Editor's Note: During the months covered in this volume Virginia speaks of growing fatigue and chronic pain. The situation at "Good Sam" continues to deteriorate. Imperceptibly at first Virginia is being led into the Dark Night. More and more frequently there are references to inner desolation and emptiness. She writes: "I rejoice that Jesus is at last leading me to the sweet silence He's wished to share with me for so long. O how I thank Him for all the lessons He's taught me recently. Illness is but a retreat in which we may learn that which alone we need to learn, Jesus Christ and Him crucified."

As she prepares for Easter, 1964, she writes: " The flesh is so tired, my throbbing head, my fumbling hands. But my soul longs to watch with Him Who is in such anguish and loneliness, fright and joyous resignation. Father, glorify your little girl that her whole life become a living Gospel of Jesus' Love!"

Monday, December 23, 1963

Today I spoke with Sister J. M. on the phone. She's been in town since last September, but I didn't know. Perhaps it's better this way. How painful to be so in Love with a Sister yet never receive a return. O this couldn't stop Love. But it seems that my futile attempts to express what is here in my poverty passes these loved ones unnoticed. They know, yet they pretend to ignore. What to say to these? I seem to mumble frivolous comments to hide what my heart shouts in its silence. Does she hear this other? Perhaps. Jesus does, and this is enough to make me plunge these who need the gentleness of His human love deeper into the boundless chasm of His Heart, where someday He will show them that they need not be afraid to love as He loves, with all the divinity and humanity that fills this tiny frame fashioned beneath the heart of an Immaculate Virgin.

Receiving mail these days makes a little sister, the least of the grand, glorious family of man, thrill in Love's approaching Nativity. Here's a card from Sister Thomasine on which she "accidentally" addressed me Sister Virginia. How sweet to find little goodies on our way, planted there from all Eternity by a gentle Father Who knew we'd skip this way. Here's a greeting signed simply "Love, Love, Love." Who but my little "Kokomo Mama" might have sent such? Its mate is another of those precious notes found among my clean clothes which Mary Romack signed with the same triune greeting.

It's soo late. And I've yet to do wrapping, Christmas cards, packing amid this impenetrable quiet longing that fills my poor heart. Please come, Little One. Goodnight, sweet Mother. I know not when I'll get to visit with you like this again. And I'll miss it, somehow. But now I rush to Bethlehem to hear what angels have sung in the silent murmurings of your Immaculate Heart. May this always be the only sound your little ones hear when they enter the lovely stable of Jesus' eternal Birth.

Sunday, January 5, 1964

O Mother of Jesus, I offer tonight the terrible futility of words. It's an effort to type, to think. I'm but a baby, newly-born, yet I presume to undertake a visit with you who ponder the silence of Jesus' birth in your heart? Forgive, o please forgive. May I hide the ugliness of all this beneath your mantle? Like the Littlest Angel, I sob because I see that beside others' mine to give is ugly, irreverent, and even before I've begun this letter I almost wish to reclaim it, push it back into oblivion that my own gnawing sinfulness be not seen. But it seems too late. The whisper of almighty God has sung upon my lowliness. "These contents are of the earth, and of men, and My Son was born to be King of both. These are the things He too will love and cherish and then, regretfully, will leave behind." So I now begin to tell you that which is stored for all Eternity in the wordless realm of Love and offer my incessant failure. May it be lost in the poverty and darkness of the cave in which Almighty God left your womb to be cradled in your arms and BEHOLD YOUR FACE.

A full two weeks have passed as earthly time is told. But to the eternal Now of God in which you reign Queen these are the "Weeks that Are." And with Jesus you watch your little one as she joyously struggles with three huge boxes of toys from your Baby to some little children nearby. One seems to have a lever which won't fit inside. What was merely a difficult-to-wrap stick horse to those little imaginations became a maybe magic carpet with a gear shift.

That day, a gift from Sister Jude and Sister Camilla, came this true picture of Jesus' Little Flower. O how sweet to have this wee co-missionary smiling at me each time I turn to our reading table. Jesus seems to steep our lives with incessant reminders. Love, Love, everywhere. Nowhere may I hide from Its stinging darts, nor do I wish such foolishness.

My precious missionary brought Jenny when he came for me, and we had such fun stuffing his tiny "Marian". Two suitcases, four cardboard boxes, one wheelchair and Jenny in the back seat of a Volkswagon. We caroled all the way home, a miserable note of joy, for father wrecked every song. O well. We steamed the car's windows, so everywhere we looked was written, "He's coming!!!" Yes, He was so close as I sat beside a young priest.

Father's card was delivered Very Special Delivery, for he himself handed it to me. And how breathtaking its opening. It almost seemed he'd had it made especially for his poor co-missionary. The ikon, the consoling words concerning a pilgrim Babe, the humility with which he imagined my capacity to give him Christ-like gifts. O Mother, how can one be so filled with shame and joy? Thank god for the paradoxes of Christianity, divine riddles enjoyed by children.

As he carried me into the Faulstich home, we were greeted by a huge poem of welcome hanging at the entrance. I passed it often, and I knew that they saw not the useless cripple Father gently carried but a Baby, your Baby, and this time there was room for Him. Their tree, a grand one, was lit but just couldn't compete with the eyes of the little ones who surveyed this unusual bundle Father had deposited. So we soon became acquainted, me and these little brothers, one little sister. I joined their games, shared their meals, and especially treasured their tears, gathering each to form a diadem with which to gently crown the Little King so fast approaching.

That evening a heaven-sent opportunity shone as we made our way to Scholl's. At last to see Kiki again, in her own home, walking on her crutches, her lovely girls with her. What does one say to God when she wishes to say thank You but finds the expression so worn and insufficient? Please sing for me always, Mother. Magnificat anima mea, Dominum!

