Author: caitlynnegrace

I'm a working mum with five children. I blog from the heart. This blog is cathartic in its function. For too long, I have been denied the right to be ME. Now, I am slowly learning and discovering my heart and soul. writingonmyheart allows me the anonymity to be one of the who-s that I am - REFLECTIVE.

River

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          The past week, I had been trying to prepare myself for the feast of Pentecost. Yet, everything I tried didn’t quite click. Finally, I turned to God and asked Him to lay upon my heart that which I should focus on.

          I went on to spend a happy Pentecost Vigil day touching the soul of God through an assortment of household chores which kept me busy and happy, yet undistracted.

          Through them all, in my heart I prayed St. Augustine’s prayer,

Breathe in me O Holy Spirit, that my thoughts may all be holy.
Act in me O Holy Spirit, that my work, too, may be holy.
Draw my heart O Holy Spirit, that I love but what is holy.
Strengthen me O Holy Spirit, to defend all that is holy.
Guard me, then, O Holy Spirit, that I always may be holy. Amen.

          Later that day, still confident that God would speak, as I read on a multitude of topics, I continued to ask Him to lay His word on my heart.

          I felt a shifting in the air. Many things did pass before my eyes, but my spirit could hold on to nothing.

          As I waited for sleep to claim me on the Vigil night, I sang in my heart an old Holy Spirit hymn that an Irish nun had taught me as a child.

Come, Holy Spirit, we need you,

Come Sweet Spirit, we pray,

Come with Your strength and Your power,

Come in Your own gentle way.

          On the morning of Pentecost, an unexpected word was waiting for me.

River

And with it, an old post from Good Friday last year, They Have Returned.

          I slept well but was awakened close to six in the morning by a dream.

          I was outside a building. I had the feeling that there was water nearby, that it was a waterfront building. There were cars. I saw one, a humble, old car, a muslim father and kids inside. The kids were slightly impatient. I heard the father calmly tell the children to be patient a while longer. I sensed he and others were waiting for something or someone. I interiorly knew that the mother, a muslim too,  had gone inside that waterfront building

          Then, I too was inside that building. A priest was just ending the celebration of Mass. For some reason, I went up to the altar, to the right of it. Behind the altar,  the doors of the building opened out to a huge, huge, flowing river. A golden river. The waters seemed to be even higher than the building I was in. 

          Suddenly, the moment the Mass ended, a great mist rose from the golden river and began to swirl around. There was something so deeply beautiful in that mist that the congregation collectively gasped at its beauty.

          But I didn’t have time to immerse myself in its beauty – for I saw something the others had not seen yet.

That it was not mist.

It was children! Little children! Hundreds of them!

          These children were alighting from a sort of river bus. Each one had a photo. I knew immediately that the little ones had come from heaven. And that they were going to be ‘matched’ to the person in the photo that each clutched.

          In such a crowd of busy, silent children, it should have been impossible, but I immediately saw the one I sought. I rushed towards him and hugged him tightly as I sobbed and sobbed. All around me, the rest of the congregation at Mass, all of them parents too, surged forwards towards their children in tearful joy.

          In that piercing dream, I was shown the two children I had lost through miscarriage long years ago. I had always strongly suspected that I had miscarried our first baby but because it had happened so soon, before I even had time to test myself, I could never be sure.

          Yet, my heart mourned and I mourned for a boy, though I didn’t know why.

          Then, after our eldest was born, a year later, I had a miscarriage at 2 months, but came to know only at the fourth month mark. We grieved very deeply over that loss and somehow, I always sensed it had been a girl.

          That Good Friday dream of 2018, years and years after these wounds to our hearts, confirmed what I had sensed all these years.

          Now with the word river laid on my heart, I realized something about little children was being shown to me. It was like a hidden bell tinkling in the mist, signaling that something lies ahead.

          Something to do with children. A miracle.

          Something not just for Christians but for all.

          The following day, on the Feast day of Mary, Mother of the Church, God placed on my heart a sick baby and his brave mother. Too far away to offer any physical help, I decided to pray a special anointing prayer for them for the rest of June, using the St. Raphael’s healing oil I had. I asked for a miracle.

          As I traced the sign of the Cross on my forehead in proxy for the mother and wee son, I sensed my spirit quieten even more.

          Later, tuckered out from a busy day of home chores, I went to lie down for a short nap. I had been on a short break and it was my last day of respite from work. I would be returning to work the next day, returning to all the old and mottled lanes.

