"He is before all things, and in him all things hold together." // Colossians 1:17 My friend, Beth Davis, often talks about her "life verse." Her life verse is that one piece of Scripture that is woven throughout her story and ultimately sums up the character of her relationship with the Lord. I have never really shared mine because it seems too elementary to be worth sharing, if you know what I mean. However, my life verse has always been Colossians 1:17, from today's Second Reading. "He is before all things, and in him all things hold together." Most Sundays since I can remember, I have sat at Mass alone. I can close my eyes and see my fifteen-year-old self sitting up near the altar at my home parish in Arizona. I carry a ten-pound journal because I cannot stop writing about grief. I feel deeply rejected by this one boy in an overwhelming "life must be over now" way. My parents have divorced, and it seems my world is falling apart. Yet, when the host is raised during the consecration, I will bow and say to myself: He is before all things, and in Him, all things hold together. I can close my eyes and see my eighteen-year-old self sitting near the back of the crypt of the Basilica in DC. Without the security of my home parish in Arizona, I feel this gaping hole at my core. I am scared my desires for community will go unresponded to. I worry I will not feel understood again. Yet, when the host is raised during the consecration, I will place a hand over my stomach, and I will know: He is before all things, and in Him, all things hold together. I can close my eyes and see my twenty-two-year-old self sitting near Saint Joseph at a church downtown. This time, I believe, life really must be over now. I got dumped, again, but it seems like an unrecoverable, unredeemable grief that no ten-pound journal could save me from. I remember though, as the host is raised during the consecration, and I believe it fully: He is before all things, and in Him, all things hold together. Do you believe this, sister? Pray with it today. [bctt tweet="He is before all things, and in Him, all things hold together. // Sarah Elizabeth" username="blessedisshe__"] listen to today’s devotion

So do not be ashamed of your testimony to our Lord . . . . // 2 Timothy 1:8 When my therapist asked me how I was doing that week, I could barely wait to tell her all about my experience as a small group leader at the retreat I attended, focused on ministering to adult children of divorced. From the edge of my seat, I told her about the redemption I had witnessed first-hand in the stories of those in my small group, many of whom were joyfully married despite having walked through the deep pain of abuse and abandonment as children. I left out no detail in defending the elaborate beauty of their stories, each one total evidence of the Lord's fidelity towards us. My therapist listened to each one carefully and rejoiced in all of the new hope I had discovered in this new community. Then, at the end of our session, she leaned in gently and said, "Sarah, I hope one day you will see the same beauty in your own story that you see in everyone else's." I was completely leveled. It occurred to me that I had spent our entire session expounding upon the goodness of everyone else's story, and in that, implying that mine was principally inferior. Isn't it true, that somehow, some way, we manage to see all the ways Lord is showing up for everyone else and not us? I feel so convicted by a verse from today's Second Reading, "So do not be ashamed of your testimony to our Lord" (2 Timothy 1:8) Rebuking shame over my testimony has been one of the most monumental battles of my life. My healing journey as a woman started when I began to claim confidence in the Lord's crafting of my narrative—knowing not one ache or groan or sob ever escaped His notice. Sister, I pray that you would reclaim your testimony today and that you would include every chapter. Above all else, I pray that you will see, and that the Lord will reveal with mighty glory, the beauty in your story that you have seen in everyone else's. [bctt tweet="Reclaim your testimony. // Sarah Elizabeth" username="blessedisshe__"] listen to today’s devotion

