Lent 19 ~ The Angel’s Prayer


As in the days when You came from the land of Egypt,
show us wonderful signs.

~ Micah 7: 15


          With a number of things weighing heavily upon my heart, I have been trying to trust that everything will work out. Every time I felt the frost of fear come too close, I made haste to place my anxieties in St Joseph’s hands, each time telling him,

Place it in the Sacred Heart of Jesus, St Joseph,

followed by, I trust in You, Jesus.

          Then came several hours when no prayer seemed to work and the frost seemed to spear in deeper. At that moment, I remembered one whose aid I had not sought – my guardian angel – I hurried to this brave and noble heart. If God allows it, please give me a sign that all will be well – and let me in some way know that it is from you, I prayed.

          About an hour later, seeking something restful and beautiful this Sunday of the laughing winds, I came across a blog, charmingly titled, Small Moments. There, unexpectedly, was a tiny bloom, the sweetest line of all,

Snowdrops are said to mean ‘Hope and consolation’.

~ by Elizabethd, in Snowdrops, from Small Moments

          I hadn’t known that. That as tiny as they may be, snowdrops stood for hope, the massive grace that gives life when frost threatens power. In the past, crocuses and daffodils have been spring’s earliest heralds of joy for me and so, I kept an eye out for them even this year. Although earlier today, snowdrops had indeed appeared before me, I had not paid them much attention because I was intently looking out for what was familiar. When our eyes are fixed on something outside of God’s pathways, even if it is good in itself, we can certainly miss out on surprises that contain His word. We can miss following His light to where He wants us to be.

          But sometimes, a longer, more rutted path is necessary to get to where God is because He has more things to be revealed. The meaning of snowdrops now held close to my still wobbling heart, I turned to place my thanks into my angel’s hands, tremulously saying once more the prayer, I trust in You, Jesus.

          At that moment, deep within me, I sensed someone put a hand out, and in the gentlest of motions, change the words of the prayer to,

Jesus, I will trust in You.

          Just like that, hope found life once more by the addition of a single tiny word. In eagerness, I embraced the prayer which I knew my angel had brought.

          Praying it in restored hope, the last vestiges of anxiety left me and my heart steadied.

Flying Dove

Lent 14 ~ Voices in the Still


          These past weeks, despite the rains and wilding winds, the kingfisher’s call has resounded over and over again, bordering on urgency. So caught up in my studies and work, even as I noted the rising intensity of the blue~king’s calls, I could not pay it more attention.

          Until today. Having worked through the night and well into dawn, I sent in a submission at 4:30am and for the first time, felt a deep sense of joy and of completion, that I had given my all for this stage. The journey ahead is still long, much more work ahead, but in the oddest way, today I felt as if I’ve truly shut the door behind me at the end of one journey.

          Awakening from sleep later, I found the winds busy outside, rushing from tree to tree. Finally, temporarily freed from my studies and work, I could lean my entire heart against their soaring songs.

A peaceful quiet stole into my heart.

          It was in that quiet that I acknowledged the something was different about the kingfisher’s trill. Quieten down, listen up was being called out from among the trees with an unfamiliar insistence. As this settled in me, I realised too that the winds were matching this urgency, seemingly united in urging me to take heed.

          Then, into this stillness, came 3 voices,

Not much time left

Is it me….. Or are the skies alive of late?


          His work done, the small blue~caped emissary then fell silent.


Let Me Find You


O Lord, make this Lenten season different from the other ones. Let me find You again. Amen.   ~  Henri Nouwen

          Each Lent is special in its own way. Each Lent is the grace we need for the seasons of the year. For some years now, Lent has been the time when I leave the byways of life as best as I can, to enter the hermit’s enclave. As always, it is a time of seeking my Master’s heart.

          This year is no different – and yet it is. A strange lift comes over me as I contemplate Lent 2023. Today, seeking saints’ thoughts on Lent, I come across this line in the prayer, which for me, best explains this odd rise of spirit. Four little words, and tucked into the heart of that entreaty, a single word that sends a rush of power through me,

Let me find You

Where the Old Ways Wait


Virtue does not consist in making good resolutions, nor in saying fine words, but in keeping one’s resolutions and carrying out one’s good intentions.   ~  St. Margaret Mary Alacoque

          January has gone, taking with it half of moody February. It’s only now that I’ve had the chance to step back from frantic work and still myself to look up at the skies. What does God wish of me this Lent, I wonder. The week is far from over but I’m already in the next, prising at a door that remains closed.

          Do the things you should, St Margaret Mary seems to be saying to me, tugging me back to the now. After a time, I get what she means. There have been some habits and intentions that have fallen by the wayside of life since old November, some by necessity and some by neglect. But now, it’s time to return to them, to pick them up and weave them back into my hours, where they belong. The daily walks. The gentle reading. A Pathway Under the Gaze of Mary, a long waited for book, my husband’s Christmas gift to me and Distilled Genius, the new Susan Branch book also gifted to me by a precious friend. Two special books calling out to me to sink my heart into them, for in them lie hidden words God wishes for me to know for the season that is and that is to come. Tending to a garden gone wild because I could not find the heart for it for ever so long now. The quiet wait by the trees, listening to the winds chatter among the firs, allowing them to lift my spirit to the heart of God.

