20 Reflect on the Word//  Swish, swish, swish proclaimed my snowpants as I entered my church for Midnight Mass one Christmas Eve many years ago. I parked my cross-country skis in the narthex and did my best to quietly enter the darkened church, my abundance of winter gear covered in equal parts of sweat and snow. Never before had I cross-country skied to Mass (and never since, mind you), but a blizzard that particular Christmas Eve kept the city sidewalks unshoveled, giving me the snow I needed to make the journey. “Let us go, then, to Bethlehem To see this thing that has taken place,  Which the Lord has made known to us.” (Luke 2:15) That story of the shepherds from the Gospel of Luke enlivened my heart that Christmas Eve as I made the multi-hour round trip in the dark of night. Many years later the story of the shepherds still speaks to my heart. They didn’t respond to the angels’ greeting with apathy or doubt or resentment that the Lord hadn’t come sooner (What took You so long, God?). No, they went in haste to Bethlehem to see “this thing that [had] taken place,” and they returned to their fields glorifying and praising God.  Do I respond “in haste,” I wonder? As I rediscover the manger with the Christ Child yet again today, do I live with the same anticipation, the same joy, and the same gratitude as those shepherds? I pray that the Lord will dispose our hearts this Christmas to approach Him like the shepherds did that first Christmas morning. Sister, pause with me before the Christ Child; look at Him in your prayerful imagination. And then let us return home glorifying and praising God for the miracle He has done again in our hearts this Christmas. This holy season we are asked to see with the eyes and hearts of those dear shepherds. We are here with them, in this sacred scene of Bethlehem. Relate to the Lord // Spend a few minutes in your holy imagination at the manger in Bethlehem. On this day of His birth, give Him your heart as a gift. 

I am numbered with those who go down into the pit; I am a man without strength. // Psalm 88:5 Without fail, grabbing a cup of coffee at my hometown coffee shop means I will cross paths with at least one long-lost person from my childhood. I always look forward to these blasts from the past and the chance to reconnect. Recently, my cherished connection was a former teacher who not long ago lost her adult son. It was an honor to give her a hug and, for just a few moments, to accompany her in her suffering and share in her grief. Sometimes the Psalmist’s cries (see Psalm 88:2-8) or Job’s words of anguish (see Job 3: 1-3, 11-17) from today’s Readings feel word for word like the cry of my own heart: I am at the bottom of a pit and I just can’t see the way out. In these instances I consider myself a world-class coping expert: I wipe the tears away and pretend I am okay. I launch myself headfirst into a Netflix binge and tell myself it is a healthy distraction. I avoid time in Adoration because I just don’t want to go into those hard places with the Lord.  And yet, almost on the daily, I am challenged and invited to do what Job and the Psalmist do: I learn to give in and simply cry out to Him. Like Job and like the Psalmist, I’ve learned that the best way, the most healing way to carry the burdens of my heart is to make my sorrows heard. The Lord is not uncomfortable with my tears. He won’t tell me to buck up or awkwardly change the subject when I bring my sorrows to Him. He walked our broken world, and He is willing to walk with us through the landscape of our broken hearts, if only we will let Him. Whatever your grief is today, sister, you are not alone in the pit. Cry out to Him for help, and trust that He is right there with you.

The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring glad tidings to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim liberty to captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, and to proclaim a year acceptable to the Lord. // Luke 4:18-19 “Because your voice is so valuable,” I gently encouraged my foster son as we sat at the dining room table late one spring evening. He had initially given a firm no to the opportunity to speak on a panel for youth in the foster care system, but I felt a tug on my heart to nudge him to reconsider. Isn’t it striking how often we disregard the opportunities put before us, thinking something similar? My story isn’t that important. I really don’t have the time to do this well. I sincerely doubt I’d add anything to the conversation. Part of my job as a foster mom is to speak for kids in the foster care system. Another part of my job, I’m learning, is to give them the support, love, and encouragement they need to speak for themselves. Because as children of God, we all have something of value to say.  Today’s readings are full of themes of proclamation and of truth (see 1 Corinthians 2:1-5 and Luke 4:16-22). Saint Paul writes of speaking not with “persuasive words or of wisdom” but rather “with a demonstration of spirit and power” (1 Corinthians 2:4). And Jesus preached boldly in the synagogue to people whose hearts couldn’t quite come to grips with the truth that He was the fulfillment prophesied in the Scriptures. Nonetheless, both shared boldly with those aching for the truth. You have a unique and unrepeatable voice to offer today. It isn’t replaceable by that girl in your Bible study who you are convinced is holier than you or by that Catholic at work who goes to daily Mass more often. The Spirit of the Lord is upon you, my friend. Your voice is valuable. Ask the Lord where you can offer your voice in truth today.

