July 17, 2026 // Friday of the Fifteenth Week in Ordinary Time Read the Word // Open your Bible to today’s Responsorial Psalm: Isaiah 38: 10, 11, 12abcd, 16 Reflect on the Word //  I slumped into a pew in the back of the chapel, arms crossed belligerently in front of my chest, and expelled a loud huff. Grumpy from lack of sleep, overwhelmed by a mountain of assignments to grade, stewing over an email I’d just received, and hangry to boot, I felt like a mutinous toddler as I narrowed my eyes at the tabernacle. Melodramatic as it seems now, in that moment, I felt like the writer of today’s Responsorial Psalm as my spirit groaned, “To the gates of the nether world I shall be consigned for the rest of my years!” (Isaiah 38:10) Somewhere between the Gospel and the beginning of the Eucharistic Prayer, I felt my irritation dissipate. The transformation was striking in its subtlety. It was as though the Lord had pressed a finger tenderly to my chest and set my cold heart awash in the gentle warmth of His love and presence, which radiated to fill my entire being. I still felt like the writer of today’s Responsorial Psalm, but now I was singing a different tune: “Those live whom the LORD protects; yours is the life of my spirit. You have given me health and life” (Isaiah 38:16). Have you ever had a “life-saving” moment like that? Maybe yours, too, was a soul-stirring moment in the Mass, a miraculous change of perspective you’d be hard-pressed to articulate. Or maybe it was a smile from a stranger when you were being particularly hard on yourself, or a text from a friend that made you laugh when you needed it most, or the happily wagging tail of a dog who greeted you after a crummy day at work.  Sister, take heart: no matter how bleak life may seem, the Lord is always there, extending His hand to pull us out of the pit and give us new life, over and over again.  Relate to the Lord // Reflect on your own life-saving moments of grace—and thank God for them! 

June 25, 2026 // Thursday of the Twelfth Week in Ordinary Time Read the Word // Open your Bible to today’s Gospel: Matthew 7:21–29 Reflect on the Word //  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” my landlady said. “I have some bad news . . .” I stopped short in the driveway and listened as she announced that she would be moving out of state in a few months and needed to end my lease on her basement apartment early. I didn’t begrudge her a new job, of course, but I did feel a keen sting of disappointment, followed closely by tearful anxiety. It hadn’t even been nine months and I was hoping to stay there for at least another year: in that perfect space where the price was right and my commute was short and I lived within walking distance of the cutest independent bookstore. It had seemed like a small miracle when I found the place the previous summer, and now I wondered if I could trust the Lord to come through for me again.  It didn’t escape my notice when I prepared to write this devotion a little later that, in today’s Gospel, the Lord compares those who hear His word but don’t act on it to “a fool who has built his house on sand” (Matthew 7:26). On the other hand, those who do act on what the Lord has spoken have built their houses “solidly on rock” (Matthew 7:25).  I hear You, Lord, I thought with a smile and a shake of my head. The choice was clear: As I looked for a new literal house, would the house of my heart stand secure on the Lord’s promises? Would I act in accordance with God’s Word as revealed in Scripture—the persistent assurance that God is good and worthy of my trust? Or would I let doubt shatter what I knew to be true? I don’t know what secret storms your heart is currently weathering, sister. But I do know this: if we place our trust in the Lord, not just in word but with an act of the will, we, too, will build our houses on solid rock. The Lord is good, and His love is the firmest foundation. Relate to the Lord // “The Lord is good.” Do you believe this? What keeps you from believing this truth. Talk to the Lord about it. 