          But something had changed. I no longer resented the call of work. While I wasn’t looking forwards to it, I did not fear it as I had before. My impending return didn’t dry out my spirit or rent my heart. Instead, a strange ray of hope had begun to shine through.

          My heart plunged into thanksgiving for the beautiful break. Over and over and over, I gave God my grateful heart, humbled at how happy He had made me with little gifts tucked into each day. As each passing hour took me closer and closer to a world I still wished I was not a part of, suddenly nothing mattered now except my song of thanksgiving.

           A short while later, I awakened. Going to my window, I looked up at the sky.

          And I gasped.

          Before me was a massive, massive rainbow, stunning beyond words, its colours so vibrant and vivid. Only once before, broken and in near despair, had I seen a rainbow as beautiful as this. That day, God had strongly spoken His word of hope to me. Upon hearing it, my weakened spirit had immediately revived.

         Now, seeing this gorgeous gift from heaven, right outside my window, unbelievably huge, majestic in its presence, its colours pulsing with life, I rushed out of the house, into my garden to gaze at the bow in the sky, unhindered.

          Standing in stunned, joyful silence, I breathed in its luminous beauty.

          Golden river. Returning children. Feast of Mary the Mother of the Church.

          The days are coming, says the LORD,
when I will fulfill the promise   ~   Jeremiah 33: 14

 

 

 

 

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Empower Me

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Nobody knows how weak I am, better than You
Nobody sees all of my needs, better than You
And nobody has the power to change me, from what I was born to be
Jesus be strong in my weakness
Empower me

Chorus:
Empower me, like a rushing river flowing to the sea
Lord, send Your Holy Spirit flowing now through me
Till I’m living as Your child, victorious and free
Send the power of Your love
Empower me

Nobody’s eyes see through my soul, better than Yours
Nobody’s love can make me whole, no one but Yours
And nobody has the power to lift me, to reach for eternity
Jesus break through all my defences
Empower me

 

          I hadn’t heard a hymn in my inner ear for so long. Then, this morning, before I awoke, a voice I did not recognize sang the opening lines of the chorus to this hymn, before trailing off and leaving me to follow, unfurling line after line.

          Empower me, like a rushing river flowing to the sea
Lord, send Your Holy Spirit flowing now through me
Till I’m living as Your child, victorious and free
Send the power of Your love
Empower me

 

 

 

Bring Your Ear

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Bring your ear close to My Heart, forget everything else, and meditate upon My wondrous mercy.   ~   Entry 229, Divine Mercy in My Soul

          I have some quiet time this coming week. It may well be the last bit of real quiet I have before the frenetic work pace hits in the coming months, and I intend to use it well.

          But I’m not exactly sure how. I decide to ask St. Juan Diego to help me.

          Just before entering the church, I spot a book sale outside. I wonder if there’ll be a book for me, just like how I found my copy of Diary – Divine Mercy in My Soul, a few years ago, at a sale run by the same nuns.

          As I browse the rather limited selection, I try to lean against my spirit for some help in choosing a book, but there is no response. Then, my husband holds up a book.

The Life of Faustina Kowalska – The Authorized Biography

         And I know it is the book for me.

         Before Mass, Jesus’ words to St. Faustina reach my heart,

Bring your ear close to My Heart, forget everything else, and meditate upon My wondrous mercy. 

          Contemplation. And the material to meditate on Jesus’ mercy might be found in my new book. I think of the way I have arrived at this point, led by a man, St. Juan Diego, who never lived for himself. I think of his humbleness and his obedience to heaven’s call. Humility and obedience are special graces. But to avail myself to them, I have to first empty myself. 

Forget everything else

          And it begins.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rise Early

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He walked every Saturday and Sunday many miles to church, departing early in the morning, before dawn, to be on time for Mass and religious-instruction classes. He walked on naked feet, like all the people of his class, the Macehualli… During one of this walks to Tenochtitlan, which used to take about three-and-a-half hours between villages and mountains, the first Apparition occurred, on December 9, 1531. He was 57 years old, certainly an old age in a time and place where the male-life expectancy was barely above 40.   ~   St. Juan Diego, Guadalupe, http://www.michaeljournal.org

 

         He walked every Saturday. And every Sunday. Every trip, 7 hours. Barefoot. In the morning, before dawn. And this was after a hard work week in the fields.