Jesus went around to all the towns and villages, teaching in their synagogues, proclaiming the gospel of the kingdom, and curing every disease and illness. At the sight of the crowds, his heart was moved with pity for them, because they were troubled and abandoned, like sheep without a shepherd. // Matthew 9:35-36 It is one of my most favorite things to do on a Saturday morning. Cup of coffee in hand, I make a beeline to my local thrift store to check out all the pretty treasures that beckon from the shelves. Last weekend, what caught my eye was a gorgeous vintage walnut rocking chair.  Do I need another rocking chair? No. Do I have space for another rocking chair? Nope. Is said rocking chair in my budget? Not even close. But did I take a few extra spins around the store just to sit in said chair (more than once) and contemplate how adorable it would look in my living room? Yes, oh yes. There is something about the thrill of a deal and the discovery of “something-old-made-new-to-me” that makes me love thrifting. A single fella could make me swoon with seven simple words: “Can I take you thrifting this weekend?” So when today’s First Reading reminds us of the idols we can so easily make for ourselves (see Hosea 8:4-7) I can’t help but ask: What idols have I made for myself?  Last week it was the rocking chair. A few days later it was that super cute home in the countryside that I could never afford. A few days after that, it was the pervasive thought that I would never measure up to those more financially successful than myself. Over time I’ve discovered certain idols that surface often in my heart, while others pop up out of the blue whenever I feel lonely, unloved, tired, or afraid.  The Good Shepherd is the antidote to these idols, friend (see Matthew 9:35-36). He sees our lost little hearts and our longings for pretty walnut rocking chairs, financial assurance, and vocational certainty. He reminds us that He will provide for our every need, and (more than any thrift store idol), He will shepherd us into greater joy than we could ever dream possible. Let’s reflect today on the idols that take up space in our hearts, and ask for the grace to give Him that room instead.

When Jesus had risen, early on the first day of the week, he appeared first to Mary Magdalene, out of whom he had driven seven demons. She went and told his companions who were mourning and weeping. When they heard that he was alive and had been seen by her, they did not believe. // Mark 16:9-11 This had never happened to me before. There I was, unpacking a beloved Nativity scene from my Christmas decorations. It was Christmas Eve, and I was a little delayed in decorating. As I carefully placed Joseph, Mary, and the others on my mantle I realized that the most important piece was not in the box. Jesus Himself was nowhere to be found. Who in the world loses the baby Jesus? Dumbfounded and still in my pajamas, I felt tears form in my eyes. This was more, you see, than simply misplacing a favorite ornament or cherished Christmas stocking. It felt as though the spiritual loneliness I had endured over the past several months was now physically manifested in a wooden baby Jesus who could also not be found. Determined not to allow Jesus to be MIA on Christmas, I spent every extra minute that Christmas Eve digging through every single box of decorations where I thought He might be found. But Christmas morning came and went, and there was no baby Jesus to place in the manger. Still more time went by until one day, simple as can be, I found Him. Thank God for that moment of humility! Today’s Gospel reading (see Mark 16:9-15) paints a stark picture of those too mired in grief to really believe that Jesus had risen. Like them, I have sometimes struggled to see with the eyes of faith. Maybe this has been hard for you too. What I want you to know, here in this octave of Easter, is that it is okay if today the Risen Christ feels hidden. It is okay if we are past the beauty and grandeur of Easter Sunday and are feeling stuck in the muck of something hard again.  It’s okay.  Jesus is here. He accompanies us through our day-to-day moments, weeps with us in our sorrows, and cheers with us in our times of joy. It may feel at times like we have lost Him, but He has not lost us. Let’s pray today to find Him more deeply in every facet of our lives.  