"Rejoice and leap for joy on that day! Behold, your reward will be great in Heaven." // Luke 6:23 In high school, it was typical to begin every class with a prayer. This was a time when we were given the space to offer our intentions out loud. I was a "regular" at always speaking an intention out loud, as fifteen-year-old Sarah loved being expressive in prayer. Although I started to love it less and less after a boy in my class threatened to physically harm me if I ever shared an intention in prayer again. I almost never speak about the years of abhorrent comments and nicknames slewed at me over my "Jesus freak" reputation in high school. Truthfully, even all these years later, it still makes me uncomfortable to admit: boys consistently put me down, calling me every version of ugly and unremarkable because I chose to be open about my faith. Years later, I would experience similar rejections, when boys from my own faith community would break up with me because my experience of the Lord was just "too much." There were boys who confessed they would have pursued me had I not been so "religious." Again and again, my faith was the liability—the reason I must not be worthwhile. I share this knowing many women have suffered from this same wound. Sister, we are never alone in the depths of our wounds, as Jesus endured the full weight of our rejection first. In fact, Jesus assures us in today's Gospel, when others hate us, exclude us, or insult us as a result of our lives lived for Him, we are even in the company of the prophets before us (see Luke 6:23). Jesus goes on to say, "Rejoice and leap for joy on that day! Behold, your reward will be great in Heaven" (Luke 6:23). There is no consolation as great as this. We are not alone, and for all of the pain we have walked through, the Lord has a rewarding eternity in mind, to hold us forever. It is from this consolation we can put out our anchors and rest in an enduring joy. His presence is the promise that carries us through this heartache. Can you pray with this notion of rejoicing despite the suffering? How does that look in your life today? [bctt tweet="His presence is the promise that carries us through. // Sarah Elizabeth" username="blessedisshe__"] listen to today’s devotion

I come to gather nations of every language; they shall come and see my glory. // Isaiah 66:18 Last year, a close friend walked out of my life. I chose to share my story intimately with someone who, all at once, stopped responding or even acknowledging me, and the pain felt insurmountable. For months, I would find the most difficult part of my day was right when I came home from work, and I would wonder what his day at work had been like. I wanted to tell the story about that coworker that was driving me up the wall or share about the new assignment I was working, but I knew I would not be responded to if I reached out. This daily peak in my grieving came and went like clockwork. I started to come home and read every day from my favorite author to feel like I was connecting with someone who understood me. One evening, I read the following from Henri Nouwen's Discernment: "Remembering grandparents, parents, brothers and sisters, and friends who have died or gone away is not just some sentimental, pious custom of those who can't move on; it is the continuation of a relationship that still exists and has yet to come to fulfillment. Indeed it is the Spirit of Christ that tells us there is a coming reunion more profound than the relationship in the past or present" (page 127). I truly experienced a dense fog lift from my heart when I remembered that all of my longing to be reunited with this friend grew out of a deeper longing for eternal communion. The more I sat with that reality, the more I knew it to be true. There was something unfulfilling or superficial about my desire to connect with him, in the face of how deeply I desired for him to spend forever with Jesus. In today's readings, we are reminded that the Lord will gather people from every nation, from the east and the west and the north and the south, to recline at the Kingdom of God. Let us pray today that the Lord would convict us with the reality of this profound reunion He is orchestrating. [bctt tweet="The Lord will gather people. // Sarah Elizabeth" username="blessedisshe__"] listen to today’s devotion

Peter began to say to him, “We have given up everything and followed you.” // Mark 10:28 One of my best friends fell madly in love with the Lord when she was in high school (she had a holy youth minister named Beth Davis). She is a creative, missionary spirit with as many spectacular earrings and thrifted jackets as one could imagine. She will likely tell you about her many adventures in South Africa, about how Jesus is not afraid of your questions, or about the latest magazine she has been binging. When she and I are together, we love to talk about what young adulthood might have looked like if we had never met the Lord. It is not challenging to imagine how she would have been a blast to party with in Miami. I have no doubt I probably would have joined her. I wonder about a boy I chased much of college who would not commit to me solely because of my religious convictions. We ponder about friendships that perhaps could look differently or how our reputations have forever changed. As we curate the alternate stories of what could have been, we always realize that we gave up a version of our life to live for the Gospel. Surely, I have not given up everything the way the Apostles did to live life with Jesus. Yet, for my little twenty-three-year-old life, some days it feels like more than I bargained for. Still, I am deeply consoled that there is no sacrifice, big or small, that Jesus does not see and honor. I am convinced that no version of my life I have given up was worth having because life with Him has been worth absolutely everything. Most of all, I have real hope in the promises of Heaven, of Eternal Love, even when I can only see it in part. Even when I am last, especially when I feel last, He will consider me first—I can anchor my life here. Father, grant us deeper faith in the promise of Your abundance. [bctt tweet="He will consider me first. // Sarah Elizabeth" username="blessedisshe__"] listen to today’s devotion