          I think of the various saints who have come suddenly, quietly. Rise early, they are telling me. Some years ago, exhausted from work and lack of sleep, rising at 5.30 a.m daily for my morning devotions, God asked me to rise at 4.30 for Adoration. I couldn’t believe He was asking that of me!

          But God insisted and I obeyed grumpily. The difference it made to my days was immediate. And I kept to it. Until this year. With the stress and my health issues, even 5.30 a.m. was a struggle, I couldn’t do 4.30. God will understand, I comforted myself.

          Yet, here it is again. Through St. Juan Diego, God is telling me the climb up the mountain to meet Him is not easy.

7 hour walk

Two days of it

Barefoot

          Cactus. Stones. Thorns. The weather. It wasn’t easy for St. Juan Diego, it wouldn’t be for me too.

          But he did it. And so must I.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Song of the Wee Child

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On December 9, 1531, a Saturday, just before dawn, Juan Diego was on his way to pursue divine worship and to engage in his own errands. As he reached the base of the hill known as Tepeyac, the break of day came, and he heard singing atop the hill, resembling the singing of varied beautiful birds. Occasionally the voices of the songsters would cease, and it appeared as if the mount responded.   ~  The first Apparition, http://www.michaeljournal.org

 

          Since Thursday, the song of birds. Little birds, young ones. Sometimes, in a lilting, bell~chime chorus. Sometimes, the lone song of one intent on speaking her heart. Each one reminded me of children. Children lost to death. Abortion. Murder by parents, both sane and not, for whatever reason.

          We are horrified when children are killed by parents. We call for penalties and punishments. Someone must pay, this must be stopped, such is our heartfelt anguish that a life was ended. In our own ways, we fight for that child who can no longer speak.

          And yet, we support abortion. The deformed baby. The child of incest. The child of rape.

          Even the inconvenient baby.

          Have they no right to our impassioned defense of life?

 

 

 

 

Eagle of Mexico

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          Last Friday, when warm joy began to flow through me once more, thawing the ice of old winter, my daughter pointed out two eagles perched atop a swaying fir branch. They were so far away and we were in the car, moving fast. Yet, my girl saw those beautiful creatures and was able to point them out to me. And I had enough time to gaze in awe at their beauty.

          They were indeed very far away and I don’t have that great eyesight. But something about those twin eagles stirred the depths of my spirit. I felt a silence fall into my heart. A peaceful silence.

          The next morning, deep in the breast of a golden~blue sky, a single eagle soared and called out from the heavens. I watched him for a while, enjoying him, for eagles are a rare sight here. The following day, again, an eagle soared and called out once more in the eastern skies readying for night’s welcome slumber. It could have been the same eagle. Or not.

          It didn’t matter, because by then, I was aware of something: every time I saw eagles, everything in me and around me stilled. And I was filled with the deepest peace, even as my spirit straightened in awe.

         Who are you? I asked the soaring magnificence.

          That night, I set about to find out about the symbolism of eagles. At a Christian website, its author, himself intrigued by eagles, had written about this great bird’s characteristics.

          One characteristic which reached out and caught me was the eagle perching for days even, awaiting the right wind conditions for it to soar in the sky. Because of the heaviness of their wings, it is imperative for an eagle to soar – to fly without flapping its wings, as much as it can, in order to preserve energy. To soar, the bird requires wind thermals – a big gust of wind – and so, the eagle sometimes has to wait a long time for them.

          They are patient, I learned. I had always thought of eagles as business-like, focused but I’ve never equated them with patience.

          After that revelation, I never saw another eagle in the sky.

          But soon something else caught my heart. Mexico. When that name was laid upon my heart, I felt gentle arrows of joy once more embed themselves into me. Why this joy over Mexico? I wondered. It didn’t make sense to me as anytime Mexico made the news, it was rarely positive. Earthquakes, drug cartels, gangs, corruption, drug wars, murders – all those were associated with Mexico for me. Yet Mexico for me was also about the warmth and love of family, the strength of old and tested faith.

          On a whim, I looked up pictures of Mexico, to get a deeper feel of that country. I was taken aback when I pulled up an image of the Mexican flag.

 At the centre of it was an eagle.

          It became clear then that someone was trying to tell me something.

          I decided I’d let it rest, and that I’d rest myself too. God would make things clear in His time. No sooner had my head touched the pillow when I suddenly recalled why Mexico is special.

          It was the home of the Guadalupe Marian apparitions. I myself have a special devotion to Our Lady of Guadalupe because whenever I’ve struggled with Islamism, She has been close by.

