Jesus, looking at him, loved him and said to him, “You are lacking in one thing. Go, sell what you have, and give to the poor and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me." // Mark 10:21 My life is full of stuff. It clutters the rooms just as it clutters my mind. Some I want, some I don’t want. It's not hard to be motivated to fill a Goodwill bag every once in a while. But there are a lot of things I am not as eager to give away. Things like my time, my plans, my expectations, and my schedule. In today’s Gospel our Lord is asking us to look beyond our temporal goods (see Mark 10:17-30). If we have them, we certainly ought to be detached from them, but can we take it even deeper to discover the things we cling to the most? I can think of a hundred moments where I clung to my riches. An eager child longing for time with me as I turn to take time for myself. Ignoring the alarm clock for a few more minutes of sleep instead of the morning Mass I had told myself I would attend. A friend stopping by to talk right as I finally got to the laundry. A seemingly inconvenient phone call. The list goes on and on.  I don’t have much to physically give away. The Goodwill bag, sure. But that’s easy. Much like the rich man, Jesus is asking me for more. Much more. And to let it go. What I have is me. I have time to stop and to listen, eye contact to make, a listening ear and good advice, some laughter and a conversation with my husband, affection with my kids, and flexibility and ease with the people who enter into my life. These are my riches—but ultimately they are the Lord’s—gifted to me for His good purpose.  Lord, help me to give it all away. To walk in a spirit of total self-gift and detachment and to not count the cost, the time, the money, nor the inconveniences or the derailments. This is what I have. Help me, Jesus, to give it away.

“[B]lessed are those who hear the word of God and observe it.” // Luke 11:28 I was beyond weary.  It had been an especially hard day during a hard week in a string of hard months. This season of suffering had held financial woes, trying health problems, work and vocational stressors. I felt utterly maxed out, and my biggest commitment of the day still loomed ahead. How can I possibly manage this too? I asked the Lord—a meager plea cloaked in desperation. Out of sheer obedience, I lit my prayer candle and sat down to pray according to my daily routine. I didn’t want to, and I didn’t even feel like I had the time to—but I did anyway, because I’d learned from ample experience that prayer was the only way to receive the grace I truly needed to keep going.  My time in prayer reflected the state of my soul: dry, distracted, and weary. I noted a few intellectual graces, but they in no way felt consoling. After prayer I extinguished my prayer candle in a puff of discouragement, survived the rest of the day, and collapsed into bed. Yet the next day when I sat down to pray again, the graces of the previous day came flooding back. The Lord wasted no time expanding them in wild ways and heaping my heart with the consolation I’d been craving.  When I chose to persevere in prayer despite my contrary feelings, it became the key that unlocked a torrent of grace. This grace led me directly into deeper union with God—and peace lasting far longer than my painful but passing day of misery.  It can be easy to hear the Word of God, but hard to keep it day after day—especially when our fickle feelings and shifting circumstances make perseverance feel futile. Thankfully, your efforts to observe God’s Word will never be empty. The fruit of prayer is not limited to narrow human assessment, and God’s truth won’t change based on your changing feelings.  The Lord always pours out His greatest sustaining grace as you press forward in your most difficult moments.  Today, cleave faithfully to our Lord and choose to persevere. Like Mother Mary, blessed are you when you do (see Luke 11:28). 

“When a strong man fully armed guards his palace, his possessions are safe.” // Luke 11:21  Despite the fact that I was riding the “mountaintop high” following a great youth conference, I couldn’t help but feel discouraged as the gate agent announced yet another flight delay. The priest I was traveling with would likely miss his connecting flight. I wanted to get home. We both felt defeated, as if the good work we’d just done was negated because we were stuck in a Canadian airport for who knew how long. Spiritual attack seems most real when you’ve done God’s work and then can’t get home after. “Let’s pray,” Father said, and he asked the Lord to “provide a hedge of protection around us.” I sort of rolled my eyes in the airport. Prayer is great, but Jesus’ “hedge of protection” wasn’t going to get me on a flight. But it did unify me to the Lord in the moment. Eventually, we did fly out of Halifax. Father made his connection. I got in my car, ready to drive two hours home from the airport. Ninety minutes later, as rain poured, I hit a pothole and popped a tire. When I was conveniently able to pull right off the interstate into the parking lot of a Holiday Inn, I felt Jesus’ “hedge of protection.”  Jesus tells us in today’s Gospel (see Luke 11:15-26) to fully arm ourselves to be protected against the attacks sure to come. However those attacks may manifest, and whenever the evil one tries to separate us from the Lord, the simplest of prayers can unite us to the Lord. When united to Jesus, nothing can stand against us. He helps us see spiritual attacks for what they are: the silly attempts of a desperate devil trying to distract us from the love of the Lord.  How can you unite yourself to the Lord today? Ask for a hedge of protection, and to be armed with His love, so that we can stand in the glory of the Lord while the chaos of our world swirls around us. Stand united in the house of the Lord, and nothing will stand against us. 