Monday morning my dear angel awoke me early. She well knows how difficult it is to have no time alone with Divine Love. Surely to seek God in the early morning is to find the day's refreshment. Then about nine, down rushed the kids. We played ball all morning. Did you throw objects at little Jesus, hear His delightful laughter and in your heart write other songs not even the angels knew, little bitty songs not even the angels might sing as you sang them when His eyes got heavy? O Nazareth, to know your secrets! Yet as we plunge deeper into the daily unfolding of life there they lie.

At three, the hour for Father to enter the Confessional, I went to chapel, there to remain united with him as he became the channel of the redeeming Love of Christ. How wonderful being there. I sat on the floor before the empty stall. O how I longed to await Jesus like that, empty, that I might have room in my poverty to house Almighty God. But I knew that I was yet so cluttered.

Then God, Whose ways are far beyond the realm of worthiness, sent Father Keith to my side. And a gentle question made my heart pound. "Would you like to receive Jesus now?" O Mother! I crawled the few feet to the Communion rail, and there He was. For the first time in over seven years I received your Baby on my dirt-stained knees. I could press my face to the floor and honor Him Who became so little He could say, "I am a worm and no man." Ah, then I crawled before the empty stable. It was as before, and no wish I had made there could be repeated, for I held my All and was embraced by Him.

Soon we left the Hospital, Missionary and co-Missionary but only One. We delivered Baby Jesus' packages to Haulks', Cleavers' and Tanzillis'. Father opened his cross from Meinrad that day, and I know he liked it. His eyes. Thank you for helping me choose something to please him so. For Jesus' joy, Father's joy, is mine and is all I wish. Nothing more, I beg, than to please your little ones.

The next day was a day of waiting; peaceful yearning. O how well you know, Mother dear, you who longed to see your Baby wrinkle His nose, His lips form a sweet smile, his tiny fist the only sign of His almighty strength. O how you longed to place your light kiss upon the cheek of a little One with your own features, and through the veil of Faith find your God reposing there in your arms.

In this hoboing there is often so little time to devote to only One. But now and then I curl up and pretend to nap, and in the silence everyone keeps as I "sleep," I may adore the Heart of my heart in secret.

The peaceful shades of evening fell upon us, and preparations seemed a little more urgent. He was coming, and so soon! In the midst of this yearning the phone rang for me. It was Mama.

All anxieties seemed to flee, and I felt we'd never had such a sweet conversation. Nothing big to say, not even trying to fill the gaps in the conversation, we spoke to one another. Davie and Donna said hi. And dear Tiny spoke too. Truly I felt this was the grandest part of the call. You know of my respect for him who cares for Mama with such tender devotion. O how grateful I am to this man. Perhaps he knows; I think so. When the receiver was placed back upon the hook, I went to bathe, happy for an "excuse" to be alone just a little bit to hear songs of Peace on earth in the distance.

Father came to take Jenny and me to Midnight Mass. O how joyously did I let him know I was remembering his first anniversary as a priest of Jesus-Caritas. It seems his special days mean even more to me than mine. O Mother of Jesus, how well you know these things my faltering words cannot express. Sometimes you must be amused at my attempts. How very little I truly know of you and Jesus. O but I long to learn, and become.

While all things were in quiet silence, God's almighty Word leapt to the heart of my missionary to be carried to my poverty. So gently was He carried. I watched happily. In his arms this tiny One wouldn't know the jolts and frightening spasms of mine. He wouldn't cry. He could cuddle close and feel secure with one who carries Him for me. The Word was made flesh. Yes, we have seen.

Fr. Bob Melvin offered Midnight Mass with us, with our Fr. Keith his deacon. How Jean would have loved being there at the Mass of her beloved friend. She was. It's legal to switch guardian angels now and then, isn't it, Mother?

Friday after the feast of Jesus' Birth I found myself at Myrna's. Even her little Angie was so open this time. Such a thrill to have a little bitty one run into my arms and laugh there. Truly a hobo possesses all things.

Jenny called that evening. We talked on and on, for an hour and a half. Finally I couldn't stay in that particular position any longer and toppled over on the floor. O Mother, sometimes a Simon's work is heavy, very heavy. For other's suffering is intense. But how glorious to embrace it. Somehow, I bear nothing.

Last Sunday Myrna left me in church. There I waited. It was almost as another Advent, for I knew that after the next Holy Sacrifices I was to be taken to Velma's Nazareth. The intense longing was hard to endure. It had mounted for eight months.

At last--that special spot. How lovely. And Jesus' Sacred Heart glowed in welcome above the fireplace, Its reflection caught up by the golden tree bedecked in holiday festiveness. How good it was for us to be there.

The girls displayed their gifts, presented me with mine. Even Grandma welcomed me, her memory of me very, very clear. For a few moments we had a songfest at the piano. It had been so long since we'd murdered a lovely piece together.

Velma and I were invited to join Anne-Marie, Adrienna, Dorothy, Julie, Pat, Mary Joan, Fr. Keith and Fr. Shay at a (Jesus-Caritas) review that afternoon. How privileged was a hobo. Again nothing "officially," yet feasting on the crumbs which fall from banquets of a universal family. I wish always to stoop to gather crumbs, for thus hunger will never approach. Very little ones are too small to be assigned a place at any table.

We spoke of prayer. How grand a topic for a review. And how big my missionary. O Mother, it was beautiful as he too spoke, openly, with deep, very deep humility, lowering himself to tell us of his poor prayer. And what is mine? Do I pray? O who am I to even know? I but wish. Somehow my Beloved understands, I'm sure.

Monday evening we had our Charlie get-together at Velma's. Fr. Shay was yet in town. O such gratitude I wish I might express to him. I look at him and wonder if the power of a few words is known to him. For he is the man who led Fr. Keith to Charlie. Only a passing remark in the seminary began the Fire that consumes my missionary. O power of the Word, permeate our weakness!

Tuesday was another grand day. I got to follow Velma as she sent about her daily tasks, chatting, happy talk. And I sat at Leo's feet to listen to him read some of the "Prayers" Anne-Marie translated. He enjoys them so. And how I love that Mr. St. Joseph. Somehow I feel a love of him I've never felt before. It's grand, for he's grand. Sometimes I like to sit there before him and secretly admire. Keep our Mr. St. Joseph. He's so like another you've known.