          Her presence has always indicated that particular battle.

         Guadalupe, I breathed. Guadalupe and its personal significance, coming when my family and I are praying the special Muslim fasting month Rosary. It was no coincidence. My thoughts went to Jesus’ words that touched me some weeks back, I alone know what lies beyond the bend. I thought about the way I knew those words were meant to mean something to me, and yet, I could not feel it when I first heard them. But this very day, I recalled those words once more, and this time, they stirred the depths of me.

Something lies beyond the bend, my spirit intoned.

          And a strange, quiet excitement took hold of me, even as I sensed there would be trouble of some form ahead.

          What does this mean? I pondered.

The eagle

Mexico, Guadalupe

Something lies beyond the bend

          I decided to write to a friend strong in the faith. She replied, telling me eagles were often associated with contemplation. Yet another thing I hadn’t known. I pondered that too.

Eagle. Guadalupe.

So … contemplate Guadalupe?

          Although I felt I knew pretty much all there was to know about the Guadalupe apparitions, I looked them up anyway. Imagine my utter surprise, when I came across something I didn’t remember reading before. That the native name of the poor, humble man who saw the Virgin of Guadalupe in the 1531 apparitions was Cuauhtlatoatzin.

Which meant talking eagle.

          I could sense my spirit still inside me once more. This was the path I needed to take. St Juan Diego.

          So, I went to learn about St Juan Diego, the name the humble Aztec native took upon his conversion to the faith.

          And the second surprise of the day awaited me.

          During the apparitions, when Mother Mary asked Juan Diego to take a message to the Bishop, asking for a temple to be built on the Tepeyac Hill, the simple man had hurried to obey. However, after listening to the message, he was turned away by the Bishop. Returning to the Lady, he told Her all that had happened. Reluctant to return to the bishop’s residence, he pleaded,

“I am a nobody, I am a small rope, a tiny ladder, the tail end, a leaf.”

          I must have read about those apparitions many, many times. And yet, only today, did I learn of that anguished utterance from a heart so humble.

I am a nobody, I am a small rope, a tiny ladder, the tail end, a leaf.

          Again, I turned all this over in my heart. I could sense a door open all through this discernment and that door had not yet shut, indicating I was to go on deeper. Then, I came across something.

Juan Diego had died on May 30.

          Was this Diego journey, begun yesterday, to be a 9-day novena, ending on the 30th?

          And then, I saw what else was to be celebrated on the 30th of May.

Ascension of our Lord.

          For some reason, the Eagle of Mexico has come to take my hand. I have none of his humility, none of his steadfastness of faith. I crumble easily. Although I can love deeply, patience is a virtue very much in want in me.

          But he has come. His hand I will take, his voice I will listen to.

And the message of his heart I will learn.

 

 

 

 

Winter’s End

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          Many sunny hours have woven their sweetness throughout my recent days. For the first time, in a long, long while, I have begun to feel a happy spring flow and flow  through me, tripping and tumbling through my spirit. After so long, once more, I find joy in the gentle sway of green trees in happy winds. I see parents with tots and rejoice over their Yes! to life. Even storm clouds make my heart sing as swathes of orange~gold sunset shine through breaks of grey.

          Yet, if anyone had told me this much longed for happiness was coming, if they had told me this last Thursday or Friday, I would have found it hard to believe – because on those days, I was involved in yet another fight for my religious rights. In those smarting  hours, I didn’t have a faith big enough to ask for joy.

          All I begged of God was for peace of mind to work peaceably.

          Because when troubles are deep, when life is difficult, we need peace to get from one day to another. In many places like mine, where religious intolerance and skirmishes are escalating, even a sliver of peace each day has immense power and I have learned to value it. That was what I was experiencing since that odd silence came into me, and I was so grateful for the strength and help God rendered to me. 

          But then suddenly, came this unauthorized ‘addendum’ on an old leave application for Good Friday way back in April. With one slice of someone’s dark sword, silence – and peace – went. My leave had been approved by my superior and submitted a long time back, and the leave taken. Yet, suddenly, weeks later, a clerk in the state department, not even a higher ranked officer, took it upon herself to place extra conditions on my leave application, threatening to void it if the conditions – her conditions – were not fulfilled.

          I only saw a red mist at her audacity. Suddenly, with all that has been happening, it was too much for me. This is why I am very wary of the Muslim fasting month here – There is something about this month of theirs that brings out the worst in them. It seemingly never fails to light and stoke the flame of intolerance and suspicion against others. It either turns people into what they weren’t before or it makes them worse.