"But what comes out of the man, that is what defiles him. From within the man, from his heart, come evil thoughts, unchastity, theft, murder, adultery, greed, malice, deceit, licentiousness, envy, blasphemy, arrogance, folly." // Mark 7:20-22 With shaky hands, I waited for the worship music to stir up enough noise before I bolted for the confessional. As the host of the worship night, my stomach tied itself in knots as I came to sit before the priest I had invited to minister to the other young adults, not me. Admittedly, I was supposed to be serving others, but I felt visceral desperation for mercy, to declutter all that was crowding my heart. For months, I had felt my vision become increasingly jaded by pessimism, envy, pride, unforgiveness, and distrust. I witnessed evidence of my disintegration by the mess of my room, the unresponded-to emails, and the insecure lurking that flooded my screen time. It probably all started with one day where I allowed a small lie to feel at home in my heart, and soon, it bred others, until I accepted apathy as natural. Isn't sin sneaky that way? Today's Gospel reminds us of a rather jarring truth. The first time I read this Gospel and skimmed that list, I truly thought to myself: I'm in the clear. This Gospel is not for me. Sister, I had to stop in my tracks and ask myself how I could believe any part of Scripture is not for me, especially when it comes to examining my own heart and all of the ways that defiling impurity lives unchecked inside of me. I have to continue to ask the Lord to awaken my conscience and clarify my vision so that I can see all the ways my own heart is entertaining thoughts that are not of Him. Lord, give us an urgency to be reconciled with You, that we would come to know and be liberated from all that keeps our heart from Your peace. Gift us with the humility to stay awake. [bctt tweet="Lord, give us an urgency to be reconciled with You. // Sarah Elizabeth" username="blessedisshe__"] listen to today’s devotion

Jesus was in the stern, asleep on a cushion. They woke him and said to him, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” // Mark 4:38 Almost nothing about the last year and a half of my life has looked the way I thought it would. In 2020, I anticipated graduating from college, starting work shortly after, and settling into a salary by the time I started graduate school in the fall. I wanted to start off my 20s by paying off my student debt and saving up for car payments (and maybe lattes, I admit). However, with the COVID-19 pandemic, so many of the plans that once gave me a sense of comfort fell apart before I even graduated. Since I started my Masters program, I have applied for hundreds of jobs and heard back from very few. I go through seasons of truly enjoying my lifestyle as a full-time student, but most of the time, I am provoked by this lingering voice that tells me the Lord has forgotten about me. Every time I hear this voice, I am reminded of the disciples in today’s Gospel, crying out to Jesus, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” Their question pierces me as I know it is so frequently my own question in prayer. As I write this, I am still in the turbulent storm of unknowing and insecurity. Yet, I know as long as I am in this boat, I am called to be more like Jesus. I am not called to a lifestyle of anxiety or panic. I am not called to be frantic and worried. Like Jesus Who knows the waves and wind respond to the authority of His Father, I am called to rest in the boat. This Gospel remains one of the greatest companions of my life because when I am flooded with panic about all the things I feel like I am supposed to be doing as a twenty-two year old, I close my eyes and enter this scene with Jesus. I see the storm swirling around us and, in response, I choose a spot close to Him where I can lay down and sleep. Jesus, make us a people who can sleep through the storm. [bctt tweet="Jesus, make us a people who can sleep through the storm. // @saraheerick" username="blessedisshe__"] listen to today’s devotion