It wasn't hard to leave that little Nazareth Wednesday. Though I know not when I might return, still I didn't feel a door slam behind me. O thank God! Please offer it to your Baby, these spots in which there is always room for Him and His, to which a hobo might come and "Go in Peace."

Friday evening I held Gracie's tiny Christi Maria. How glad was I that she slept there in my arms, for once not crying because of my clumsiness. I held a baby to my heart, for so long a time! O Mother, thank you. I yet remember that bundle that slept in my arms. When Gracie had gone I was exhausted. Holding such a wee one had cost exhaustion, and gladly did I welcome the price. Always I long to hold your Little Jesus close. O how tired I become. But when I feel I must seek rest let me but continue to hold Him. Then I am strong!

Saturday we went to see my precious little sister "Cici." O how long I'd wished to see this angel with CP. Tiny three-year-old bundle of grace she is. So pretty, silky blond hair. She has a brace on one little foot and walks very well now. One little arm is now quite useless, but holds much promise. And her speech is good. Thank you for letting me see her. She has slightly eased the ache I've endured since leaving my little ones at St. John's many years ago. My precious little brothers and sisters! I'm so incapable of serving them as once I did. But let me never forget them.

Sunday we attended the Holy Sacrifice offered through Fr. Keith. Thank you for letting our mortal lives touch once more. Yes, beautiful co-missionary of Love, how well you understand my needs and provide.

Father spoke of Friendship, for you kindly permitted him to mount the pulpit also. Mother, you are kind to us. You know we long to hear him speak, for his words are truly Jesus' for us to take and silently ponder within our hearts, words that will transform us into Christ, make us truly Christians.

Strange that after that sermon I knew that Father isn't my friend. It sounds horrible, but it's not. He spoke continually of equality, and I see nothing of this between us. I don’t even wish to pretend I'm his equal. There is but one relationship I wish with him, a continuation of your love of Jesus. Anything less is not enough. And I know that you could never be a "pal" to your divine Son. He spoke of friendship's transforming quality, the joys it brings, all these he brought me. And truly, of all men this priest has turned my life inside out that all may become transformed in Jesus' Love. Yet he is not a "friend" as he described such this morning. I don't know what we might term him, but when I speak or write his name, FATHER KEITH, I know what he is to me. You too, so AOK.

A half hour TV program this morning brought to our homes by relay satellite Our Holy Father's pilgrimage over the Way of Jesus' Cross. O how grand to be living today, in the midst of an ecumenical council in which I lay untold hopes for Holy Mother Church. And now to see our Holy Father, first Pope since St. Peter, mount the very Hill of Calvary. The people thronged about him, making it almost impossible for him to take a step. Policemen struggled to keep them back, but they were not to be stopped. They flocked to glimpse their shepherd, he whom Jesus leaves that his flock be lovingly tended, with His Love. Officials were distressed that His pilgrimage be marred by such "disgraceful" disturbance. But not our Holy Father. Upon his face was a serenity, a joy, that welcomed those who clamored about him, happy that this time Jesus might mount this hill in triumph.

On our way back to Sam we stopped for the open house at SJA. While Kiki, Jack and Bernadette were led on the tour, I slipped into the peace of the chapel. Though many came in to see its beauty, I stayed anyway, close to the stable and so happy. For it seemed I had a rendezvous there. And sure enough, Fr. Lucien was so wonderfully present to help me thank that Tiny One for uniting us these two joyous years, and all eternity.

Sister Maria Goretti slipped in for a little 'hi.' And my precious "Elfish" joined me there to hold hands and gaze upon our little God. Please keep her so like Him. Though she told me SME was upstairs, yet I didn't even wish to leave that spot. Somehow I've finished hounding her, and now I love her in solitude till she but wishes me to join her. Perhaps we shall wait till we go home before we truly speak again, but gladly and anxiously I wait.

Somehow I am O so happy to be here, where for a little while I may speak often to Jesus, and most of all where I may listen to Him. But it makes little difference where He leads His little hobo anymore. Knowing that He is everywhere is enough.

This little corner was filled with packages and cards, and I've sat at the foot of the manger all evening unwrapping and opening for your Baby too tiny for such. See all the goodies lying now before your Little One? How joyously I accept them in His Name.

I'm tired, Mother. Please tuck me in with your Baby.

Thursday, January 9

Mother dear, I truly was a messy child in Jesus' house, for suddenly as I sat there at His feet my nose began to bleed and I had to crawl all the way back to the wheelchair to get help. I'm sorry. Little ones are forever making messes, aren't they? Sweet Mother, please make this mess more presentable to our King. Thank you for letting me be such a "bother," for helping me realize that I get in the way, take others' time, yet always there is a Mother to kiss my dirty face.

Friday, January 10

Yes, beautiful Mother, it's time to rest once more, to fling myself into your embrace so that you can offer me to Jesus. Beauteous prelude to the hour of our death, when at last we shall awake to sleep no more. O to behold the Face of Christ in its entirety, and yet live because I peek through your mantle.

Mother dear, what is this ache? It just won't go away. Mostly in my legs, nothing sharp, just this dull monotony of hurt for days. It permeates all my waking hours, somehow fostering Divine Romance. Yet a feeble reminder of the soul aching for her God.

Saturday, January 11

Fr. Lucien's goofy goodie came in today's mail, a riotous collection of cartoon satire about Cloistered life. Some are yakky, other cartoons so funny in their true revelation of the divine sense of Humor. Like the old dilemma concerning Holy Poverty: "The trouble is I enjoy doing without things…so the abbot said I could keep it until such time as I actually come to like it." What is said about habits my guardian angel must mutter over my wheelchair: "It fits beautifully, but can I have something a little more uncomfortable?" And the mature child-likeness that can wonder: "Okay, it's a miracle--but why be so surprised?" And finally the excellent beginning of sweet converse between brethren: "Seen any good visions lately?" Kinda dumb, I know, Mother, but I know that I may share all with you and you will love my all, whatever it be, and refashion it into something of beauty for him to whom you give my silliness. Even this that he be a priest like Jesus. Do tell Fr. Lucien of my loving appreciation of each precious remembrance, especially of those I don't even suspect. Let my eyes be opened wider to good, to God, everywhere, always.