May 5, 2026 // Tuesday of Fifth Week of Easter Read the Word // Open your Bible to today’s Gospel: John 14:27-31a Reflect on the Word //  Sitting across from my colleague in a bustling café, surrounded by the clink of coffee cups on saucers, the smell of buttery croissants, and the steady murmur of a dozen conversations, I waited for her to speak. “I just feel like I want to run away,” she finally confessed, averting my gaze as she looked down at the tabletop. I knew the feeling. And although it had been a few years since I had experienced that same restlessness, although I now felt settled in my job and my city, I remembered all too well the temptation lurking beneath those first few painful months of adjustment: I’d be happier, it would be easier, things would be better . . . if I were somewhere else.  I tend to agonize over decisions because I want to choose the option that will guarantee the least suffering (and by that I mean I don’t want any suffering at all). I plan for all contingencies, brace myself for the worst, and when something inevitably goes wrong or I feel the sting of the sorrow I tried so hard to prevent, I consider it a failure on my part to make the right choice. And I want to run. In today’s Gospel, Jesus offers us a different way: “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give it to you. Do not let your hearts be troubled or afraid” (John 14:27). Peace, given to us. Peace we don’t have to chase. Peace we need only to open our hearts and receive.  Sister, we will experience peace in this life—but it won’t be something we can manufacture if we just make the right choice, the one that defies all suffering and discomfort. True peace isn’t an absence of struggle, or some elusive contentment to be found in the perfect set of circumstances. Peace is a Person, the Person of Christ, Who abides with us always —in every circumstance—and invites us to rest in Him throughout them all.  Relate to the Lord // Stop and welcome the Person of Peace, Jesus Christ, Who is with you now. Welcome His presence and ask Him for the peace only He can bring.

March 21, 2026 // Saturday of the Fourth Week of Lent Read the Word // Open your Bible to today’s Psalm: Psalm 7:2-3, 9bc-10, 11-12 Reflect on the Word //  There are many things I don’t like about driving in heavy rain: the decreased visibility, the threat of floodwaters, the increased likelihood of a crash, the sound of raindrops—so soothing when I am home, cuddled on my couch with a book and a cup of tea—pummeling the roof of my little Mini Cooper. I am a somewhat anxious driver at the best of times, and inclement weather does nothing to quell my nerves. Especially if I’m on the freeway.  The brief reprieve afforded by an underpass in these situations comes as a welcome refuge. For two seconds—or a few minutes, if traffic is crawling along—I can almost forget I’m in a storm. The raindrops cease; I can hear the Spotify playlist I’ve cranked up to distract me and the directions issuing from my GPS system. And I am reminded that the rain doesn’t, in fact, touch everything. There are still some places that remain impenetrable.  This is the image that comes to mind in reflecting on today’s Responsorial Psalm: “O Lord, my God, in you I take refuge” (Psalm 7:2a).  In the chaos and tumult of everyday life, when I feel as if I’m driving down the freeway in an epic thunderstorm, the love of the Lord quiets my heart. The clamor of the world ceases and I can hear His voice above the rattle of my anxiety. But His consolation is not merely a temporary reprieve; His sturdy protection never abandons me.  Nor does His protection ever abandon you, sister, no matter how stormy the weather—either literally or metaphorically. His love, sturdy and impenetrable, is a quiet place that is always available to us, shielding us from danger; He wants us to seek shelter in Him whenever we feel frightened or anxious, confident that He will save the “upright of heart” who trust in Him (Psalm 7:11). Relate to the Lord // Take a few moments in silence today and share your anxieties with Him. Let Jesus quiet your heart.

February 24, 2026 // Tuesday of the First Week of Lent Read the Word // Open your Bible to today’s Gospel: Matthew 6:7-15  Reflect on the Word //  I am standing in the workroom, pouring cream into my tea with one hand and stifling a yawn with the other, when I hear a colleague’s voice over the hum of the copy machine.  “How are you?” I can tell from the way her brow is knitted when I turn to face her that she really wants to know.  So I am honest: I tell her that I am wrestling with the paradox of work that is simultaneously life-giving and exhausting, that I am finding it hard to keep up, that I can’t see my desk for the stacks of ungraded papers all over it, and that most of my prep happens about twenty minutes before each class.  In short, I tell her I am taking it one day at a time, although I feel I am barely managing to do that—and I certainly don’t like it.  In a perfect world, I’d have my lesson plans typed at least a week in advance and grade assignments as soon as they come to me. I’d take on several days at a time, please and thank you, and I would never feel overwhelmed. Maybe when I’ve been at this work for another ten years, I think grimly.  Yet today’s Gospel reminds me that living day to day is nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, it is a grace, the sacred rhythm of divine encounter. Among the Lord’s other simple instructions for our prayer, He commands us to implore, “Give us this day our daily bread” (Matthew 6:11). In other words, Give me only what I need for this day, Lord. That is always enough. Have I ever lacked anything I’ve needed to make it through this one day I’m living right now, today? Seen in this light, our struggles to keep up with whatever is asked of us need not cause embarrassment or frustration, sister. Instead, they get to be privileged meeting places with our God, Who waits to fill them with Himself and answer our neediness with His tender, attentive provision. One day at a time.  Relate to the Lord // Ask the Lord to give you the grace to be present to the present moment today.