“And I tell you, ask and you will receive: seek and you will find.” // Luke 11:9 “Mom, can I ask you a question?” I hear this question about a question on a daily basis.  It is part of my call as a mom to answer questions. I sometimes answer questions that they haven't even asked yet. But as the kids get older I am trying to be better about that. It is good for them to take time and formulate the right question. If I answer the question before it is asked, they never learn how to ask.  Too often in my adult life, I have not sought that which I should really be seeking. Or perhaps I was simply seeking it in the wrong places. Often my asking was actually making a demand, not placing a request and trusting the outcome to my Heavenly Father.  Today’s Gospel (see Luke 11:5-13) is hard for some of us to relate to because many of us have experienced unanswered prayers in our lives. People we prayed for didn’t receive healing, loved ones died even though we held firm in our faith to the end, periods of suffering seemed to go on and on when all we asked of the Lord was to bring an end to the struggle. Most of us can remember a request that went unanswered.  I have noticed with my littlest one that the phrase “Can I ask you a question?” is sometimes just an introduction to conversation. She wonders if I am available to talk, work things out, or problem-solve. It is less about the question and more about entering into a relationship.  Lord, can I ask You a question?  Of course, you can. “Ask and you will receive, seek and you will find” (Luke 11:9). This is a promise. You may not get the answer you are looking for, you may not seek what you find or find what you expected, but if you enter into dialogue with the Lord, you enter into the situation with Him at your side. What do you desire to ask the Lord today? Enter into the dialogue today. 

Jesus was praying in a certain place. // Luke 11:1 A directee of mine wanted to create a prayer space in her home, a certain corner in her bedroom. As she sat in my office, she bubbled on and on about how much fun she was having—choosing a chair, painting the walls, finding the perfect pillows and throw. She stopped herself several times, worried she was enjoying creating the space too much. I told her, “Enjoy it! You’re creating space for you and the Lord! Let your heart go wild.” Of course we can pray anywhere at any time in any situation: in the car, standing in line at the grocery store, on our knees before the Blessed Sacrament in Adoration, as we weed the flowers, cook dinner, or walk the dogs. We are encouraged to “pray without ceasing” (1 Thessalonians 5:17), which necessitates praying everywhere and in every situation. But I do think that “a certain place” to pray is something worth exploring. It’s worth the effort to establish a space in your home that is designated prayer space, even if that’s just your favorite, comfy chair. Anoint it, bless it with holy water, have your priest bless it the next time he’s at your house. Create a place for prayer that everyone in the family recognizes and honors and has permission to use for that purpose. I have often wondered if Jesus had a favorite place to pray. When I was in the Holy Land, there were a few locations that were suggested as places Jesus prayed. Scripture seems to point to Him having favorite spots, as He often stole away up the mountain—“he went, as was his custom, to the Mount of Olives” (Luke 22:39)—or as in today’s Reading, He was “in a certain place” (Luke 11:1) as He prayed. If even Jesus needed to remove Himself to a quiet place to pray, how much more do we need to make the effort to do so? Do you have a spot in your home designated for prayer? Could you, as a family, create such a space? What might change in your home if you did? 

“Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me by myself to do the serving? Tell her to help me.” // Luke 10:40 Lord, do You even care?? I cried out in my anguish. Do You even see me? Don’t You see that I have been left here alone? Help! The tears rolled down my face as my heart felt so much pain. Feeling so alone and with no one to help me, I poured out my heart to God in Adoration, even though not fully believing that He would come through for me. Martha, in today’s Gospel (see Luke 10:38-42), similarly shares her exasperation with Jesus. “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me [. . .]?” Essentially, she’s saying two things: I feel alone in this and can’t do this on my own. And I don’t know if You even care or notice.  How often have we felt something similar? Especially if we feel the need to be the “good girl” taking care of everything and everyone and doing what is right. And yet, we often feel left alone, burdened from so much “serving.” But what if in those moments, we ourselves have left Jesus? What if the truth is that Jesus has not left us at all, but rather, that we have left Him by so much “serving”? We have been so busy doing what we think is right and doing what we think no one else will do, that we have totally missed that Jesus is right in front of us. Jesus is speaking to us, looking at us, and teaching us. Of course Jesus cares. However, do we care enough to pause, to let go, and to notice that Jesus is present before us—looking at us, loving us, and truly caring for us? May Jesus teach us when to serve and when to simply pay attention to His Presence here with us. Sister, where in your life is your busyness blocking you from seeing God right before you? Ask God to show you in a unique and personal way today how He truly cares for you. 

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you; blessed are you among women. // Luke 1:28 (from Gospel for Memorial of Our Lady of the Rosary) Fumbling in the dark, I reached for a plastic rosary in my nightstand. I don’t think I had ever prayed a full Rosary. I didn’t know the mysteries and had no real relationship with Mary, but I knew that you were supposed to say one Our Father on the single bead and ten Hail Marys on the string that followed. I was living a middle school nightmare. Somehow I’d ended up in a co-ed physical education class. I was chubby and insecure, a deadly combination, and had to spend an hour every day attempting to be athletic in front of preteen boys. It was brutal, and they weren’t very kind.  Too mortified to tell anyone, instead, I lay in bed and prayed a decade of the Rosary maybe for the first time. I thought of every one of the boys who snickered or ignored me. I pictured each face, said his name, and prayed a single Hail Mary for him. And after that night they never teased me again. Today we celebrate Our Lady of the Rosary, also known as Our Lady of Victory. On October 7, 1571, a group of sailor soldiers called the Holy League faced down the formidable Turks of the Ottoman Empire in the sea Battle of Lepanto. With the blessing of Pope Pius V, they sailed out to meet the intruders, warships advancing in the shape of the cross. The outnumbered Christians invoked the protection of the Blessed Virgin Mary by praying the Rosary (on their knees!) and were miraculously victorious. Their faith and courage prevented the Muslim faith from spreading into Europe. The Mother of Jesus is our Mother too. Like any good mother, whether she’s defending her spiritual children in war or gym class, she fights for us. Her maternal heart intercedes powerfully for you and for me. Whatever battle you’re facing, our Lady wants to help.  So tonight as you tuck into bed, reach for your rosary. Share your troubles with Mary and entrust everything to her fierce and faithful love. For when you hold those rosary beads, you are really holding your Mother’s hand.

When he brought her to the man, the man said: "This one, at last, is bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh; this one shall be called 'woman,' for out of 'her man’ this one has been taken." // Genesis 2:23 I sat there in my pajamas, propped up by pillows in my living room armchair. It was two days after I came home from surgery, and I was physically unable to attend Mass. To my great relief, a dear friend offered to bring me Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament that morning.  I was unable to sit up, stand, or walk on my own during those days. Stabbing pains flared all over my abdomen from the stitches, but the most painful wound was just below my right rib cage.  As the Eucharist touched my tongue, the stinging pain in my side overwhelmed my heart with gratitude. A tiny reminder of the lance that pierced my Savior’s rib cage, breaking open the dam of sin and releasing a flood of mercy and redemption in its place (see John 19:34). I remember thinking:  You gave me every last drop of Your blood just to be with me in this moment.  The Lord came to me that day in my helplessness, and touched me with His healing Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity. As I read about Adam’s first encounter with Eve in today’s First Reading, I imagine Jesus echoing the same words when He sees me approaching the Eucharist at Mass.  This one . . . at last.  Oh, how Jesus aches to be fully united to us in Holy Communion. Eve was given her bodily life through the substance of Adam’s side. You are offered new life through the Sacraments of Baptism and the Eucharist, and become part of the Church, the bride of Christ our Heavenly Bridegroom. Let the Blood and water spill over you from the opening in the side of Jesus, the new Adam, from the depths of His Heart. An act of complete and total self-giving, so that we may never question His love for us.  I can hear Jesus gasping for air as He hangs upon the Cross, looking at me with these words in His eyes:  My Heart has spared nothing for you.  My Heart has always longed for you.  At last . . . will you give me your whole heart in return?