Sunday, January 12

Please remind your little One of our Sister ________. If such power to hurt others lies with one, to what boundless love might all that strength be channeled? My heart cries mercy! justice! charity! when all my brothers and sisters around me, patients, aides, and especially Fr. Kohne are endlessly wounded by the terrible tongue of one wholly dedicated to almighty Love. These confused little ones mumble to me, "I didn't think Sisters could be that way!" And they're confused. And I too. O where might I love this poor, lonely soul more, from which direction might Jesus' Love be brought to replace cruelty with gentleness, kindness, patience, joy? Please help your Baby to possess me completely that His little sister fail Him not.

Soon I must return to that little corner. I've spent the entire day there. O painful nothingness that I thank Our Father for tonight. I couldn't remain alert yet sleep wouldn't come; my back begged me to kneel on the floor but the incessant ache in my legs told me to remain in the chair; my body begged for the relief of sleep but my soul magnified the Lord. This I offer tonight, and the joy of knowing I have a missionary so in love with Jesus.

Monday, January 13

Today Holy Mother Church brings to life for us the Baptism of Jesus, and the magnificent manifestation of the Blessed Trinity Itself to mortals such as we here this evening. Here stands a Man, we see Love swooping, swiftly descending to us here below, and we hear the Voice of Our Father tell us how His Son pleases Him, how pleased He will be with even such as we if we but resemble this Beloved Son. O Mother, please teach me of Jesus that I might imitate Him, that I might prolong His very Life each minute of the day and night because He dwells within me. O and help me to thank Him for the precious gift of Baptism. Often I forget, but lovely Mother, I'm sure that you remember. Let no prayer of mine ever reach Him but that has first passed the sweet portals of your Immaculate Heart.

See the notes I got to write today? Do thank Jesus for this added strength. And thank Him for taking it from me that when He gently returns it I may find yet deeper gratitude has grown to welcome ALL His gifts.

Fr. Keith called this morning concerning our clinic appointment. He'd like to have it changed to THIS Wednesday. Father didn't sound well, and I learned that he is suffering from the flu. Yes, now I understand the ache that has been my sweet companion. Thank you, Our Mother. Through its incessant prayer may this disciple whom Jesus loves soon go, as he longs, to the little sheep so hungry for the Bread of Life and the refreshing oil of Love. Meanwhile, please teach him the joy of waiting, of being empty, the work of God's little nothing.

Tuesday, January 14

Good evening, dear Queen of my little corner. How lovely you look atop the chest of drawers, above all else reigning sweetly, receiving my all that you may refashion it for Jesus.

Yes, I left your image beside Little Jesus' on the paten. I just couldn't bear to put it away with the other tiny carvings. I love you so, Mother. You know how truly ugly that tiny carving is. Never have I seen your face so marred, and there is no other image of you I love more. Always the world shows you above the clouds, clothed in gold, so far, so very far away. They seem so insistent upon portraying your beauty. Please forgive my disappointment each time I see your picture or a statue representing you. They seem to say, "Don't touch Mother's dress; your hands are dirty." But no, they cannot keep me from you. I'm too little. I should die without you. So I scramble another way, darker, steeper, yet all the while your Immaculate Heart sings to me; and here is your embrace. O Mother, take me to Jesus.

Atop the bookcase are the three pictures: Jesus', Charlie's, and Fr. Keith's, all aglow from the one red vigil light, aflame with one and the same Love. We call it God. O Divine Presence, it's now time to fling myself into your annihilating abyss.

Wednesday, January 15

Precious Mother, I'm exhausted, confused, so uncomfortable and so very happy that you're here and you're mine and you understand and even love me. Thank you, very much, for YOU, for Jesus. I need nor want anything else.

Father was here for me this morning shortly after 10:00. Thank you for letting him, for choosing him from all my dear ones, to take me to the clinic where there is always a stockpile of "gifts to give." And by some incomprehensible Plan you take all these sweet nothings for this man of God.

There were so many there at the clinic to chat with, laugh with, to love. Miss Slo sent me to lunch with some of the girls. She always does so. Truly her reward must be great. Please remind Jesus of her noble task. It's a big one, but she's bigger. One little candle to light hundreds of torches for CP children. Please light them all.

Miss Slo tried me on a new type of crutches, but you know how poorly I do even on my old ones. O Mother, I try, I drain all that is mine, yet it seems you delight that I am so helpless, that you may carry me everywhere. I see other little ones walking there, struggling, succeeding, while I remain sitting there. I'm sorry they must struggle so, Calvary is so steep for them while my life is filled with smiling Simons. Accipio.

We were busy with the chair till 4:30. So many complications to be ironed out, yet all remained so patient, so willing, contributing whatever ideas they could to help. Here it is, my tiny chariot. It's so little, like being in a VW. Shiny new conveyance to carry me closer to Jesus. I'm glad it's so pretty, that the discomfort it holds for me might be hidden from the admiring eyes of my dear ones. They don't know that my feet won't stay in the pedals, that this wood poking into my left side, this cushion shoving my right hip in, these bring such discomfort, fatigue, make the nerves there scream for relief. But I'll try to stay here long as I can, often as I can, that Jesus may increase because I become little. From this tiny heaven-sent chair I may look UP at all those around me. How blessed are we when friends give us gifts to heal our bodies and we find them pressing the Wood of Jesus' Cross to our poor hearts.

Love songs filled our trip beck to Kokomo. May they fill all our days, and nights, in pilgrimage. And Jesus gave me Absolution before we arrived at Good Sam. O blessed be God for giving His little sheep this healing, strengthening sacrament!