          In the midst of January’s madness a few weeks back, a sign had impossibly pierced my heart.

Of a coming rest in February

Surrounded by mountains and hills that defied levelling, a February rest didn’t seem possible then. But now, a wind has begun blowing, its rushes and whispers sweeping away the mists, uncovering a forgotten path, hidden till now.


Step by the wayside

Where the old ways wait

The Sign of Children


Many spiritual undertones are concealed in little things.

~ Entry 112, Divine Mercy in My Soul, St. Maria Faustina Kowalska.

          This has been the lesson over the past few days. Taught over and over, yet differently each time, it feels as if all of heaven has suddenly come together to impress upon me the signs of the times, the signs for the way forward and the signs of the things to stay away from. From near absolute stillness, there has begun now a sort of insistence, gentle yet with power, telling me that the signs are in the little things. That even as the world shouts and attempts to influence us about events and threats and all manner of future events, God wants my eyes on the little things because that is where the signs will be concealed.

In things which lie underfoot, hidden, obscured among the brambles and chaos of distraction and human insistence.

          The first sign came through one of the two most trusted people in my life. I had sought their holy discernment of a dream I had on the morn of Sept 14th, Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross. Instead, they hurried to give me their thoughts, as they themselves made clear. For such a holy and devout couple usually given to prayerful consideration of everything, all of a sudden, their personal perspective took centre stage. The result was a body hit that that left me reeling, the tumult of old fears once again attaching themselves to me with glee.

          Still, I resisted my own intuition. I’ve been wrong about things many, many times before. I could be wrong this time as well. And so, even as my entire spirit rose in rebellion, I probed the waters gingerly, seeking a sign that said I was wrong and they were right.

          It took many hours of pondering and prayer. But I refused to yield to hurt, instead going deep into the heart of my family, the Heart of God in man. There, from its deepest, most pure confines, I saw it. It was the littlest of signs, hidden among the other things that were said. The sign told me to heed the cry of my spirit – and not insistence that was blinded by human frailty – even if it came from people I had always trusted, even if it came from elders of the church.

And the sign was of children.

I was told by the people I trusted that my hands would not be sanctified until I ministered to those in the dark even at the cost of endangering my children.

          What sounded the trumpet was that God has taught me many times that my children must be my life. And I have learned some hard lessons when I chose to turn away for a while; in fact, anything that has taken me away from my children has not worked out well. Hence, now, while I will not withhold them from sufferings that strengthen and purify, I will fight anyone who tells me I must put my heart’s loves in danger – supposedly in the name of God.

          That was why heaven screamed its warning through the events of the weekend. Because, in effect, I was told I had to put my children in harm’s way so that “the Light” could be shone into dark lives.

          Once the truth seized me, I gently made clear my stand, then turned away. It is sad when truth comes to us this way, more so when it involves family. But when we give our lives to God, earthly pillars are bound to crumble and fall. Some of those we trust and respect might fall before our very eyes. Some might reveal to us their hearts. It is a pain I must learn to face and bear, for I know it is in exchange of something far, far greater – complete trust in God and in God alone.

          And so, I left the tumult of the weekend, to come into the new week. Give me a sign. A sign as high as the skies, I had prayed many times. And so, it began. The stream of signs didn’t end with the weekend revelation. One after the other, they came, tiny, tiny ones, gently and in quiet order.

          Like a little child shyly pushing his play blocks towards me, seeking only my eyes and my love.

Return to the Water’s Edge


          Recent days found me knocking on God’s door a little more insistently, seeking His light for the path ahead, for I have been sensing the edges of my spirit drying up a little, curling inwards, tired and weary once more, hence, getting fraught more easily. Initially, I ascribed it to sadness and adjustment required with the oldest two having left home for studies, the never ending work pressure and all manner of workplace and home shenanigans. While there was no major upheaval, not even the slightest trace of tumult, nonetheless, I felt as if I was being splintered.

          Unsure as to how to proceed, I finally went before Him in Adoration and threw myself into His waiting Heart. With the past weeks being what they had been, I had fallen away from my daily practice of slipping away to be still with my Jesus. Even as my daily Bible readings and prayers continued, the demands of weeks past had drawn me deeper into the whorls of busyness; soon, I had forgotten how important it was just to be still and to do nothing.

          Until today. This being the feast of St Padre Pio of Pietrelcina, my spiritual father, I went in search of some reading with the hope that I would find a door which led to my beloved saint.

          Padre Pio was indeed waiting for me – except that his words were not what I had expected.