“I will give you rest from all your enemies.” // 2 Samuel 7:11 Earlier this year, I attended the Blessed is She Fly retreat in Phoenix, and we were asked to identify our unique name for the Lord. Without hesitation, my heart immediately knew: the Lord is my Comforter. If I took an inventory of my entire story with the Lord and had to sum it up in one sentence, it would be this: through withdrawal and abandonment, I have found refuge in a Love Who does not leave. The Lord has truly been my best friend in all the suffering, and somewhere along the way, I adopted a confidence that there is no heartache He will not console me through. A few months ago, I was in the chapel and in prayer, I called the Lord, “Comforter” because I had been doing so since the retreat. I heard the Lord gently speak into my heart, “What about Protector?” I felt so exposed in an instant. I tried to bring myself to call the Lord, “Protector,” and I could not do it. I liked Comforter better. I liked the familiarity of believing that I actually live quite unprotected, but once I am wounded and discarded, I can trust the Lord will comfort me. Before the Lord in prayer, I confessed to the Lord all that I felt unprotected from, and how exhausted I was from the belief that I had to be my own protector. Sister, so often, because of our own history with disappointment, you and I begin to live out of an assumption that the Lord will not offer us protection and security. As I allow today’s reading to wash over me, I feel my grip begin to loosen, and my jaw unlocks, as I remember the promise. The Lord wants to offer me rest from my enemies. Once we allow Him to soften our tendencies to self-protect, we will find that in our vulnerability, we are indeed held by our Father, Who has already defeated darkness. In His hands, we are safe to rest. listen to today’s devotion

As my head hit the pillow, I could almost feel a wave of fluster flood my body, although I was not exactly sure why. I am so sensitive that I am like a sponge that, without realizing it, can go a whole day absorbing every hint of emotion in everyone around me until I am totally depleted. My spiritual director and I frequently talk about an interior conference table where the Lord and I sit, referring to it as a “decision-making” space. We are constantly discerning who, if anyone, gets a seat at that table, or who is allowed in the room when I am making decisions. It is an image I often sit with when I am scanning my heart in moments of agitation. As I laid in bed and took an inventory of all the messaging I had consumed on Instagram that day, or of all of the commentary from friends or family I had internalized, I realized how many people I had invited into my decision-making space who were not the Lord. I scrolled through the hot takes of strangers for validation or expected a friend to perfectly understand me, clouding my heart with the anxiety of distraction, instead of the peace of His voice. I was reminded of this dynamic in my prayer by today’s reading from Wisdom 13:6-7 where we hear, “For they indeed have gone astray perhaps, though they seek God and wish to find him. For they search busily among his works, but are distracted by what they see, because the things seen are fair.” Sister, you and I are in a constant search for the sweetness of His voice, yet it is so easy to not catch the tone of His voice in the chaos of all the noise, even when we are surrounded by such good. Today, He is offering us a new mercy to return to the stillness we are always seeking out. Let us ask Him to have the first seat at our inner table. [bctt tweet="Return to the stillness we are always seeking out. // Sarah Elizabeth" username="blessedisshe__"] listen to today’s devotion

Every year, I ask the Lord for a word of the year, and this year the Lord put very clearly on my heart: it would be my year of "hearts." In those final December days while in prayer, I wrote in my notes app, “This will be the year of a great, deep, colorful heart-type love. This year, I will love with the love I keep in reserves. I will love in full and in return, know close, responsive, and intimate love. This will be my year of free, understanding love—the love that my heart beats for.” While my year of hearts started with me just wearing a lot of fun heart-shaped earrings, I could not have imagined the reawakening of my heart which has unfolded over these last several months. The Lord continues to expose all the ways in which I deeply crave to love and be loved. The Lord has used this year to shatter my facade of self-sufficiency, and un-numb me to all the ways I accept fractured, counterfeit love as normal. In those needy places, at the core of my being, I have met the tender love of Jesus in a new way. Today is the feast day of Saint Therese of Lisieux, someone with a concrete understanding of how our hearts burn for intimate love and how the Lord desires to fulfill it completely. In a letter to her cousin, she wrote, “But on whom shall our poor heart lavish its love? Who shall be found that is great enough to be the recipient of its treasures? Will a human being know how to comprehend them, and above all will he be able to repay? There exists but one Being capable of comprehending love; it is Jesus; He alone can give us back infinitely more than we shall ever give to him” (source). Saint Therese, we ask for your intercession that we would become women who entirely trust Jesus with our infinite desire for love. [bctt tweet="Trust Jesus with our infinite desire for love. // @sarahericksonn" username="blessedisshe__"] listen to today’s devotion