O but Mother, I'm so tired….I love, at least I want to. I'm nothing….

Thursday, January 16

It was strange waking up this morning. My desk light was burning. I was completely dressed, shoes, my good suit. Various articles lay scattered on the floor. It was a strange feeling, everything topsy-turvy, knowing just where nothing had been placed. But even then I was conscious of its value. It's so convenient to awake each morning, clothing laid out, a definite schedule by which to wash, dress, no interferences. There's such a sense of security in it all. But now and then to have everything taken, knocked out from under one's feet, will surely teach us the stupidity of independence and how we little children are truly completely dependent upon Divine Providence for each lovely second of our existence. Please thank Our Father for this stunning reminder, and help me not to forget.

How displeased Jesus must be with me for today's caprices. Please beg His merciful kindness to pardon the Heartaches I cause Him. I didn't mean to make such a splash with my new little chariot, but tears just kept flocking to my eyes. Please make them worthy little gems for my missionary's crown. Never could I offer anything for him did I not know that all passes through your maternal hands in its flight to God. Any little chariot that bears the world will certainly be heavy. O thank God that the weight of this burden crushes me.

Friday, January 17

My beautiful angel was most kind to awaken me at three this morning. Once more I'd become too tired to prepare for bed so found myself completely dressed. She helped me scramble into my nightie, then permitted me to keep watch for a little while. Before dawn Friday morning. It was God's day; it was "good." Where were you when your Jesus was prisoner that dark, dark night? Your body must have kept watch, your heart must have raced, throbbing, to be with Him, your soul crushed under the reality of your impotence while every piece of Jesus' humanity called to you in Pain. O deep red rose, Jesus crushed you that your beauty might be preserved for all eternity. He loved you too much to gently hold you and watch your petals fall and wither. Tell Him I await Him, His burden, and if it should crush me, I shall magnify Him.

How kind is our beloved Brother, your Jesus. He knows how difficult reading has been for me of late. (O if only these muscles would be still, stop screaming for relief! They cannot rest. This chair pulls all of them it seems. They're all in knots. Even what used to be comfy positions aren't right now. O I know they'll become adjusted. But relief seems so distant. I'm tired. It's hard to concentrate on anything else, to read, to think, to pray. O thank you, Lord! I'm nothing!) Here is a book that came from dear Fr. Lucien in today's mail, "Sing Joyfully." It's so good to read a little poem, then to find its melody perhaps already formed in my heart, waiting for relief. I read aloud, and sometimes I sing. And somehow my body seems relieved by the song of my soul.

So please ask God's forgiveness for the tears of this sinner. And don't forget to thank Him for this little chariot. I love it, for it will teach me of Jesus. I love it because it is but "a gift to give," but I wish no gift to be given but through you, beautiful Mother. Here I am.

Saturday, January 18

On this, the first day of Holy Mother Church's Unity Octave, we beg for the union of all Christians in the one true Faith and in the Church. On this feast of the chair of St. Peter at Rome please accept another little chair on wheels that all may be one and that they may believe in the Christ Who has sent my missionary to live His Gospel today among the little ones.

Please, beautiful Queen of heaven and earth, help me once more crush the hateful designs of the Old Boy. He keeps suggesting comforts to me. I must push him back. Sometimes he sounds almost reasonable, but Faith is in heights reason will never attain. He shows me the three little screws that hold this board to my side, says even I could remove them and this nerve-racking ache and the spasms, and my arm, leg, head aches, and my upset stomach. I'm tired. Sometimes it's hard to keep shaking my head no. I'm so tired. Please obtain Jesus' strength for me, and I shall keep watch until He bids me rest and awaken at Home. It won't be too long now, will it? If He should wish, I could wait till this world fades in His majestic coming. Only to know that He will be here for me is enough.

I suffer so poorly. I forget His Sacred Presence so often. Please beg His forgiveness. I want to love Him. I'm so glad there is something He permits me to return to Him. But I become so restless. I long to run to the phone to hear a dear one's voice. All day I fought this, but tonight I succumbed. I called Jean. How lovely her voice. Why could I not hear Jesus' all day? Wrapped in this shell of self-pity I forgot all else but discomfort. How many miracles did I not see today because I didn't take time to turn away from self? I know not. But if His mercy should give me yet another day, please open my eyes wide to see everywhere, my ears to hear Him knock, my heart welcome Him that He may consume my entire being. Passion of Christ, make me your motionless altar.

Sunday, January 19

Whatever we may do, please let our actions shout JESUS to all men, though we think we remain alone.

All day I read and listened to music and tried to sing and pretended to sleep. Why did I pretend, here in this little corner alone with Jesus? Not to foolishly try to deceive Him, but myself. Perhaps if I'm convinced I've rested, though I've but tossed, I can forget discomfort and keep on. You see, Mother dear, I've not yet learned to BECOME what He wishes, when He wishes. Please patiently continue the lessons. I don’t wish to stop; I'm just weary, just a beginner, and, O splendorous hope, you're my Mother, and Jesus'.

I've been reading the book my dear missionary loaned me, Peguy's "God Speaks." So simple, yet profound, so short, yet eternal. Blessed be Our Father Who provides our every daily need.

In my heart I found little notes for each line of that book, yet with these came the prettiest lullaby Love gaily sang there:

Monday, January 20

What petition might a little child make but a bit of that for which our Holy Mother Church begs during her Church Unity Octave? That for which Jesus Himself longs and pleads to the Father? Yesterday Her intention was the return of separated Eastern Christians to communion with the Holy See. And today She pleads for the Reconciliation of Anglicans to the Holy See. Tonight there is no wish so great as that which throbs in the Sacred Heart of your Son. O Mediatrix of all graces, lavish us with His Love, please. Teach us of Jesus.