February 14, 2026 // Memorial of Saints Cyril, Monk, and Methodius, Bishop Read the Word // Open your Bible to today’s Gospel: Mark 8:1-10 Reflect on the Word //  For the third time that night, I awoke to the shrill bark of my toy poodle and her wide brown eyes just inches from my own. I rolled over to peek at my alarm clock and groaned resignedly. At fifteen minutes to five, there would be no falling back asleep now. The first school day back from Christmas break awaited my groggy mind and irritated eyelids, caring nothing for the intermittent sleep of the night before or its ensuing exhaustion. I stumbled grumpily to the bathroom and decided I needed a treat from my favorite coffee shop to give me the energy to face the day. It was simply too much to expect my feeble yes to power me on its own.   In today’s Gospel, the disciples, too, are looking elsewhere for a solution to their problems. I can imagine them, wringing their hands helplessly as they survey the crowd and wonder, “Where can anyone get enough bread to satisfy them here in this deserted place?” (Mark 8:4) I can also imagine the playful quirk of our Lord’s lips as He knows how He will intervene. And I love how He doesn’t exactly answer their question. Instead, He turns a question back on them: “How many loaves do you have?” (Mark 8:5, emphasis added). And from their meager offering, He provides abundantly.  Sister, it really is enough—in fact, it is more than enough—to just show up and give the Lord whatever you have. Even if it doesn’t feel like enough. Even if you have no idea how you’ll get through the day. Sometimes caffeine might be part of the Lord’s abundant provision, and sometimes He might simply give us the grace to arrive at work or to serve our families in love when we didn’t think we could even get out of bed. And nothing we give to Him will ever be wasted; it will only be multiplied. Relate to the Lord // Enjoy a cup of coffee (or any beverage) with the Lord today.

January 24, 2026 // Memorial of Saint Francis de Sales, Bishop and Doctor of the Church Read the Word // Open your Bible to today’s Gospel for the Memorial of Saint Francis de Sales: John 15:9-17 Reflect on the Word //  Utterly entranced by the lights and sounds issuing from his new toy DJ turntable, my ten-month-old nephew pressed each button with joyful abandon. He then drew back and sank to the ground, babbling delightedly and clapping his adorably pudgy little hands. As I watched him, smiling, unable to remember what our family had been like before the arrival of this littlest addition, I marveled at how, two years prior, he had not yet existed.  And then I began to marvel at God’s goodness. While he may not have been born into our family yet, God had eternally known of my nephew’s existence and creation in this time and place. God had chosen him for us—and for His great purposes—from before all time.  “It was not you who chose me, but I who chose you,” the Lord reminds us in today’s Gospel for the Memorial of Saint Francis de Sales (John 15:16). Difficult as it is to realize in a world where we can often feel overlooked, left out, or rejected, the Lord chose each of us long before we were conceived in our mother’s wombs. Nothing about our existence is accidental or random. Our lives have been willed from the beginning, meticulously anticipated by God through generations, prepared for by our grandparents and great-grandparents, for such a time as this (see Esther 4:14), “to go and bear fruit that will remain” (John 15:16). All we have to do to fulfill His will for us, sister? Remain in His love (see John 15:19).  Then our joy will be complete (see John 15:11)—as complete as that of an infant playing with a new toy, dazzled by the gifts of each new day.  Relate to the Lord // Allow the truth of this statement, “It was not you who chose me, but I who chose you,” to wash over your heart. What rises to the top as you ponder your chosenness? 