Shortly after graduating college, I felt a tug from the Spirit to ask my new parish if I could start a praise and worship adoration community for the young adults. I desperately longed for a space where I could pray in a way that was creative and expressive, and with my own background in ministry, hoped to create the community I wanted to pray with. All I asked for was a parish to offer the space and a priest to offer Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament. My stomach knotted in devastation when the pastor was not even open to discussing my idea, since as I was told, he does not foster my charisms at his parish. I did not know how deeply I wanted to be shepherded by my new pastor until he turned me away, or how desperately I wanted him to listen to me until he refused to hear me out. It was as if I had been disinvited from post-grad Catholic young adult life in my new neighborhood, and goodness, it stung. Sometimes I hear today’s Gospel (Luke 9:1-6) and I write it off as a cute “shake it off” mantra that I have surely outgrown, but we cannot gloss over this vital, biblical call to testify from our rejection. Jesus was so tenderly teaching the Twelve, as He teaches you and me, that there will be those within our own communities who reject us even as we are doing Kingdom work, especially when we are doing Kingdom work, and Jesus asks us to shake the dust off our feet in testimony. Sister, it is crucial to notice that Jesus does not ask us to shake the dust off our feet in repression, neglect, doubt, or despair, but in testimony against those who have not welcomed you and me. Jesus does not want us to ignore these wounds but wants us to allow Him to begin a grand story of evangelization in us, precisely from a moment where we were forgotten or overlooked. Jesus, let the dust that falls from our feet testify to the reign of Your Kingdom forever and ever. [bctt tweet="Allow Him to begin a grand story. // @sarahericksonn" username="blessedisshe__"] listen to today’s devotion

Unsure of whether I was too late, I parked outside my favorite coffee shop, hoping to grab a Sunday morning cinnamon roll. As I made my way to the line, I noticed there was only one left, and I anxiously prayed no one would snatch it before me. Finally, when the anticipated moment came to order, I confidently asked for the last cinnamon roll, sure that this was the one the Lord had saved for me. As I moved away from the counter and waited for my order, I watched the barista give the last cinnamon roll to a man behind me. Sister, it’s just a cinnamon roll, I know, but it truly only took a few seconds before I felt my whole body shift into scarcity mode. There is never enough for me. Good things are only ever for other people. With a sense of entitlement that only a cinnamon roll can bring about, I went and told the barista I was still waiting for my order. She smiled at me and nodded, before bringing out a fresh batch of cinnamon rolls from the oven. Immediately, the Lord spoke into my heart, “I always have something better saved for you in the back.” In the middle of the coffee shop, I felt warm tears coming down my cheek. From my fear of scarcity, this barista inadvertently called me to remember the Lord’s plan, although unseen, always considers my good and always sees my desires in full. I am reminded of a verse in today’s reading: “For if what was going to fade was glorious, how much more will what endures be glorious” (2 Corinthians 3:11). How often do we allow small moments of the Lord’s providence to reinforce in us that what endures will be far more glorious than what was going to fade? How have we invited this reality to transform our spiritual ground and mold us into women rooted in security and confidence? Jesus, teach us to lean into the reality that Your way is glorious and crafted from Your perfect understanding of us. [bctt tweet="He always sees our desires in full. // @sarahericksonn" username="blessedisshe__"] listen to today’s devotion  