I--called the clinic this morning, Mother. I really didn’t want to. To endure would have meant so much for my missionary. Yet perhaps the admitting of my weakness meant more. I don’t know; it matters little if I do. Miss Slo at once advised removing the board at my side.

I laughed aloud. Only to know that it would be removed was relief. But now it's gone, that's all, only the board. The spasms, the ache, the pain, fatigue, restlessness, these dear friends remain. And I am yet ugly, and a co-missionary. It will take time, my angel says. I know she's right. All good takes time to be possessed eternally. Yes, I'll wait. For in anticipating Jesus, possession is begun, and a sweet taste of Heaven is ours.

In my uselessness I happily thought of my precious Cici, wee sister of mine, and scrawled a poem to her. Long the years before she will understand my song. But her mother will understand, and perhaps those will be joyful years. For mothers always understand. O thank you.

Daddy came this evening for a little bit, and just after he'd gone here was Jean. O lovely face to behold, features so like yours! The touch of your cheeks, your forehead, on my fingertips. Your sorrow, your smile. O praise to Him Who in His agony shouted the happy command, "Behold thy Mother!"

Wednesday, January 22

Blessed be the majestic condescension of Our Father, of our Master and Brother Jesus, of the Spirit of Their Love!

We gathered in Jesus' Love at Jean's today. Please thank God for some very little sisters who yet marvel that He is pleased to be in our midst and to manifest Himself as He does. We, worthy? God shall never narrow His designs to measurements. O to love as Jesus loved, as much as Jesus loved, with Jesus' very own Love, the life of our hearts!

"That all be one…That the world may believe Thou hast sent Me." Tonight there seems no other prayer than this consuming desire of Jesus' Heart. O please God, please! THAT ALL BE ONE.

Thursday, January 23

This morning, at the joyous beginning of our day, Jesus' Holy Sacrifice was offered here at Good Sam. O blessed be God!

Holy Mother Church begs today for The Restoration of Lapsed Catholics to the Sacramental Life of the Church. O please deliver all her petitions, those noble fragments of Jesus' cry to His Father for unity, universal love, that the world may see and believe that the Word was made flesh, that God dwells today among, within, man. O how He longs for the glorious birth of all souls, to doctor, nourish, strengthen them and finally to take them to the Fullness of Life, the Heart of Love Itself, Home. And His longing penetrates my own hardness, becomes mine. O that they may be One!

There are so many, these little lost sheep. They are bleating everywhere. Why do I not hear them everywhere? O to shake the sleep of indifference, to unmuffle my ears, to unmask my eyes, to know that they are here, everywhere, that I cannot escape them, these my own little ones because they belong to my Spouse, these who won't come because they are frightened, unsure that I am Jesus' because that Love He promised as a badge of all Christians is still so dim within me they can't be sure it's there. O come, my Jesus, conquer, reign, that they may know it is You calling, weeping for them. Most of them I know not; but Jesus knows and aches to caress them once more. Truly this heartache is His.

Please tell Him again of Mama, one of these lonely, hungry, sheep. I hear her cry. It pierces my heart, wounds it. But I am so completely helpless, only never hopeless. She cries; I cry; Jesus cries, yet even the least whimper reaches the tender Heart of God, I'm sure. This knowledge is enough for me.

Our coffee club gathered this morning at Jean's, once more in that beautiful one's Nazareth, where the supernatural dons the gown of what man has termed "ordinary." Truly this hobo's life is full, to the brim, running over, lacking nothing because possessing All. Where O where is the sting?

Jean returned me to Sam, Jesus' beloved Jean, and mine. O to discover Christ in all as I've seen Him within her. Please help me.

It's time to prepare for the night's retreat. Thursday night--the night of Jesus' loneliness. "Can you not watch one hour with Me?" Our Beloved pleads. I want to; the spirit is so willing. O but the flesh, it's so tired, so weak; it aches, it screams for relief that only sleep can bring, it wonders how long its exhaustion will remain. Please tell your precious Son, my beloved Lord and Brother, how I want to.

Friday, January 24

Today we beg Our Father That the Jewish People Come into Their Inheritance in Jesus Christ. This, and all our desires, we give to you that you may offer worthy petitions to Almighty God. O to think that truly I have a Mother such as you. Praised be the Infinite prodigality of Divine Love. "His own received Him not." Yet He Who gently restored the sight of the blind beggars, they who opened their eyes upon their GOD, can surely cure all blindness, can surely shout the good news to these, God's chosen people, who of all peoples kept His word. Lord, that we may see that THE WORD WAS MADE FLESH. I remember little Gail, my precious sister at St. John's Crippled Childrens' Hospital. Again and again she expressed her desire to join our Holy Church, but her parents wouldn't hear of it. Remember the rosaries we said together, me and this darling of Jesus'? What has become of Gail? Obstinacy of worldly men, please let God's people go.

It is good to have the weight of one's uselessness always as the sands of the desert burying my heart. The seed must die, the death seems so slow and painful, O but its memory will cease when the splendorous blossom of Jesus' Love appears.

Father wasn't able to offer the Holy Sacrifice for us today. What did he endure simply to give us our Daily Bread? We cannot guess, but we MUST try. Why did this upset Sister so? Why did she take my chair, bang it into the pews on the way to the communion rail, jolt me every direction and then pass by the Sacred Banquet extended to her? O Mother, I tried to hold Him tight, to shelter Him from the pain as I heard her kick a pew in disgust, then a second later slam the chapel door behind her. What is it? What a failure was I as I sat there holding Him. Has my ugliness hidden Him so? I've loved her, but so little she can't even hear Love's cry. She left me there to weep alone, in Love's ache for souls. O ever-expanding wound, welcome to my heart. Through you may Love pour forth in endless excess.

To say the Stations of the Cross on one's knees, O blessed moments. My body objects; my spirit rejoices. To be so little, ungraceful, kissing the ground, alone with Love humiliated.