October 29, 2025 // Wednesday of the Thirtieth Week in Ordinary Time Read the Word // Open your Bible to today’s First Reading: Romans 8:26-30 Reflect on the Word //  A pink note, folded in half and scrawled upon in my older sister’s handwriting, awaited me on the counter when I came downstairs for breakfast: “There is something bigger and better out there.” Yet another full-time job I had interviewed for in the months since graduating college had turned me down the night before, and I was growing more and more disconsolate. Why had the Lord given me such big dreams to work in the publishing industry if He hadn’t intended to fulfill them?  Today’s First Reading, read with the decade’s worth of perspective I’ve gained since that moment, makes my breath catch. In one of the Scripture passages I find most consoling in times of frustration or hardship, Saint Paul writes, “We know that all things work for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose” (Romans 8:28). All things. Every last one of them. The events that don’t go according to our plans are not wasted or forgotten by our God. But often it takes time to see the long game the Lord has been playing in our lives.    It wasn’t that God didn’t care about the desires of my heart back then; I realize that now. He simply had other plans to fulfill them—plans that would take ten years, lots of rejected job applications, two graduate degrees in English, and His patient revelation and nurturing of gifts and talents I didn’t know I had at twenty-two, in order to mature. The longing to work with writers and their words that made me want to be a book editor is the same one that, today, helps me guide my high school English students in their pursuit of truth, beauty, and goodness.   Sister, the Lord also has a long term plan for you. And whether we can see the end or not, today let us rest in the certainty that, whatever we’re experiencing, the Lord will use it all for good. And may we also not forget that a life spent with Him in eternity is the biggest and best promise of all.  Relate to the Lord // Make an act of faith with this truth: God is working all things together for your good.

September 3, 2025 // Memorial of Saint Gregory the Great, Pope and Doctor of the Church Read the Word // Open your Bible to today’s Psalm: Psalm 52:10, 11 Reflect on the Word //  “Coming!” My voice echoed in the empty house as I darted down the stairs one last time to join my family in the feeble mid-May Alaskan sunshine. Clumps of snow still clung tenaciously to the edge of the driveway, where we loaded our final round of belongings into our mid-size SUV and shuffled in to begin the long drive from Anchorage to Las Vegas, Nevada.  As the daughter of a military family, my childhood memories are a montage of scenes like this one: bare houses, full vans, cross-country drives, new cities. As a kid I appreciated the sense of adventure afforded by these frequent opportunities to begin again. In time, however, I saw this instability in my early years contributing to a restlessness of spirit that wore deep, anxious grooves in my heart. When the one constant was that everything could be expected to change so suddenly . . . where could I place my trust?  Today’s Psalm provides the answer: “I, like a green olive tree in the house of God, [t]rust in the mercy of God forever and ever” (Psalm 52:10). All trees stay grounded with the help of resilient root networks, but the thickly intertwined trunks of olive trees evoke a particular sturdiness. To pray with this image is to imagine myself similarly rooted in the Lord’s unfailing love, wrapped securely in His attentive care.  I am sure you have your own reasons for doubting the Lord and His love, sister. Frequent, significant changes are not restricted to the children of Air Force officers, but are rather our lot as humans. Yet we can always root ourselves with certainty in this: the kindness and mercy of an unchanging Father Who is always with us. And when we look back on our lives with this truth in mind, we’ll find that, like the Psalmist, we can turn to the Lord with praise and say, “[T]hank you always for what you have done, and [I] proclaim the goodness of your name before your faithful ones” (Psalm 52:11).   Relate to the Lord // How’s your security? Take some time to notice your level of rootedness in the Lord today.  

August 8, 2025 // Memorial of Saint Dominic, Priest Read the Word // Open your Bible to today’s First Reading: Deuteronomy 4:32-40 Reflect on the Word //  “The Lord is fighting for your heart,” my small group leader said.  Through the blurry film of tears I vainly tried to hold back, I saw the other women on my video call nodding in understanding. I hadn’t realized how deeply the enemy’s lies had infiltrated my heart and shaped my sense of self until I gave voice to them; now I was starting to see how they had kept me bound for so many years. By giving me the courage to name and rebuke them—and a community who could help me claim the truth—the Lord had begun the gentle yet deliberate work of prying me from their grasp with His mighty hand.  In today’s First Reading, the Israelites are reminded of their own loving liberation and the Lord’s unprecedented power: “Did anything so great ever happen before? [. . .] did any god venture to go and take a nation for himself from the midst of another nation, [. . .] by war, with his strong hand and outstretched arm [. . .] ?” (Deuteronomy 4:32, 34)  By war.  We each have many occupied places in our own hearts—false stories written over wounds from our past—where we have allowed the evil one to set up camp. But ours is not a God Who stands idly by while His beloved are in danger. He is a warrior marching into battle on our behalf, striding into enemy territory, peering into every tent until He finds and rescues you. There is never a moment when the Lord is not fighting to reclaim our hearts for Himself and “bring [us] in” (Deuteronomy 4:38) still further into His own Heart. In His great love, the Lord has “led [them] out of Egypt” (Deuteronomy 4:37), and He does the same for us, freeing us from the slavery of sin, wounds, and lies.  Relate to the Lord // Where do you need the Lord to fight for you today? Tell Him.  