Today, we celebrate the feast day of Saint Philip Neri, a Saint who slowly but surely became one of my closest spiritual fathers. His humility, wit, and cheer were introduced to me by way of my own patron, Saint John Henry Newman who considered Saint Philip Neri to be his own spiritual hero and patron. Known as the “apostle of Rome,” Philip spent a lifetime ministering to the wandering hearts of Rome, which at the time was deeply embedded in corruption. One Pentecost, at the age of twenty-nine, Philip was praying in the catacombs when a globe of light entered into his mouth and rested in his heart, overwhelming his body with the love of the Lord. As he fell to the ground, he yelled out in prayer that it was overbearing and he could not handle any more, for he felt he may die of joy. Throughout the rest of his life, he would experience heart palpitations in moments of consolation, although he felt no pain. Remarkably, his autopsy found he had two broken ribs and that his ribs were peculiarly curved due to the enlargement of his heart. Saint Philip Neri’s intimacy with the Lord has been unforgettable for me. I am constantly reminded of the literal warmth that radiated from his chest, of his commitment to those in poverty, and of the hours he joyfully spent each day in the confessional hearing confessions. I am moved by his loyalty to his community, to Rome even in its shambles, and to the Lord Whom he loved ardently to the end. Because of his testimony, I am a woman who desires deeper intimacy with Jesus—and for that, I am so grateful. Saint Philip Neri, intercede for us always, that our hearts would be enlarged and possessed by the Holy Spirit. Pray that we would encounter the intimate love of Jesus in a new way today. [bctt tweet="He loved ardently to the end. // @sarahericksonn" username="blessedisshe__"] listen to today’s devotion Holy Spirit, we give our hearts to You.  

I have always told people back home that post-grade life in D.C. is like living in “the land of the worrying.” What if I never get the job I want? Who am I going to live with next year? Where and when am I going to meet someone? When will I go to graduate school? How do people afford their rent? What does my health insurance cover? Where am I going to find community? What should my prayer look like? In today’s Gospel, Saint Andrew asks Jesus how five loaves of bread and two fish will feed everyone (see John 6:9). Every time I allow one of these worries to consume me, this is ultimately the question I am asking Jesus: how will there be enough? In response to their questions, Jesus does not tell them how He will provide for them, but simply asks that everyone would recline. And while we often reflect on how wild it is that Jesus later multiplies the loaves and the fish, we never recognize how wild it is that five thousand men reclined instead of worrying. Sister, those who were reclining received as much fish as their hearts desired. Let that cover you in protection—that you will not be left with less for choosing to rest in His providence instead of panicking, doubting, and orchestrating. Our “land of the worrying” desperately needs a Church that will recline because her people know their God will not abandon them to scarcity. We are called to become women who respond to our lack by telling it, “my Father is a provider.” Our lives should testify out loud: "He has more than enough for me." By this, our “land of the worrying” is transformed into a “land of the living.” I invite you to take a few minutes today to just recline in the midst of all that is undecided and unfinished. Speak truth over the circumstances in your life that are leading you to believe the Lord has forgotten about His promises. listen to today’s devotion [bctt tweet="My Father is a provider. // @sarahericksonn" username="blessedisshe__"] Jesus, You multiply loaves and fish on my behalf. There will be enough for me.  

My five months in Europe were some of the loneliest of my life. I usually found myself alone at Mass each weekend in a different church than the week before, mentally counting down the weeks until I could leave. My prayer felt desolate and meaningless, bringing about a drought I had never experienced before. Every few weeks, I arrived at a new confessional, sharing how I dreaded prayer and felt distant from the Love I treasured most, typically to a priest who dismissed these sentiments. In my last week abroad, my confessional tone was a bit more hopeful; choking up, I blurted out, “I am finally going home this week!” When I was finished, the priest kindly responded, “Sometimes in desolation, we can forget that the sanctuary is our home.” Today’s First Reading reminds us of this very covenant, where the Lord promises to dwell with us, and to put His sanctuary among us forever. That afternoon, I sat in a cathedral I had long considered to be cold and foreign and allowed His dwelling to make it warm and familiar. There was nothing groundbreaking about it. I simply placed myself inside the reality that I am His and He is mine, and I let the feelings of isolation melt away. I tucked myself into the familiarity of my First Love and felt like I got a tiny glimpse into what we mean by “universal.” Experiencing interior peace in that sanctuary, I walked away, holding the memory close and storing it as evidence that He would always dwell with me. No distance existed that I could travel to separate myself from it. Father, I pray we would be women who always remember Your sanctuary is home. May the warmth of Your dwelling console us in every setting and season and gift us with a forever peace. listen to today’s devotion [bctt tweet="I am His and He is mine. // @sarahericksonn" username="blessedisshe__"] Are you feeling distant from the Lord? Take this idea of interior peace to heart.  