“But now my eye has seen you.” // Job 42: 5  I was overseas when Dad called. “She’s okay,” he said, but I heard something behind his voice. My brothers were the ones who had to tell me mom had been pretty seriously injured in an accident. It took a few days to piece together what happened because the time difference made it hard to catch my family for any length of time.   I was a handful of months into a year-long overseas program, and leaving would mean starting from the beginning.  Dad told me to stay put, saying he would tell me when my coming home would be helpful.  I remember how my heart ached at memories of joy during my annual home visits. It was a trying time and I felt like I couldn’t pray. I could relate to Job then, at least in a small way. The throes of trials brought my spiritual poverty to the foreground and there was no way around—only through. Weeks passed. Mom demonstrated her amazing resilience again in spades. Once she was able to have a semi-long conversation, my mother declared, “Do not forget who you are.” Her call to faith pierced me to the heart. As I look back on all that has transpired in our family’s life in the many years since this incident, I can trace God’s merciful closeness. We learned so much, and I can’t imagine how we would have learned the lessons as deeply any other way. The conclusion of Job’s dramatic searching ends in his striking declaration in today’s First Reading: “By hearsay I had heard of you, but now my eye has seen you” (Job 42:5).  Sister, perhaps you, your family, or your friends are wading through the tumult of trials right now—or maybe you’ve just come out the other side. Either way, I pray that we will be able to hold our good Jesus’ hand through the storms and then reorient our lives as Job did, sharing his prayer to the Lord: “I know that you can do all things and that no purpose of yours can be hindered” (Job 42:2). May we discern and discover the sweetness of trusting in God come what may.

O Lord, you have probed me and you know me; you know when I sit and when I stand; you understand my thoughts from afar. My journeys and my rest you scrutinize, with all my ways you are familiar. // Psalms 139:1-3 “Oh, this is perfect!” she gushed. “Your work is so organized and detailed. You must have a perfectly organized home!”  I laughed. Sure, the project I completed for work looked great and I love plans and details, but I am a mess at home. There are piles everywhere and too much stuff in a small space, but she doesn’t know that side of me.  We’ve all done it. We’ve all had those moments when we projected an image of ourselves that was a better version of our unfiltered self. Perhaps it’s the carefully curated Instagram post that removes the flaws in ourselves or our surroundings. Or maybe it’s when we use our patient parent voice in public, while we yell like a drill sergeant behind closed doors. Or we gossip about someone at school or work, but when that person walks into the room, we change the subject and smile innocently.  There will always be a real version of ourselves that we show a family member, best friend, or spouse, that others don't see. However, even then we can still hide parts of ourselves. But there is One Who sees it all. There’s One Who knows every thought and is familiar with “all my ways” (Psalm 139:3). My first reaction to this realization is to be embarrassed and feel guilty. I imagine God being tired of my nonsense, like a parent whose disobedient child is getting on their last nerve. But I can’t judge God’s ways with my own. He has the ability to know us intimately and still love us and delight in us.  Take a moment to think about an aspect of yourself that you show no one (or few) and bring it before God.    Lord, You know the parts of me that I hide from others. Give me the courage to not hide them from You. Help me to believe that You love me unconditionally and if there is shame in my heart, bring it to light and heal me. I love You. Amen.

“Do not move about from one house to another.” // Luke 10:7 The sinking feeling in my stomach started as soon as I pressed “send.” I had just said yes to another great opportunity—a way to share the Gospel, inspire women, use my gifts. But I was already overcommitted and on the edge of burnout. Previously, I had discerned that I needed to say no to more in order to make a better yes to the things which I knew for sure God had called me to: a deeper prayer life, attentiveness to my family, focus at work, and making real progress on the book I owed the publisher.  As I regretfully closed my computer, I determined again to pay attention to the still, small voice inside that was growing more adamant in its request that I stay: stay focused, stay committed, and stay put in my current projects. I needed to stay in my inner “house.”  In today’s Gospel, Jesus tells the seventy-two as He sends them out that they are not to “move about from one house to another” (Luke 10:7). They are to establish deep relationships in each town and operate from a place of serenity and stability. I imagine, as they preached the Gospel, healed the sick, and drove out demons, that these men received invitations and requests to stay in many different houses. It would have been flattering but distracting from the work at hand.  I often say: “If the devil can’t destroy you, he’ll dilute you.” In our commitment to do great things for the God we love, we can neglect the necessary things—the things only we can do, our singular contributions to the Kingdom. And then the enemy wins. He steals our single-heartedness by dangling shiny—yet often in themselves very good—things in front of us.  Sister, as we discern each yes or no, let’s listen to the Holy Spirit, Who gently reveals to us the parameters of our inner house and our personal calling and invites us to remain with Him there.