April 29, 2025 // Memorial of Saint Catherine of Siena, Virgin and Doctor of the Church Read the Word // Open your Bible to today’s Gospel: John 3:7b-15 Reflect on the Word // I had never seen anything like it: a multitude of colorful kites dotting a cloudless blue sky, dipping and swaying in the early spring breeze. Cherry blossom petals spread their sweet perfume as they settled like pink confetti about the National Mall. And I, relishing the first day in several months that did not require me to wear a coat, could not wipe the sunshine-induced smile from my face. Gingerly, I took the kite from my friend’s hands and began unspooling it. I watched with giddy, childlike joy as it ascended and joined the dance: fluttering and sighing with an admirable freedom while I held fast to its string.  Reading today’s Gospel brings me back to that day at the Cherry Blossom Kite Festival, one of many annual events heralding the arrival of spring in Washington, D.C. The levity in my soul, the laughter bubbling from my lips, the incredulity I’m sure was painted on my face as I turned back to my friend—was there any other word for the experience besides fun?  Admittedly, I often find the Lord’s words in today’s Gospel a little foreboding. “You must be born from above,” Jesus tells Nicodemus. “The wind blows where it wills . . . but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes; so it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit” (John 3:7b-8). I’m not sure I like the idea of such an unpredictable Spirit, One Who could suddenly redirect me to places I don’t want—or don’t feel prepared—to go. Surely, Nicodemus, a Pharisee felt a similar concern as he talked in the night to the Man Who might be the Messiah. But what if, dear sister, being made new in the Spirit, being “born from above,” is more like being a kite in the breeze? What if surrendering to the Lord’s will for our lives is . . . fun? Unpredictable, yes, but playful, too, and gentle: our hearts brought to new life in the first blush of spring, held aloft on the wind of the Spirit. Born from above—born of the Spirit—and set free.  Relate to the Lord // How has your life with the Lord been fun, playful, or surprising? Relish your joy with Him.  

Say among the nations: The LORD is king. // Psalm 96:10 Flailing my arms with cheerful four-year-old abandon and twirling in my socked feet and soft nightgown, I slid into the center of my grandparents’ tiled foyer and struck a dramatic pose in front of the grand staircase. My family stood in the wings on either side, acting every bit the appreciative audience with oohs and aahs aplenty, and shining makeshift spotlights (read: flashlights) on my sister and me as we belted out the final line of our favorite song: “Oh, I just can’t waiiiiit to be kiiiiiiing!!” This little ditty from The Lion King shaped much of my earliest imaginings about adulthood. Not that I ever thought I would turn into a lion, but I was allured by the promise of someday living on the, ahem, wild side, doing whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted—you know, like having ice cream for dinner or staying up past my bedtime.  It didn’t take me long to realize that growing up and gaining independence also involves a lot of baffling tasks, frenetic worry, and not-so-fun obligations—or that satisfying my own whims can sometimes lead to stomach aches and sleep deprivation. These days I find myself longing for someone else to be “in charge” of my life. I take great comfort in today’s Responsorial Psalm, delivered in the wake of last Sunday’s Solemnity of Christ the King, which declares: “The LORD is king” (Psalm 96:10). The Lord is King. Not me. And while He respects my freedom and will never force me to follow His commands, it is only in submitting myself to them that I find the fullness of joy and peace, that I will “be glad” and “rejoice,” along with the rest of creation (see Psalm 96:11-12).  Sister, I invite you to prepare for the new Church year coming up on Sunday with a “new year’s resolution”: what in your life are you struggling to place under the Lord’s Kingship? Can you relax your grip on it? Nothing is wilder or more wonderful than seeing what the Lord will do with what we surrender to Him. 