Saturday, January 25

Blessed be God on this the glorious feast of the Conversion of St. Paul! And blessed be Love's precious pains that so completely transformed this man that he could say, and truly say, "It is now no longer I that live, but Christ lives in me." O consuming Fire of Divine Love, please continue this elevation of man, that Jesus may echo within each of us, "This is My Body." This last day of Holy Mother Church's Unity Octave we plead for The Missionary Extension of Christ's Kingdom Throughout the World. Please don't forget that you've given me, contemptible that I am, a missionary that lives Jesus, that shouts the wonderful news of His Presence with his whole life. I must be silent that his joyous message be heard. I must be nothing that he be all things to all men. I must be as you that he may be as Jesus. O but please never let my failures limit His success, his transformation.

Myrt hasn't called yet to tell me if she'll be here for me tomorrow. I've not begun to pack; I fear I might have to unpack again and I'm very tired. I rest in the morning, the entire afternoon, and retire early each evening. But still everything seems a battle, dressing, praying, typing, reading, resting itself. I know not what to do, and O the loneliness of it all. In my thoughts I keep grasping for hopes, that the morrow will be different, that Dr. Jahns might have just the answer, that all this rest will strengthen me so that I needn't go on pretending to those around me that everything is as usual, that soon I shall laugh and not wish to cry. All these passing trials seem so unending during the period of endurance, I know. Please forgive my impatience, O please, precious Mother. I don't wish to hurt you and Jesus so. I want but to wait for Love's call. Hush my confusion that I may hear. Beg Our Father's forgiveness upon a tired, still anxious, pilgrim. I'll be Home; I wait for Him Who longs for me. Jesus, I'm coming. This hill is steep, but Your Love is Strength.

Sunday, January 26

Mother, Septuagesima already! That means soon we shall enter deeper into the sufferings of our Jesus. O that we might "go with haste" to welcome all that is His, the Least among us, to know nothing but Jesus Christ, and Him crucified. O what would I more than that this be accomplished? O death, Love's triumph, do not delay. Come with all your terrible violence, for you are sweet.

Myrt will be here for me a week from today. To pack, then to unpack again, seemed almost beyond my strength. O God forgive my listlessness. Please ask forgiveness for me. Everything stares me in the face, scares me, the smallest task an insurmountable obstacle. I cannot converse sensibly, can't think. O Mother, please pity me. Truly it is no longer I. Adore, my Mother, please adore Him. Blessed be shattering nothingness! Welcome.

Monday, January 27

O what must your hands have looked like to Gabriel? Soft, peaceful, white, waiting, aching to serve. And in an instant trembling with the promise of lifting your Creator. Please take these poor little hands into yours tonight. They are empty. Over their hunger please whisper 'Fiat,' and they will rest in peace tonight, somehow there to serve if only to wait.

I've hurt Jesus once more? I know, O how painfully I know. The precious burden He's designed just for me I've distributed to others. Yet it but becomes more intolerable. I complain of God's gifts. I tell my brothers and sisters, you, even the loving Giver of all gifts how heavy they are. Yet He must have wished to give so much more, if only I would bear it. Accipio. With great joy I accept. Please tell Him so. O joyful combat! Love, please give me no rest until there is no more of me left in Your consuming Flame. Live, Love, in a priest for whom your handmaid burns.

Now I go to lie beneath that soft little light that says God is here. This little corner is such a sweet chapel for Him. My eyes will soon close; my mind slip beyond my power. Yet my heart will throb and my chest rise and fall, my body a temple moved by the Presence of its Creator. Come, Mother, please stay with me. Let us adore.

Tuesday, January 28

Sweet Mother, your gentleness is so far beyond my ugliness. It seems all I've brought you of late is complaints. I'm very sorry. For in return here is a letter from Fr. Eugene. "May your love grow richer and richer yet in the fullness of its knowledge and the depth of its perception, so that you may learn to prize what is of value." Jesus' Cross, O please press it yet closer. Let every fiber of every muscle in my tired body feel its weight, and rejoice because I bear nothing and my Jesus suffers no more. I cannot wish less, nor more, for him who prays thus for me. But my wheels are strong to bear. Please don't forget.

Wednesday, January 29

Today brought Sr. Maria Goretti's pre-Lenten letter, filled with pleasant goodies. Thank you, sweet Mother. Days are long, very long, for little nothings . The only time I've used Anita is for this letter to you. I sleep much, but still awake to this ache, and worse, this listlessness. I'm tired, thank God I'm too tired to be anything but His little nothing. If I am Jesus', then surely he is mine, His prayer mine too, for I cannot pray. With nostalgic pleading I can but call out for Our Father.

Your precious Ruthie came for a little while this evening. It was as if the sunrise came at 8:00 P.M. There was her smile, and your Son, Who apparently forgot us today, walked into this corner, into my heart. O please give Him a thousand welcomes. Adore Him here. Press Him, and His Holy Cross, into depths of my heart I have not yet discovered, that its beatings be but echoes of true Love. Let us adore.

Thursday, January 30

Now is the wonderful time with you. How I anticipate these precious moments all day long, to gaze once more into your face and listen to the songs of your heart. Mother, you are O so beautiful. Thank you for always being here, waiting for me to stop my play to come to you.

Sometimes I can't imagine having anything else to offer Jesus, Who is Himself the Father's Gift. But surely He can find sweet nothings He's lavished upon me continually and pretend that these are "mine to give." O sweet little Playmate He is.

In this recent helplessness I've discovered just how tiny He is, how easy to cuddle close when all else seems too heavy and exhausting. I do not embrace the Cross; I'm being nailed to it. Rather, upon my heart rests One tiny almost beyond perception. He isn't heavy; He's sweet and soothing and all else seems to fade into oblivion. I'm not suffering, only holding a Little One, Him, the Least.

Friday, January 31

Protect our Fr. Kohne. Be his sweet Mother. Once more he finds himself in the hospital, lonely, discouraged, tired. For years he has been crucified, his daily life His Mass. Let him know that there is one who loves him standing by, beneath the Cross, while Jesus continues to save the world. Please tell him.