Saul then said to David: "You are in the right rather than I; you have treated me generously, while I have done you harm. Great is the generosity you showed me today, when the LORD delivered me into your grasp and you did not kill me. For if a man meets his enemy, does he send him away unharmed? May the LORD reward you generously for what you have done this day. // 1 Samuel 24:18-20 I felt a little manipulated (and more than a little miffed). I had agreed to offer support for a foster parent who needed a break from the intensity of caring for a child with difficult needs. As the weekend progressed my multiple messages to this foster mom went unanswered. When I finally reached her she blithely assumed that I would, at a moment's notice, care for her little one for an additional day despite the plan to which we had agreed. No apology, no kind request, just an assumption.  Sometimes manipulations are so slight that we don’t even take note until the wrong is long over. The burning Now, wait just one minute! feeling comes too late, and we are left feeling the sting of injustice in our hearts, powerless to undo what wronged us in the first place. I love today’s reading from the First Book of Samuel (see 1 Samuel 4:3-21) because at its heart, it is a story of justice. Our dear David did the right thing, the just thing. He could have slain King Saul, right then and there. He knew, though, that God’s timing is sublimely perfect. He trusted that God would see His plan of justice through. Like David, you and I can’t force the hand of justice either. We can’t make our coworkers, family, or friends do the right thing. Nor can we force an outcome just because we are too impatient to wait. Like the roster of Apostles introduced in today’s Gospel passage (see Mark 3:13-19), you and I and everyone else can act sinfully through being greedy, dishonest, cowardly, entitled, and so on. Our relationships are so very imperfect. If you are feeling the pain of an injustice in one of your relationships today, know that the Lord sees you. We need not force the hand of anyone. Let’s pray with Psalm 57 for today that He might shower His mercy on all of our relationships, and that we might live and love with a just heart.

Resplendent and unfading is wisdom, and she is readily perceived by those who love her, and found by those who seek her. She hastens to make herself known in anticipation of their desire; whoever watches for her at dawn shall not be disappointed, for he shall find her sitting by his gate. // Wisdom 6:12-14 It was another late night with a friend, and I found myself trying to speak peace and reassurance into the heart of a mother who was struggling to adjust to life with a fussier-than-usual newborn: “You are a good mom.” “God sees you and loves you.” “I know you can do hard things.” Over the years I have had conversations just like these, time and time again, both personally and professionally. They have taken place in cramped hospital rooms, during late-night breastfeeding sessions, and in kitchens with sinks filled with dirty dishes. Sometimes I take notice of how readily I can speak words of wisdom to the special people in my life—new moms, friends, coworkers—but fail to give the same care and attention to the crevices of my own heart. It’s almost as though the persistent, nagging thought running in the background of my mind is: “Karen’s heart need not apply.” What a lie from the evil one who seeks only to breed confusion and despair! God’s gift of wisdom is for all, sister, and today’s First Reading gives sound evidence of this: “She hastens to make herself known [ . . . ] and whoever waits for her at dawn shall not be disappointed, for he shall find her sitting by his gate” (Wisdom 6:13-14). Do we honor our own hearts with the same truths that we speak to others?  Dear Father, help us to be lovers and receivers of wisdom in every facet of our lives. May we know how deeply you desire to share your wisdom with us, and may we find it waiting today at the doors of our homes and at the doors of our hearts. Amen.

All this took place to fulfill what the Lord had said through the prophet: Behold, the virgin shall be with child and bear a son, and they shall name him Emmanuel, which means "God is with us." // Matthew 1:22-23 It was a well-known fact in my Midwest town: The very best birthday cakes were baked out of a small kitchen in a renovated barn, by a semi-retired lady named Donna. Year after year and with childlike wonder I would watch as she airbrushed onto her sheet cakes the things that meant the most to me and my brothers: flowers and dolphins and whales for me, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and footballs for my brothers. Her cakes blessed not just my own family, but many in our small town. Every birthday, every First Communion, every Boy Scout awards ceremony, every high school graduation, almost always included a cake baked by Donna. It’s a beautifully thoughtful tradition in the Church that, nine months after our celebration of our Blessed Mother Mary’s Immaculate Conception on December 8th, we celebrate Mary’s own birthday today. Each and every September 8th we honor Mary’s birthday as the day of “dawn of our own salvation” (Marialis Cultus 7), for it is through Mary’s birth and subsequent yes that our world is redeemed from sin and death. But today is also special for a different reason: Mary’s own parents, Saints Joachim and Anne, once struggled to conceive. They knew the heartache of disappointment and the fear of the unknown. Their dear little Mary was (and still is) a sign of God’s abiding Providence, a glimmer of hope in times of doubt. Her life reminds us that God is faithful, and that we are never overlooked.  Dear Blessed Mother Mary, may our celebration of your birthday today remind us of all of these things. As we light a candle in honor of you today, pray for us that we might hold fast to hope as your own parents did. Amen.