          Please end this, God, please end this, I begged and begged, in frustration, in weariness. I am trying to endure but this is so hard. Please help me. Tell me what to do. Give me a sign, I prayed.

          On Friday morning, tense at what else lay ahead, I placed my Friday of Atonement and Reparation in the Sacred Heart of Jesus. As I said my first prayers at my altar, I saw a few flashes of light. This has happened many times before, though, not always. It is my guardian angel’s sign to me – to cheer up, all will be well.

          Really? I obviously didn’t have a lot of stock of faith at the moment.

          Then, came the next. The opening lines of Friday’s Gospel reading was,

Jesus said to his disciples:

Do not let your hearts be troubled.  ~   John 14: 1

          In a more humble and steadfast soul, those words would have pierced right through, flooding the soul with strength and hope. But I was no humble and steadfast soul; I was a steaming geyser right then, not sure if I had to grit my teeth and endure this, or pray and ask – and hope – that it be resolved.

          So, my spirit wasn’t exactly quiet and meek and humble. Because of that, I couldn’t feel His words. I leaned against the very door Jesus was trying to open to come in.

          But I didn’t give up either. Are you speaking to me, Lord? I asked. Let your heart not be troubled… is it for me? I pawed on.

          And then, I bowed my heart and asked for forgiveness for my lack of faith.

          Just as I was about to rise and go to my work day, St. Margaret Mary stopped me,

When you are in trouble and anxiety, go and plunge yourself in the peace of this adorable Heart, which no one can take from you.   ~   St. Margaret Mary Alacoque

          And the words fell straight into my heart. From the doubt I had shortly before, if I was meant to endure and suffer or if I had to go ahead and fight for my rights, now I suddenly had the strongest feeling that she understood me, that she was on my side.

          More importantly, that this was a battle and it had to be fought.

          The change in me was instantaneous. I rose from my prayer mat, pierced with a sudden rush of strength at the words, Go and plunge yourself in the Sacred Heart. Gone was the inner tension. Gone was the fear of standing up and making my voice heard.

Go and plunge yourself in the Sacred Heart

          Over and over, I said the words to myself, I plunge myself into the Sacred Heart. When I thought of the absurdity and the sheer unfairness of what I was going through, I plunged it into the Sacred Heart. When my thoughts went to how this would all work out, what I needed to do, when to do it, I plunged them all into the Sacred Heart.

          Within two short hours at work, I got a call telling me the matter was settled. I had not done anything. And neither was there anything that I needed to do.

          It wasn’t mere relief that burst through my heart. It was the hymn of utter joy! I could barely understand it. I have faced far, far worse before, and while I have received God’s guidance and consolation for those times, yet, it was over the resolution of this – smaller – issue that the arrows of joy were piercing me over and over and over again in their unutterable sweetness.

          I carried this bubbling, laughing light within me from the moment of that phone call. Gone was every shadow that had taken firm residence in me for so long. Suddenly, I tasted freedom. I could lean my heart against every thing of beauty ~ children not mine, big and little, my own husband, my own children, the sacred duties of wife and mother. I ran out to greet every song the winds sang from their secret watch amongst the clouds. In a long neglected ritual, I stole minutes to go and rest awhile in the mad tangles of a little garden coming back to life, rejoicing over new shoots and baby buds. And late at night, at my window, saying good night to the world, I lay my heart in grateful rest in the gentle, solemn embrace of the mother~moon, suddenly sure of my Heavenly Mother’s love for me.

          Someday perhaps, I may learn the secret weave of this story, how each line, both visible and hidden, lived out its mission to take me from one chapter to the next.

          For now, though the road ahead lies in patient wait for my travel, I am certain of one thing.

          I have finally come to the end of my long winter. Spring has indeed come!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Silence

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          It’s been more than a week of a strange inner silence. Initially, I put it down to being unwell. Then, to my husband being unwell. Later, I figured it was because there was so much going on in our daily lives.

          But soon, I had to admit to myself, something else was going on, this was new.

I felt as if this inner silence was stretching my spirit. Really stretching it. I also felt as if nothing was being allowed to stick onto this silence, for whatever reason.

It didn’t hurt. It didn’t distract me from work or chores or reading. It didn’t make me crabby, primed to bark and bite. Life could go on undisturbed. But no whisper nor echo made itself heard from within me.