God is wise in heart and mighty in strength; who has withstood him and remained whole? // Job 9:4 It’s likely because I’m a twin and spent nine months sharing a womb with my brother, but I’ve always found comfort and security in small spaces. There’s something seemingly safe about curling up, tucked away, in a secret place. Growing up, that place was the back corner of my closet. I would disappear there and sit in the dark, still quiet. Later, I think my friends were always grateful when I volunteered to squeeze into the back of the car surrounded by all the luggage during road trips! If only that was the type of being “small” that Jesus alludes to in today’s Gospel, urging us to become like little children (see Matthew 18:3). The littleness Jesus wants from us—this childlikeness—isn’t about becoming small enough to squirrel away into our favorite childhood hideout, but it is about becoming interiorly small, completely dependent on our Heavenly Father for everything. We learn this littleness in Job: “God is wise in heart and mighty in strength; who has withstood him and remained whole?” (Job 9:4) When we acknowledge the greatness of God we do so not with fear, but with a sober realization of Who He is and who we are. He is the God Who loves us infinitely, perfectly, completely, and unconditionally, as a good father loves his little children. We need not contend with Him for power or greatness, but merely receive Him, strong not in our own understanding but in our trust of His providence and His desire for our good. Centuries after Job was written, Saint Catherine of Siena wrote, in words spoken by the Father, "Do you know, daughter, who you are and who I am? [. . .] You are she who is not, and I AM HE WHO IS” (source). These words are not meant to shame, but to free us to become like children in the arms of a Father Who wills for us goodness beyond our wildest imaginations. Today, acknowledge God’s wisdom, might, and strength (see Job 9:4) and become like a child in the loving embrace of your Father. 

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 LORD gave and the LORD has taken away; blessed be the name of the LORD!” // Job 1:21 Recently, in a small group meeting, a friend shared the inspiration she felt from the faith of a loved one experiencing immeasurable sorrow, yet bearing the weight of it with grace and trust. Her story reminded me of a friend living with chronic illness who repeatedly offers up her pain, beautifully transforming suffering into an opportunity to support others and grow closer to God. I, on the other hand, am not so graceful in suffering. I often whine at a slight inconvenience, and rather than enter into the practice of offering it up, can fall into a pity party, asking God, Why me?—as though I should somehow be the one exempt from suffering.   Today’s First Reading begins the story of Job, a man known not only for his suffering, but for his immeasurable faith while enduring the unthinkable. Even when crying out from the pain of losing all that he holds dear, “Job did not sin, nor did he say anything disrespectful of God” (Job 1:22). Whether we like it or not, the reality of our broken world is that suffering is a part of all of our lives. And as I’ve prayed with the Book of Job and witnessed the example of others I know who suffer well, I’ve begun to recognize that much of my personal struggle to do so stems from not inviting God to enter into my pain. Instead, I have attempted to handle it all on my own while simultaneously complaining that God isn’t helping me. Admittedly, not very reasonable. Yet God is always so patient, waiting for the invitation to help carry whatever is weighing on my heart.  And He’s waiting to accompany you in your suffering too, sister. Invite Him. Even if it seems insignificant. Even if it seems insurmountable. The weight is more bearable when you know Someone else is helping to carry the load.