He went off and beheaded [John] in the prison. He brought in the head on a platter and gave it to the girl. The girl in turn gave it to her mother. When his disciples heard about it, they came and took his body and laid it in a tomb. // Mark 6:27-29   It’s a summer memory that I think might be burned into my brain for all eternity: I can picture my ten-year-old self, persuaded by friends to ride the Tilt-A-Whirl at the local 4th of July carnival. It was painted sparkling red and blue, with concave seats that spun round with enough centrifugal force to make you feel as though your stomach could, in fact, truly leave your body.  I remember my friends letting go of the center wheel and leaning all the way back into the shelled seats, letting the pull of the ride take control as we spun faster and faster. I also remember my own clenched fists white-knuckling the center wheel, and I remember the uncontrollable swirling of my stomach. Every fiber of my being seemed to be shouting, “Stop the ride, I want to get off!” Years later, I’ve found that this phrase takes root in my heart whenever I’m feeling overwhelmed in navigating the life that the Lord has chosen for me: This life demands too much.  I’m not made for this. Stop the ride, Lord. I want to get off. When I read today’s Gospel on the Feast of Saint John the Baptist (see Mark 6:17-29), I can’t help but marvel at the intensity of his life, and the simple docility with which he lived it. John paved the way for the Messiah. His steady courage prepared many hearts to hear the words of Jesus. He died a martyr’s death at the hands of a few shallow and vengeful people who hated him. His ride, so to speak, was one for the books.  When I feel overwhelmed, it is Saints like John the Baptist that help me to again fix my vision. Whether our current tumult is related to vocation or family or finances, John’s witness reminds us that we can cast our gaze on the Messiah and ask for enough courage to cling to Him.  Jesus, in our overwhelm, help us to hold tight to You in this ride of life. Amen.

This poor widow put in more than all the other contributors to the treasury. For they have all contributed from their surplus wealth, but she, from her poverty, has contributed all she had, her whole livelihood. // Mark 12:43-44 She was a quiet woman, the kind who really didn’t have the headspace for a lot of idle chit-chat. She found herself welcoming home her newborn nephew whose parents could not care for him. I sat with her as we talked about options to feed this baby who would be separated from his mother. I urged her to take two cans of formula from our center’s donated items instead of only one. Resolutely she shook her head and thanked me for one, and then swiftly left to return home to her nephew and the other little ones in her care.  I knew what she knew . . . that despite her difficult circumstances there were those in her community who likely needed that extra can of formula even more than she did. And that she would manage, by God’s provision, with what she had. Her generosity in that moment stayed with me for a long time, sister. How easily I cling to things that I feel are owed to me, while this woman so willingly shared from her lack to bless another woman in her community. Just like the widow in today’s Gospel (see Mark 12:38-44) she gave from the very little she had. No one would have judged her for taking a little extra, but she chose instead to trust. Where is the Lord asking you today to loosen your grip and give where you think you just don’t have enough? Does He desire that you tweak your budget so that you can tithe a little more to the Church? Has He placed it on your heart to share your limited time with a person who you know feels lonely and abandoned? Ask Him today to multiply what is meager and to embolden you with a spirit of generosity.

Come to him, a living stone, rejected by human beings but chosen and precious in the sight of God, and, like living stones, let yourselves be built into a spiritual house[.] // 1 Peter 2:4-5 It was a somewhat impulsive acquisition, I admit: an unassuming shed my dad had built decades ago to store our plethora of excess camping equipment and other assorted family paraphernalia. Decades later, it landed in my hands as a lofty “DIY” project. It will be a painfully long time before I am able to reinvent it as something wonderful, but for now I simply delight in the fact that my dear dad and brothers sawed every board and hammered every nail. And I love it. Today’s Second Reading reminds us that when we have Christ as the cornerstone in our lives, then every offering, big or small, builds for us a spiritual home that is precious in the sight of God (see 1 Peter 2:4-9). Some days, we build well: We carve out time for quiet contemplation and time with the Lord. Our words are (mostly) patient and kind, and our actions are authentic and reveal the truth of what the Christian life ought to look like. Our spiritual home begins to grow and flourish. Other days, sister, we (spiritually) hammer our thumbs: We speak too quickly and too harshly. We let jealousy and resentment fester. We avoid Confession. Our spiritual homes become rotting, worn, and weary. The thing is, friend, we know that nothing this side of Heaven is built perfectly. It’s a truth my perfectionist heart is learning to accept. And yet, much like my aging shed, nothing is lost in the building either. When we cooperate in the Lord’s plan for our hearts, He redeems the hammered thumbs and hasty “fixes.” He properly tends to the leaky roof, and He shelters our hearts from intruding thoughts that steal our peace. When we place Him as our true cornerstone, our spiritual homes flourish. Take some moments today to rest with the idea of your spiritual home. What in it brings you joy, comfort, and peace? What needs (big or small) mending? Invite the Lord again to His fitting place in your heart and ask Him to attend to that which needs fixing.

