Song of the Wee Child


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?





Saints of Red


          Today, I want to go into an old, old church, nestled among silence and watching. I want to go where human eyes cannot follow. To be alone and not be strong. To be weak and broken, with only holy stones to witness, unjudging.

          In the still company of angels, I want to lie on the cold stone floors, before the sacred altar, caring not for the shadows of trespassers nor the curious. I want to curl and weep for men and women, children and babies, big and little saints of red. Those known and unknown, who loved Him but who were not loved by some. All who died loving Jesus, bleeding and pleading, at the hands of those who knew Him not.

          It is my time to weep for these little ones with great souls. Unlikely warriors who stood for Jesus against a faith tree-d from violence and hate. Martyrs mocked for being the lambs reviled by the strong. Gentle and meek, faithful and tender, yet blessed with a strength hidden from the sight of the proud, to love their God to the end of ends.

          What worth has tears from one as sinful and fallen as I, I do not know. What value in gold can my weeps measure against prayers? On this sad day when the sun holds court away from the mists that mourn among the sorrowing boughs, no prayer comes to rest on my heart. On this day when I want so much to touch heaven to make sense of the will to kill in the name of God, the words do not come.

          So, I gather my tears and join them now to my Mother’s, for a reason that will light someday.

Sacred Home for a Restless Soul


          In years past, I observed the Solemnity of the Most Sacred Heart of Jesus by saying the novena and prayers of reparation associated with the feast. Today, being the feast day again, I felt the need to bring a gift for His Heart. In the tiptoe of a moment, I remembered His Call – Bring Me Souls. So, I offered up the Chaplet of Tears for the Holy Souls and for others in need. About to go off to the duties of the working day, I paused to do a quick ‘check’ to see if there was anything else.

          It was then that I recalled a morning dream. Someone from work who was causing us much grief had asked me for a calendar. This person, who in reality had a sword for a tongue, appeared weary and out-of-sorts in the dream. I moved to comply, digging through my bag for that calendar she wanted.

          My bag was a mess. Instead of the calendar, I kept taking out an assortment of Christian books and Christian CDs. It tickled her gently as the pile in her waiting hands grew, and she passed a comment I cannot recall now. I was slightly uneasy that all I seemed to unearth were Christian stuff.

          Uneasy because this waiting person was a Muslim.

          Pondering this during my Holy Hour of sorts, I decided it was a call to bring this soul to God. I must admit that I had to tie tight my heart to the tree of obedience, because in real life, I was struggling a lot with this woman. She was someone I worked with, and she had the voice of authority which she used and abused to her advantage and on every flight of black passions. A woman of much intelligence, she cheated on her work and slyly taught and exhorted others to do the same. She was also a firm believer in the need for abortions to end inconvenient pregnancies and those where there might be a threat of a special needs child being born. She counselled our other colleagues to worship at the altar of Self, and taught them to put themselves first in their marriage and motherhood.

          Finding no peace in her own marriage to a phlegmatic husband she wished showed a bit more fire when necessary, and seeing her children as parasites out to level her money mound, in a determined way, she wounded and maimed marriage and family for others. Any attempt on my part to dissuade her resulted in vicious bites that never seemed to end.

          Certainly the last person I could have prayed for with any human love.

          And yet, in the early hours of this day where orange breezes thrilled through green boughs, someone placed her at the door of my mutinous heart.

          She had become who she is because of the lethal restlessness of a homeless soul. Wrongdoing makes for an uncomfortable pillow, and she had nowhere to rest. It was the call of the Divine Will that I reach out in mercy and give her a home. It was not a call I could wrestle out from.

          So, I placed this ill lady in the Sacred Heart. Sacred Heart of Jesus, I rest her soul in You.

          She had asked for a calendar. I could not give her what she wanted, but I pray I have given her the place of rest her soul needed, in the supreme Home of Mercy.




Today, St Francis purposefully led me to Our Lady of Guadalupe. She had come to me twice before, this year, but I did not see, and chose to graze elsewhere. Today, I am at Her feet, because St Francis told me to rest the eyes of my heart on the Rose of Guadalupe. In these past hours, through the birdcalls and lilting family melodies, I have come to know more about the Rose of Guadalupe today than I ever did before. And yet, I sense I have not come even within whispering distance of Her true essence; there’s so much more beyond the pink veil.

Like before, I stand uncertain, unsure of what to do.

I think about Her.

She appeared on a hill, heralded not by trumpets, nor by choirs, but by birdsong in the early rose of dawn. To make Her presence felt, She perfumed the air of Tepeyac with the welcome chorus of feathered joys, to be heard only by a saintly soul seeking heaven in his every day.


She chose to appear to a simple, humble man who loved God more than anything else. Who walked solitary paths to attend Mass. One who loved family and knew with a keenness, the grief of loss, worrying and aching for loved ones.

Our Lady comforts Juan Diego

When Juan Diego’s human love for his ailing uncle surpassed his love for his heavenly Mother, no sullen anger from Her. No strident demand that he forget his pain. Instead, She reached into his human sorrow, placed hope there, and wiped his tears away. She kept Her promise, took away the illness of his uncle who had given up and awaited the angel of death, giving him sight of purpose of days ahead, saying, I am She who crushes serpents.


In a life surrounded by serpentine values and hidden snares, Her words a promise for those wearied by battles, then and now. We are not alone,

We are not forsaken,

We are not forgotten.


She worked the Miracle of Pink Roses, to thaw the frost of doubt and weariness in pilgrim hearts. The perfume of that hope reaches us even today, spurring us on to hills and valleys we must traverse, although we fear, because of uncertainty in our weakened hearts. Over, and over, She tells us, I am the Mother of the Impossible. Fear not, fear not, fear not.

Grieving Mother, Aborted Child

Grieving Mother, Aborted Child

Her mantle over us when we storm heaven with prayers, sacrifices, vigils, and yet see the crimson tide threating to overwhelm. She is there when despair stands too close as we contemplate defenseless children abandoned by reluctant parents, for every child saved, too many more lost. Where is the hope, where is the hope?  Our cry presses Her heart.


Mother of Guadalupe, Defender of the Unborn. She had shone the Light of Her Son into Aztec hearts that had hitherto only known shadows, converting them from the bloodlust that had kept them chained to the worship of darkness and blinded them to the jewel-glory of children. Once more, hope echoes down the tunnels of time. Their cries I have heard. Save the Unborn, I will, for I am their Mother. Hope springs anew.

She is here, She is here. Tell the Children, tell their Defenders.

Mother for all, young and old, strong and weak, lost and found. She meets us on rutted trails through the gathering shadows, a Hand reached out when the thorns of life snake across our everyday journeys. No promise broken, no hope in ashes lie. Clothed in the majesty of the sun, She comes again, as before.

She sees us hurrying past.

She sends messengers of nature to bid us pause.

And She says to us now, as She did then, “My dear little one, where are you going?”