“If your eye causes you to sin, pluck it out.” // Mark 5:29 I was in my twenties when I decided to live without television. I was single at the time and had it on way too much, and usually turned on to something fairly banal. After a few weeks of withdrawal—yes, actual withdrawal, I’m ashamed to say—I knew I never wanted the thing back in my house. A new peace had descended upon my spirit. I cannot believe it was a coincidence that not too long after I gave the television the boot, I started to publish and my prayer life became much more vivid, much more grace-filled. While I heard someone say this on a retreat, I have never been able to document its source—but it was said that a Saint once called television “the devil’s monstrance.” That resonated with me. These days, with streaming and laptops and fancy phones and all the rest, it has become much more difficult to guard my eyes and my time from too much “watching.” Screens are everywhere and as helpful as they can sometimes be, they are still a temptation for me to fritter away my time, energy, and creativity—and frankly, they often hinder my growth in holiness. So much of what comes flowing through the screens in front of me is simply not worthy of a daughter of God. At first reading, Jesus’s warning in today’s Gospel (see Mark 9:38-43, 45, 47-48) seems too harsh: He says “if your eye causes you to sin, pluck it out.” Really? When Jesus speaks with such emphasis, I want to pay attention. Sin is dangerous and He paid the highest price possible to redeem us from it. He will go to any length to protect us from its corrosive effect. I hope I don’t ever need to pluck my eye out. I hope I have the sense to guard my eyes carefully first—so that I can guard my heart and soul. Take an inventory of your viewing time and content. Are there places you might need to be a bit more guarded as a daughter of the King?

[T]hey did not understand this saying; its meaning was hidden from them so that they should not understand it, and they were afraid to ask him about this saying. // Luke 9:45 It was an unseasonably warm February evening in northern Michigan, and everything smelled of wood smoke and maple sugar. All that day, the kids and I had been boiling maple sap into syrup over a wood fire in our backyard. I was catching up with family over drinks at our patio table, tending the fire, enjoying the early burst of spring weather. As our conversation deepened, my beloved family member shared that I had hurt her—something I said months ago had lodged itself like a splinter in her soul and had been festering. My heart sank as she haltingly told me what I had said to hurt her. As it turned out, she had totally misunderstood my words. I clarified what I meant and apologized for her unnecessary pain. For weeks afterward I was bewildered and upset that a mere misunderstanding had caused a rift in our relationship. Recently, I learned a new communication tool. Instead of listening to respond, you listen to understand, pausing to repeat your companion’s words back to ensure you’ve understood their meaning correctly. This strategy, coupled with a charitable commitment to believe the best of the other, could transform many relationships. But how often do we jump to the most negative conclusion, assuming the worst of others? Or feel embarrassed that we don’t understand, unwilling to say, “I don’t know what you mean by that. Could you please explain?” The disciples in today’s Gospel were guilty of this, too, when they heard that Jesus was “to be handed over to men” (see Luke 9:43-45). Saint Luke wrote that the meaning was hidden from them, but also that they were afraid to ask. I wonder what made them afraid? Was it pride? Not wanting to seem ignorant or dense?  Human relationships require patience, time, and so much grace. The next time an interaction with loved ones starts to heat up and get tense, take a deep breath. Listen to understand. Ask questions when you feel offended. Assume the best and respond in love. Jesus, help us to love others as we love ourselves.

A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to be silent, and a time to speak. // Ecclesiastes 3:7 My mind wandered off thinking of all of the possible responses I could give this friend. Her text message hurt me. She informed me that we could no longer be friends as it seemed to her that I did not have time to nourish our friendship. My first response was anger: did I not have a say in this? Why had she made these assumptions? Life was in its busiest season for me and I was trying to navigate so many things, including long-distance friendships. I wanted to react in my frustration. But instead, thanks to the light of grace and the movement of the Holy Spirit, I humbled myself. I asked the Lord for wisdom to know what to say. I waited. I was silent until I knew my heart was softened, filled with compassion for this friend who was also hurting, and I listened to what the Lord wanted to say to her . . . and to me.  Then came the time to speak: I apologized for how I had made her feel. I shared with her that she was never a burden to me but that I valued her friendship. I told her my door would always be open and that if she wanted to be friends again, I’d be right here. Time passed and she remained silent. When she would come to mind, I could only say a prayer for her. Then, one day, she finally wrote again, apologizing for what she had done. A friendship that had been broken was coming together again.  I pray that the Lord would help me time and again to grow in the art of knowing when to be silent and when to speak, that I would be “quick to listen, slow to speak, slow to anger” (James 1:19). Pray with me, sister, that the Lord would teach us in His school of wisdom, especially through the intercession of the Saint the Church honors today.  Saint Vincent de Paul, lover of the poor and of charity, pray for us, that we serve the Lord through loving others with the willingness, patience, and zeal you modeled for us. Amen.