MIRACLES

A New King

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In the anxious wait for a king, a prayer spun from frail threads of faith…

O God, with Your judgment endow the king,
and with Your justice, the king’s son;
He shall govern Your people with justice
and Your afflicted ones with judgment.   ~   Psalm 72: 2

 

 

 

 

 

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Arise! Shine!

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Arise! Shine, for your light has come,

the glory of the LORD has dawned upon you.

Though darkness covers the earth,

and thick clouds, the peoples,

Upon you the LORD will dawn,

and over you His glory will be seen.

Raise your eyes and look about;

they all gather and come to you—

Your sons from afar,

your daughters in the arms of their nurses.

The vessels of the coastlands are gathering,

with the ships of Tarshish in the lead,

To bring your children from afar   ~   Isaiah 60: 1-2, 4, 9

 

For Ireland.

 

 

 

 

Touching Bethlehem

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Watch, dear Lord, with those who wake or watch or weep tonight, and give Your angels charge over those who sleep. Tend Your sick ones, O Lord Jesus Christ, rest Your weary ones, bless Your dying ones, soothe Your suffering ones, shield Your joyous ones, and all for Your love’s sake.   ~   St. Augustine

 

Touching Bethlehem this night

Hearts and spirits stilled and waiting

Seeking the miracle of old still bright

Wishing one and all holy joy and blessings

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

 

 

 

Forgiven

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          How long have I waited for October 13 of this year – 100 years after the Final Great Fatima Apparition, waited in hope of a sign that the God I knew was there was indeed there. Like every other broken being, I needed  a special assurance of God. For the now. For the weave of journeys that lie ahead.

          Here, rain wept into the earth from the eve, well into the deep hours of the 13th. It was like 1917 all over again and my hope deepened. I held on to this sign because inside me, I sensed a shifting, and it was going where I did not want it to go.

          As I waited for a sign or a miracle of some sort, my spirit was headed towards the unpleasantly familiar numbing deadness, which no sun nor rain could rouse.

          I didn’t want this numbed spirit. Not now more than ever. I wanted every bit of me to be fully alive to savour the mystical memory of October 13, 1917. I wanted to touch that day a hundred years ago with my spirit, and seal my brokenness to the hope and life that had flooded into the many souls there that great day, a hundred years before.

          All day long, I clawed the air trying to keep death away from my spirit.

          Sadly, so preoccupied was I trying to hold air in my hands, that I failed to keep watch over my living in the hours of the day. Keeping an eye on the grey~shrouded skies for a Fatima miracle, I let slip words and thoughts in caustic comments and snide jokes that should never find berth in any Christian soul.

          Hours later, orange breezes gently danced in to sweeten the somber winds of the aging day. And to illuminate for me the rutted track along which my day had fallen.

          It was then that my numbed and disappointed heart learned two sorrows.

          That the miracle I had primed my waiting for was not coming that day.

          And a worse one – that even had it come, I would have been found wanting, because I had sullied my garments by dipping into pools I had no business going by.

          How easy it was to be distracted, to lose sight of the goal – love of God, love of neighbour. How easy it was to scan the skies for light and yet not see God in my fellow men. How easy to slip and fall, a stray thought, a joke here, an observation there.

          When so many other humble souls had spent the day in Masses and Adoration and prayers to love as Mary had, in pursuing my wayward will, I had set up watch by the wrong harbor, waiting for a ship that was not meant to be.

          And worse, like the bridesmaids of old, who had been waiting for the Bridegroom but failed to keep watch over their conscience, I had soiled my waiting hours in reckless speech and empty mirth.

           When it dawned on me just where I had allowed myself to go, I didn’t try to evade the bite of remorse that cut deep. While the incense of Fatima must have risen hidden in a great many spirits all over the world, I sang the dirge of lament for the stain I had allowed on my soul. Will I ever, ever learn to choose silence and restraint over unnecessary chatter and empty laughter? Will I ever resolutely seek the inner cloister over social circles that have never known or will ever care to know Christ?

          Will I ever learn that to see God, I must love my brethren as Christ did?

          Over and over, hidden from earthly eyes, I tossed and turned over my sin.      

          Yet, this time, despair was not my lot. I was determined to admit my wrong at the only Knee that welcomed saint and sinner. Because I knew that only there would I find Pure love and Supreme forgiveness. Over and over, I went before the Seat of Mercy. I allowed nothing to distract me from this secret pilgrimage. As hour latticed into hour, every time the angels placed the memory of my transgression before me, my spirit knelt before the Miraculous Image.

Forgive me, Lord. Forgive me.

          Suddenly, my spirit straightened to attention. 

          The thorn of remorse had been silently plucked from my spirit. Noiselessly, no stirring of the air did I sense.

          It was gone. In a breath of a moment, I had been forgiven.

 

 

 

 

Water for the Shells

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          It is time for angels.

          Yesterday, I began to do what a nun at church told me after Mass two weeks ago: When you pray for someone, send them angels, she said. I am not accustomed to praying this way although I know many do so. But I thought it was time I signed up too. I’m in another emptying inside. No matter how deep I dig into my inner wells, there’s very little water to be found. Yet, I can feel that I am being fed. Nourished. Strengthened. Guided.

          I am not wilting from the inner drought.

          So, there is water nearby.

          A mysterious flow of dew I cannot lay claim to in any way because I can sense that its source has no roots in my efforts – not in my sacrifices, not in my prayers, not in the ruts and tangles navigated so far.

          What water is this?

         In my mind, I turn over what little I know of water. This year, I discovered two founts of this Water. The Tears of the Holy Mother. Water from the Heart of Jesus. Two founts, yet one and the same. I have yet to fully comprehend their import, but I have already tasted their power for others I have immersed in them. During Lent this year, I felt the call to immerse lost and dying souls in the Springs of Lourdes. When I pondered the source of the miracle springs, a sign was given and I was made to understand that the Lourdes Water was the Tears of the Holy Mother.

          Then, came the learning of the piercing of the Crucified Jesus. An act of cruel, earthly mercy that gushed forth a New, unblemished mercy~water, blessed in the Blood of sacred Sacrifice.

          And in recent days, a hand took mine and led me to the apparitions of Banneaux, and to the words, Plunge your hands into the water. This spring is reserved for me. I am the Virgin of the Poor.

          And now, although a mere puddle wets the floor of my spirit shell, everything I do is being wet by a hidden stream.

          How else can I explain the lightness of step and the skip of joy in my heart when I cannot feel the beauty of the world around me? When rainstorms, sunsets and sunrises in all their natural glory~beauty fall upon my deadened senses and fail to wake them, yet I am happy and focused? Where are the words for when my prayer efforts are facing its newest and strangest struggle yet – every single prayer I start evaporates at the very first words – but I am at peace within?

          I have never before been empty inside yet walking on light. Every previous emptiness or emptying has torn me up, frightened me, driven me to a madness of desperation.

          But not this time.

          There is a drought within, but no wilting. When my eyes trace the efforts of the week, I see them glisten with a dew.

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          There is Water somewhere. Someone is watering my spirit. And I wish this for others as well. To share this Water of Life. There are droughts in places when the wells have run dry. There are places where the well-springs of the soul have been tainted and poisoned, and multitudes drink from them. And there are other inner wells, far from empty, but which need to be filled in order to spill into seeking souls.

          This Water is much needed. So, I send out what has been given to me. I pray this Water into other lives. I pray what scraps of prayer I can, and I ask the angels to fill the waiting shells.

The Tears of the Mother.

The Spring of Banneaux.

Water from the Heart of Jesus.

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ROSE OF GUADALUPE

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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?”

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