I grew up in the Sonoran Desert and as a child, I accompanied my grandparents on a few cross-country summer road trips. I can see myself in the back seat, staring down the sun with squinted eyes, thinking about how it was such a waste of time to have to drive around the vast mountain ranges, and cursing the Southwestern heat. One day, I assured myself, we would get to the states with green trees, cloudy skies, humidity, and all my favorite nature scents. “I am the voice of the one crying out in the desert, ‘Make straight the way of the Lord’” (John 1:23). When I read Saint John’s words from today’s Gospel, I am awestruck that this is how he identifies, as the one willing to be inconvenienced in preparing the way of the Lord. When I reflect on the task John sets before us as Christians, visualizing myself in the desert, I do not see an easy way. I find myself uncertain in the midst of the valley, squinting under the heat of the sun, realizing I am surrounded by an untraveled mountain range. Discouragement tells me that the terrain cannot be smoothed and that the winding path cannot be straightened, but He tells me He has hope for me. Doubt tells me I must be alone, but I know that cannot be true, for He is with me. Disappointment tells me that obedience is not worthwhile, but I respond with praise, and proclaim that I, too, choose to be the voice of the one crying out in the desert. Sister, what is the mountain in front of you that you believe cannot be leveled? What is the path you believe cannot be straightened? What terrain feels impossible to travel? Ask Jesus to join you there today. [bctt tweet="Discouragement tells me that the terrain cannot be smoothed and that the winding path cannot be straightened, but He tells me He has hope for me. // @sarahericksonn" username="blessedisshe__"] listen to today’s devotion Do you need to get back to the Sacraments in this new year? Make a plan to go to Confession and ask a friend to go with.

As a freshman in high school, I strutted to my locker each morning with a large caramel frappucino, a full set of acrylic nails, and my uniform skirt waistband rolled. Somewhere across campus, I could sometimes hear my high school’s chaplain, Father John Parks, screaming for joy about the Sacraments. I probably rolled my eyes, and I wondered for the first time why people who knew Jesus seemed to have so much joy. Of all the arguments presented to my hardened heart about the Catholic faith, this one was the most compelling—that if I got to know Jesus, I could be screaming-for-joy-before-8am-type-of free. Today is the feast day of Saint Francis Xavier, a missionary who was known for his colorful, zealous witness to the Gospel. His enthusiasm for the Lord animated his historic missions throughout Asia where he baptized entire villages and brought about miraculous healing. During his ministry, particularly in Japan, he could not employ lofty, intellectual arguments to evangelize, as he was met with a challenging language barrier. Instead, it was his conviction and enthusiasm for the Gospel which invited thousands to encounter with their Creator. When I think about how Saint Francis showed the communities to whom he pastored that life with Jesus is joyful, I am reminded of how Father Parks witnessed to me and how I am called to witness to others. Sometimes I find I am so concerned with proving the goodness of the Church in drawn-out arguments and apologetics that I forget the substance of my life is the more compelling witness. I focus so much energy on being right and respected instead of radically hopeful and joyful. Sister, I desperately want to live more like Jesus, so that when people catch a glimpse of my life, they wonder where all the joy comes from. I want to live inside the power of the Cross, so much so that people around me would wonder what life without self-protection and shame is like. I want my confidence, steadiness, and resilience to point to the Resurrection. I want it all to be about Him. [bctt tweet="I want it all to be about Him. // @sarahericksonn" username="blessedisshe__"] listen to today’s devotion Read more about this incredible Saint's life here.