          At church last week, I quietly pleaded with Mother Mary and Jesus before Mass, Let me hear Your voice. Your voice alone. Yet, I was calm, not desperate, not frantically scratching at God’s door. Then, as I always do in trying to quiet my spirit before Mass, I read a little from St. Faustina’s Divine Mercy in My Soul.

          Nothing stood out. In fact, the words swirled before my eyes – a sign that something is being kept from me – in order to be revealed later. Since I began having this sign – this ‘swirling’ – about 20 years ago, it has almost always been a prelude to a revelation. But this time, this odd stillness, a little like an inner death and yet not, didn’t give me much hope of ‘hearing’ anything.

          Returning to my pew after receiving Holy Communion, I looked up and was slightly taken aback to see the word ‘Silence’ projected onto the wall by the overhead projector. This was the 2nd week of it – before this, we never had quiet time after Holy Communion. Before this, the choir would have launched into the Thanksgiving hymn even before I had even thought of a word of prayer after Communion.

          But there it was, the word, ‘Silence’, the choir quiet.

          And suddenly, at that very moment, out of nowhere, I remembered that I had read something in the Divine Mercy in My Soul earlier. Something about silence.

Silence is a sword in the spiritual struggle. A talkative soul will never attain sanctity. The sword of silence will cut off everything that would like to cling to the soul. We are sensitive to words and quickly want to answer back, without taking any regard as to whether it is God’s will that we should speak. A silent soul is strong; no adversities will harm it if it perseveres in silence. The silent soul is capable of attaining the closest union with God. It lives almost always under the inspiration of the Holy Spirit. God works in a silent soul without hindrance.   ~   Entry 477

I can certainly say that I am by no means a silent soul, neither do I possess one. I am not chatty nor talkative as a person but I do have a soul that is. And maybe that was why I felt this new silence so keenly.

I was unaccustomed to it.

          I returned to those lines in the entry, seeking some specific light. I found it,

The sword of silence will cut off everything that would like to cling to the soul.

          A sword of silence. Nothing will cling.

          Nothing will be allowed to cling.

 

 

 

 

 

An Answer Comes

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God has answered me. Troubled by the Sri Lanka Easter Day bombings, I had asked God to tell me what to do. Exactly 3 days after my asking, He answers through another person,

Pray a special Rosary for the Muslim fasting month.

From May till early June.

Pray for conversion of Muslim hearts.

 

          When I asked Him 3 days before, I was restless and anxious. Then, St. Margaret Mary Alacoque calmed me with,

This divine Heart is naught but sweetness, humility and patience, therefore, we must wait. . . He knows when to act.  

Her words made me realise that patient wait went hand-in-hand with humility. I saw that my fretting was caused by my lack of humility – I was impatient with God; I wanted to lead. Once I saw that, I returned to doing His will in my daily life. I went to work. I cared for my family. I worked as hard as I could in quietness. When the tough hours drained me of vigour, I forced myself to be grateful for littles. Over and over, I prayed from the depths of my heart, Lord, Forgive me for I have sinned.

          And all through the 3 days, I sensed the softest, lightest breath upon my spirit, saying,

For reparation

For reparation

For reparation

          On the evening of the 3rd day, a friend’s words moved me to pray to forgive those who hurt me. I did not think of my family members. Instead, immediately, I thought of my superiors and some co-workers. And again, from the depths of my heart, I prayed, I forgive…

          The very next instant, God spoke and told me He wanted the Conversion Rosary. The Muslim fasting month presents the same danger we as Christians face in Lent – the abyss of spiritual pride. Spiritual pride that comes when we think we are great for the fasting we do each day, for the number of prayers we recite, for the various added Lenten rituals.

          But in many ways, it is harder for them. They have no Jesus who fought off the devil. They do not have Jesus’ example. They do not have His words. So, when pride assails them in that desert of deprivation, it finds an easy target.

          And they emerge from the fasting month, worse than before, for being nourished by pride.

Pride in any hands is a deadly weapon.

          But we have a weapon far greater, far more powerful – the Rosary. It is a weapon that can defeat any other because it is a weapon of love and of humility – not of pride, not of arrogance, not of hatred.

          It is this same journey of humble and loving entreaty that God is asking of me in this May Rosary. Not to demand, but in love and humility, to pray for the conversion of brethren Muslim spirits.

          That with us, they too seek to love and obey the Divine Heart of Jesus.