Now there were six stone water jars there for Jewish ceremonial washings, each holding twenty to thirty gallons. Jesus told them, ‘Fill the jars with water.’ So they filled them to the brim. // John 2:6-7 The little shepherd boy is one of my favorites to pray with in the Christmas season. He is a young boy in the Nativity scene, set far back in the crowd. He is small, maybe nine or ten years of age, sporting a worn blue cloak and tousled brown hair. He has no shoes on his feet or anything remarkable in his possession. But in his arms, he carries a lamb, and he looks expectantly to the manger, full of pride at the gift he will soon be sharing with the Christ Child. In his face, there is no shame in the smallness of his gift. There is no worry over how it will be received or if it will be judged as sufficient. His face says it all: Anticipation. Joy. Love. Trust. Perhaps this little boy knew that the Messiah, the Son of God, would take delight in his gift, no matter how small. Isn’t that a wonderful place for our hearts to rest, sister? In today's Gospel from Saint John, we read of another gift that was received and transformed by Our Lord: gallons of humble water became wine—not just any wine, but good wine (see John 2:7-10). Here again, Jesus doesn't scoff at the simplicity of the offering. He graciously receives the gift and transforms it into something that far surpasses what any wedding guest could anticipate. Sister, if you are entering the New Year with a tug on your heart to give of yourself in a particular way, I encourage you to sit in prayer with those at the Nativity. Ponder the little shepherd boy who gave with equal amounts of generosity and trust. Whether it’s the discernment of a new job or the tentative plans for a new ministry or the pondering of a pregnancy, Our Lord delights in you. He delights in your giving heart (see Psalm 149:4). And He desires to transform the smallest of your gifts into the greatest of fruit.

The people walking in front rebuked him, telling him to be silent, but he kept calling out all the more, ‘Son of David, have pity on me!’ 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.’ // Luke 18:39-41 Can I tell you a secret, sister? This week I celebrate my 41st year of life! I'm ashamed to admit that for a few years in my thirties I looked to birthdays with a fair bit of dread. One more turn around the sun was just a reminder of past missteps, dashed hopes, and “missed” opportunities. I wasn't physically blind like the man in today's Gospel (Luke 18:35-43), but I was certainly spiritually blind to the providence of God and to the truth that my life was a pure, undeserved, and (let’s be honest) pretty awesome gift from the Creator. A few years into those "woe-is-me" birthdays, I got tired of floundering (thank You, Jesus) and instead made a conscious decision to look forward to my birthday with anticipation instead of dread. Gratitude instead of regret. Hope instead of despair. With a profuse amount of birthday spirit, I made one more birthday commitment: I was going to anticipate my birthday with as much zeal as an eight year old. That’s right—bring on the cake and candles and waking up with a smile on my face because I was another year older. I was ready to celebrate: Right where I was at. Right where God wanted me to be. Whatever turn around the sun you will celebrate in the coming year, my prayer is that all of us might celebrate each and every birthday with the words of that man in today’s Gospel: “Lord, please let me see.” Let us see Your presence, Your blessings, and Your calling on our lives. And let us celebrate every year of our lives with the ardent zeal of an eight year old. Amen. [bctt tweet="Let us see Your presence. // Karen Schultz" username="blessedisshe__"] listen to today’s devotion