Now you are Christ’s Body, and individually parts of it. // 1 Corinthians 12:27 The sunset limned the trees in my path with a gentle glow while birds chanted symphonies from the boughs. Roses in neighboring gardens wrapped me in their sweet perfume as children played hopscotch and learned to ride bicycles, their laughter a welcome sound amid the solitude of coronavirus lockdowns.  I kicked another pebble out of my way, pressed the phone a bit closer to my ear, and confessed to the friend I had just met the trepidation I felt about moving: about leaving these neighborhood trails I knew by heart for an expansive new city of unknowns, and the difficulties of forging community when people were still isolating inside their homes.  Two weeks earlier, this new friend,  fellow graduate student at my new university, responded to my post on the “D.C. Area Catholics Looking for Roommates” Facebook page with a simple invitation to chat, even if we didn’t end up living together. I was startled by the warmth of her request but deeply appreciative of it—even if I was also, as an avowed introvert, baffled by such initiative. “Well, I for one can’t wait to welcome you to town!” she said, instantly calming my current squall of anxiety.  Fast-forward six months and not only had we met in person, but she had introduced me to all of the other women who would also, in time, become my best friends here. Hospitality, as it became clear to me on that first phone call, is a charism this friend possesses, and her welcoming heart knows no bounds—always eager to connect people, to welcome strangers, to build up the Body of Christ. She is, for me, a luminous witness of how we are called to use the gifts God has designated to each of us (see 1 Corinthians 12:28) for the good of others and the Church.  Sister, can you recall a time when you felt buoyed and blessed by the expression of another person’s gifts? Thank God for that individual, and then ask Him how He might be desiring you to share your gifts today. 

“Courage, child, your sins are forgiven.” // Matthew 9:2 I hated him at first, the man who hit me with his car. How he had knocked me to the asphalt when he turned into the parking lot and then yelled at me for walking in his way. How he had left me there in shock, without offering his insurance information, so he wasn’t going to be held accountable for hurting me: for the months of chronic back pain, physical therapy, and trips to medical specialists that ensued as I prayed for restoration. I hated him.  Until one day, I didn’t. I don’t know how it happened. Perhaps it was because I noticed God’s tender care for me in my physical pain. Perhaps it was because I had begun to relate my anger and sorrow honestly to the Lord in Eucharistic Adoration. Or perhaps it was because I realized I had no clue what that stranger had actually been thinking when he struck me, or what he’d been feeling since: maybe he felt pierced with remorse and regret and agonized because he had no way to make it right. Suddenly I desired his healing as much as my own.  It’s surprising, isn’t it, the story of the paralytic in today’s Gospel? Here he is, suffering from a severe physical ailment; it’s pretty clear just from looking at him what kind of healing he needs. But the Lord speaks first to the man’s heart: “Courage, child, your sins are forgiven” (Matthew 9:2). And then He shows His solicitous care for the man’s body, which also suffers as a result of sin. So often we, too, think we need one specific type of healing, but God has something else in mind while we’re waiting for it. While I was (and still am) awaiting complete bodily healing from that accident, the Lord has used this time to gently cleanse me of my rancor toward this man and teach me His forgiveness.  Sister, I invite you to bring to the Lord whatever suffering you feel burdened by today. Rest assured: He is not silent while you wait. He is always about the work of restoring your heart.