Il dolce far niente

The sweetness of doing nothing

          No lightning bolt of illumination, no word speared through my spirit. Instead, it was the call to the sweetness of doing nothing. To let go and to be freed. To pull away from the highways of this world, to return to the water’s edge.

          To watch the changing of the season, the spirit’s summer of cheer and bustle gentling into autumn’s quiet wait.

Lent 22 ~ Key to the Antechamber


Justice comes before charity.   ~  St. John XXIII

        Something has been on my heart for a while now. The Biblical sifting of the wheat from the chaff. Like many others, I too see the time of now is the time of this great sifting. Perhaps we are not yet at the point of the Great Feast, but something is definitely in motion now. Who will be allowed into the Great Feast, and who will have the door closed against them. A recent word from heaven to someone said,

          I am not coming as a Child but as a Power, with the energy of Resurrection. Those who see Me will be those who have My desire in their hearts and wish for a world of justice. This is how I will arrive, to make right what no longer searches for God and for faith that does not function. Be wary, ye whose mission has been division and whose self-righteousness was conceived by hell. Few who view themselves as saviors will have the eyes to see Me in towers of brightness that will split this night.

Those who wish for a world of justice.

          The word justice moves me where others have not. The angels who come to do the work of sifting will look for justice? I understand that it will not be in the human sense of the word but as God willed it. But why justice, I wonder.

Because Justice comes before charity. 

          Because there are times when it is easier to give of ourselves in various ways than to fight for justice? We all want justice and I believe a great many will do what they can to see righteous justice served. But when justice asks that we step into the open and make clear our stand knowing fully well that we might be stoned for it, will we still choose justice? 

          Searching my spirit for answer, this instead comes,

To enter the Antechamber of the Great Feast, Justice is the key.

Do Not Waver



Jesus said to them in reply, “Amen, I say to you, if you have faith and do not waver, not only will you do what has been done to the fig tree, but even if you say to this mountain, ‘Be lifted up and thrown into the sea,’ it will be done.   ~  Matthew 21: 21


          Like so many others, I too began to keep a journal to track my spiritual journey, starting it just after a horrific dream on the night of the 5th of July 2015 when I dreamt of something hitting and destroying the bright moon in the dark night sky. After the dream, I felt compelled to note down thoughts and messages and dates – and so I did, diligently, for a couple of years. Then, life got too much and writing in the journal slowed down. Still, there were entries for every year.

          Recently though, a beloved family member who has been journeying with me but who did not know of my journal, advised me to keep a record of all the things God has said to me. It gave me pause since my own thoughts had fallen along those same lines these recent weeks: that the journal needed to be re-started. So much is happening that I often feel as if our family is walking treacherous paths, blind, save for the light of our faith. Just when I think we are safe, the ground gives way beneath us, rocks are aimed at us. At such times, I often forget how my husband and I were led to do this, mist clouding the memory of the weave of events experienced and words heard in our spirits that have led us to these moments in where in the dark we must walk.

          Today was one such day. Although I am firm in the massive decision my husband and I have made together, suddenly, I could not recall defining moments that have led to this resolve – and that worried me. Were we wrong? So, from the still and silent hours of late last night when the terrain dipped to another level of tension, I have been seeking God’s voice and His alone. I am doing this for you, Lord, I whispered. But help me remember why. Tell me if I’ve read the signs wrong.

          In the early hours of this sombre and still, grey morning, I went to place my seeking into the Heart of Jesus. Going to the Shrine of the Divine Mercy in Krakow, Poland via livestream, I pleaded once more, Tell me if I am wrong, Lord. Let me hear Thy voice.

          A short while later, the opening lines of a much loved song, prophetic for us in the past, were seemingly cupped in small hands and placed in my inner ears. From the song, Well Done, by the Afters, the lines given to me were,

Well done, well done
My good and faithful one

          Tears sprang to my eyes. I remembered the night I had first heard this song 3 years ago. It had been a time of deep anxiety and of looking up to the sky for signs. Shortly after, dawn had broken for us and the joy was indescribable. Now, hearing those lines once more, suddenly, I felt a gentle urge to look up all the lyrics to this song.

          As I searched, I came across the verse that birthed the song,


His master said to him, ‘Well done, My good and faithful servant.   ~  Matthew 25: 21
          Wanting to look up the context of the verse, I was instead led to Matthew 21. Realising my slip, I made to return to Matthew 25, but it felt as if Someone had reached out and held my arm to keep me from going back. So, I went back to Matthew 21, a quiet certainty within me that I was meant to be there.
          And so it was. Before me appeared,

Jesus said to them in reply, “Amen, I say to you, if you have faith and do not waver, not only will you do what has been done to the fig tree, but even if you say to this mountain, ‘Be lifted up and thrown into the sea,’ it will be done.   ~  Matthew 21: 21

          As I read it, 3 words from the verse lit up with a strong yet quiet light.
          I realised it was God speaking to me. And He said,
Do not waver




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