“Have you not read what David did when he and those who were with him were hungry?" // Luke 6:3 "My old foster grandma lives down that street!" a little voice chirped from my back seat. "Is that so?" I asked distractedly. But when he said it again, in an effort to appease, I turned the car around to do a drive-past. "Does this look familiar?" I gently asked him as we meandered along. I glanced in the rearview mirror at him looking expectantly out the window and said a prayer that he wouldn't be disappointed when our little detour would surely be a bust. And then, there she was: cup of coffee in hand, sitting in a patio chair, taking in the cool of the summer morning. She (of course) was just as surprised to see him as I was to see her. He bounded out of the car, nestled his head into her chest, and embraced her. (I later learned that children with a history of trauma can have a highly sensitive awareness of their surroundings. This little boy hadn't seen his former foster family for months, but he knew that place of love and safety as surely as anything.) In today's Gospel we read of Jesus doing something that was unlawful on the Sabbath: He allowed that His beloved who were hungry were fed (see Luke 6:1-5). For us, too, sometimes feeding the hungry in our midst demands that we step away from convention and routine and be attentive to our call to love. He wants us to respond in joy and trust, even when it feels like a waste of time, money, or energy, or when the outcome seems murky at best. God gave me an opportunity to feed the hungry that glorious summer day. I thank God often that I wasn't so stuck in my head that I missed out on feeding that little boy’s heart. Let us pray today for the ability to be attentive to the hungry in our midst and to be willing to step out in faith and meet that need. [bctt tweet="Step out in faith. // Karen Schultz " username="blessedisshe__"] listen to today’s devotion

"Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.” // John 18:37 The sound of my alarm at 2 a.m. hit me like a train. I slowly rolled over in the volunteer bed at the Missionaries of Charity hospice and rubbed my eyes. The intense warmth of radiator heat made it a little easier to push back the covers, slide out of bed, and tiptoe toward the resident rooms where a number of women lay asleep. As my eyes adjusted to their darkened room, I could make out each in her bed. One mumbled in her sleep in Spanish. Another clutched her purse tightly under the covers. Still another who had Alzheimers was awake and lost deep in a memory from her past. Quietly I checked on each of them, changing the undergarments of those who needed it and smoothing the wrinkles in their bedsheets. Saint Teresa of Calcutta would often remark that she and her Missionary of Charity sisters served Jesus in the "most distressing disguise" of the poor. When we bind up the wound of someone who is suffering, feed the one who can no longer feed herself, or hold vigil in the last moments of life—even when it is uncomfortable—we are serving Jesus. The distress I would feel at times in serving those in hospice is similar to the way my heart feels today on Good Friday. I'm ashamed of Judas. Embarrassed by Simon Peter. Aghast at those casting lots for our Lord's garments. I cringe at my own spoken words of "Crucify him!" even though I know my own very real sins wound Christ today. Good Friday is distressing. And yet, it is good that we are here in this place of the Triduum. It is good to remind our forgetful selves of our Lord's Passion. It is good to spend time in adoration of the Cross, remembering that He died for you, for me, for those in hospice with their untold pasts, for all of us. Let us stand vigil at the Cross today and allow Him to speak truth to our hearts. [bctt tweet="It is good that we are here. // Karen Schultz" username="blessedisshe__"] listen to today’s devotion

He is like a tree planted beside the waters that stretch out its roots to the stream. // Jeremiah 17:8 Her little legs wrapped around my waist as she nestled into my lap, sharing a swing with me on a lazy, late summer day. "Can you have my autograph so you'll always remember me?" she mournfully asked as she cuddled closer, tears welling up in her eyes. "Oh dear heart!" I said. "How could I forget YOU? But you are a big girl going to kindergarten soon, and big girls don't need nannies. But I could never, ever forget you." Do you have a "swing set moment" of your own, friend? Can you close your eyes and think back to a time when you felt the most safe, loved, and cherished? Take a minute to allow your mind and heart to drift back to that memory. What made it so special? What sounds, touches, and smells made you feel the way you did? This sweet memory, friends, is just a taste of the intimate union that Jesus desires for you and for me. Jesus is the stream by which we can sink in our roots and find space to breathe. He is the One we can cuddle close to and have the firm assurance that He is worthy of all of our trust. Whatever your cross is today—the start of something new or a pesky feeling of inadequacy or the stumbling block of sin—let's ask Jesus to help us stretch out our arms to Him. Let us ask that we might feel loved, safe, and cherished in His embrace. [bctt tweet="He is worthy of all of our trust. // Karen Schultz " username="blessedisshe__"] listen to today’s devotion