. . . I have stilled and quieted my soul like a weaned child. Like a weaned child on its mother’s lap, so is my soul within me. // Psalm 131:2 I awake from another night of troubled dreaming, my mind already churning as a litany of worries tumbles into my heart. I have been managing my anxiety so well lately, but it still finds ways to sneak up on me like this, prowling behind me while I brush my teeth, make my bed, stumble into the kitchen for a cup of tea, and wipe barely-repressed tears from the corners of my eyes. I slump wearily into a chair at the kitchen table and close my eyes, desperate for some peace. Lately my holy imagination has been taking me to the Lord’s lap in these moments of distress. I imagine Him smiling tenderly at me as I clamber up onto His knees and press my head against His chest, the way I used to do to my mom when I was a little girl. I imagine Him tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear before wrapping His arms tightly around me, kissing the top of my head, and whispering, “I’m right here.” I imagine the beat of my heart slowing to match His, and my soul quietens within me. We live in a noisy world, and it is hard to still our souls—especially when an onslaught of bad news from media outlets, fears for our loved ones, concerns about our health, and dozens of other stressors clamor for our attention each day. We all need a safe place to be held, to let go and be loved.  Sister, may I invite you to spend some time in the lap of the Lord today? An adoration chapel is the perfect place to practice this kind of childlike presence. Or if that is not possible, find a cozy place to curl up at home. Speak to Him in the stillness—tell Him everything—and let Him hold your head close to His Heart. Allow our Prince of Peace to give you rest.

My soul waits for the LORD More than sentinels wait for the dawn. // Psalm 130:5-6ab My palm started to sweat as I wrapped my hand more tightly around my cell phone and listened for my therapist’s voice on the other end of the line. My heart thrummed insistently against my ribcage, underscoring the crowd of worries running helter-skelter through my mind. I knew that they came from a desire to protect myself but found the task of planning for all contingencies exhausting. I paused, bit my lip, and waited for her to respond.  What she offered in reply was a simple perspective shift: “Lord, I can’t wait to see how You’re going to figure this out.”   I received the advice to pray this warily at first, with great skepticism. I imagined myself saying it to God the same way I’d say “good luck” to someone trying to unscrew the lid from a stubborn glass jar that I’d already been attempting to dislodge for ten minutes: “I can’t wait to see how You’re going to figure this one out, because I’ve tried literally everything already.” Psh.  But so much of my anxiety comes from a place of wanting to save myself, of believing that worrying helps me plan and prepare for the worst, of desiring to ensure I’ll be okay if and when disaster strikes.  That’s a lot of responsibility to carry.  Telling the Lord I can’t wait to see how He will move has slowly lifted the responsibility of figuring out my problems from my shoulders, and has shifted my outlook from one of fear to that of joyful expectancy. Now I am a sentinel, or more than a sentinel, keeping a vigilant lookout for the first possible movement of God’s grace and tender provision in the face of uncertainty. Sister, won’t you keep your eyes turned toward the dawn with me? And together, full of confidence that He will act, we will run to our Savior in the first light of day. Lord, no matter how dark my world seems, help me to wait for You, trusting that nothing escapes Your notice and that Your gentle care provides for all of my needs. Amen.

Nathanael said to him, "How do you know me?" Jesus answered and said to him, "Before Philip called you, I saw you under the fig tree." // John 1:48 Another flurry of excited children scurries past me as I step closer to the diagram in the dimly lit museum hall. By this point in my trip to the National Air and Space Museum, I am used to wonders stacked on wonders and the feeling of quiet astonishment that accompanies every interstellar discovery. But this one feels different.  I squint up at the illustration before me and read the caption: the planet Jupiter is so large, it claims, that it can fit more than eleven Earths inside of it.  Suddenly struck dumb by a sense of my own smallness in the face of the universe’s grandeur, I wonder how it could possibly be that the Lord Who created all of this knows me so intimately. And I imagine that I understand something of how Nathanael, also known as the Apostle Saint Bartholomew,  must have felt in today’s Gospel, in his first encounter with the Lord.  While another future Apostle, Saint Philip, has brought Nathanael to the Lord, Jesus’ reply reminds us of an essential truth: God sees us first. He sees us and draws us to Himself.  He sees us at our desks, scrambling to finish research papers with hours to spare. He sees us in our kitchens, cooking dinner for our families. He sees us grocery shopping, driving to work, exercising, playing the piano, vacuuming the floor, writing emails, reading books, sipping tea, chatting with friends.  Just like He saw Nathanael beneath the fig tree, the Lord sees each of us in the details of our ordinary lives. Nothing escapes the notice of our Creator, and the God Who made everything—including a Jupiter so big it could fit eleven Earths—calls you, right where you are today, into an intimate relationship with Him. Sister, won’t you “come and see” (John 1:46) what He has planned for you?