Ruth and Dee just left. O how beautiful they are. Ruthie was so pleased at my strength. I too, but to see her delight was a far greater award. How grand that even my power of concentration should be taken that I may know and truly know the kindness of Our Father in giving it to me. Perhaps it will be long before I've attained my usual strength. Waiting itself becomes the most nagging of aches. But how silly to consider mortal hours when we already live in Eternity.

Sunday, February 2

Happy, beautiful feastday, precious Queen of Virginity and Glory of Motherhood. I too, with Simeon, would beg for death's sweetness. Life becomes so burdensome when one caresses the Life. All our yearning is for the eternal Embrace of our Creator. But I must listen further. Simeon speaks. "And thy own soul a sword shall pierce." I look frightfully into the aching arms of my spirit. I know, though I cannot understand. As the Life of Christ continues to unfold I shall learn with you the majestic role of a "co-missionary."

Monday, February 3

Please tell our Father of a little hobo who wants but what He wants. Whisper your merciful "Forgive her; she knows not what she is doing." Let your Fiat vibrate every fiber of my being that God may look upon me and be pleased because I remind Him of you. I fear the "Old Boy" is taking advantage of me. We've often been told of his delight in our idleness. And today when Mary McNally scolded me for turning down invitations, for wanting to sit in this little corner all the time now, it hurt. I'm grateful that she struck deep. Surely I can bring myself out of this listlessness. As long as I keep typing, on the go, I don't feel so weak. It's that after-breakfast rest that keeps me down all day. I can't rise after that. I'll try not to take it, to keep busy enough not to notice the ache in these bones, to keep pretending to others that I'm tough, to complain but to Him Who gives these precious gifts that my nothingness itself be fresh, hidden away for my Beloved Whose Voice I await, and remember, in silence and joy.

Tuesday, February 4

Where was our Beloved this morning? No Father came to feed us. "My food is to do the Will of Him Who sent me." Our waiting was our nourishment.

Jean will grace this corner in the morning. How I anticipate her presence, and Jesus' and yours, for she cannot come alone. She never does. Something she remarked keeps coming back to fill my heart with repentance. "That doesn't sound like little Virginia!" O Mother, I know. I'm very confused, saying things I don't mean, trying to repudiate them, wondering just what I do mean, filled with uncertainty, tired, restless. I WANT TO LOVE, that's all. Please make this desire presentable to Jesus, sweet Mother of Mercy. How pronounced my ugliness is becoming daily. But here You are, and sweet hope. That is enough. Now I must sleep. May a day which must have brought my Mother disappointment, sorrow, now fade into the silence and peace of Love's rendezvous. I'm sorry. You'll forget, won't you?

Wednesday, February 5

Blessed be Love! My missionary came today to find some relief for me. He came so far, stayed so long, was so gentle. Dare I stammer, "I'm yours; you shall never serve me!?" No, I accept. The Master girds Himself, and in Love's humiliating paradox I remain silent, empty, waiting to be filled.

This shepherd is so gentle. He found a doctor to help me whenever necessary. He brought a little radio that I may enjoy music without the expense of replacing each record. He brought reading. And we went out into God's beautiful air and sun and warmth. O how glorious to feel their caresses once more. We had dinner together, in sweet silence. He understood this weakness; being with him was sufficient. And lastly he soothed my heart in permitting me a chat with Jesus, poor, rebellious little sister that I've been recently. In reparation I may offer these same weaknesses, transformed through Holy Obedience to serve the Living God. O Divine Mercy!

O beautiful Prodigality that would include in today's munificence a letter from my beloved Fr. Lucien! He always spills joy all over the page, my heart, just everything. Please, Mother of God's monks, shower him with gobs and gobs of--everything Love designs.

Thursday, February 6

Tonight my precious ones meet to adore their Beloved. May their magnificent Love blend with Jesus' in pleasing Our Father. Perhaps I too can watch with Him. It has been a day of restlessness. Tonight? Whatever it may hold, blessed be God! "As Thou wilt."

Friday, February 7

Jesus lives here! O please help me adore. All was quiet in our little chapel this morning. All was waiting, Advent. One could almost hear angel wings flutter as they too anticipated. I knew He'd be here. He seemed to whisper that He was coming. He knew how my poor soul needed the nourishment He alone could give it. It was the third day.

Sister Raphael announced that Father probably wouldn't be here, and one by one all the Sisters followed her from our little chapel. Yet I waited. I just knew. And soon the Sisters returned to embrace their Spouse. He'd come. O blessed tranquillity! There were no words of why or of His Father's business, for those you exchanged centuries ago echo today. Please gather all that is He, pouring it into my heart, making it expand, ache, throb, because it dares hold Infinity.

Fr. Kohne said Holy Mass for us at eleven. Wonderful surprise. Is today his birthday? We think so. Blessed be the day that saw the birth of this daily martyr. May we learn by his very presence here how to die daily.

Our Jesus-Caritas booklets came in today's mail. Once more I picture the happy child-like faces of our brothers and sisters as they welcome this treasury of spiritual direction. Once more I offer each of them that you may be pleased with your little ones. This issue is dedicated to the Church Triumphant. Surely it will provide glorious thoughts, when Jesus is ready to teach me such things. But for now I put it aside. I wait. I read a little now. You know which book I read. O Woman Wrapped in Silence, I love you. You are so little. Thoughts of you don't tax my strength. You are so gentle; I just think of today and smile because you are my Mother and Jesus lives.

Doc came at last, with wonderful news. My blood is wonderful. This weakness is from a virus which has been making its rounds. So, just tonic and rest and sleep, and I should be a full-fledged hobo in two weeks. O I'm so happy. The ache? He didn’t mention that. Will it go too? How high are my hopes, yet they remain topped by your immortal Fiat. Help me to be womanly in my waiting, and when I am strong may every fiber of my being ring with praise. All is swiftly passing, but God.

Saturday, February 8

It was such a surprise to have our dear Fr. Kohne enter our little corner this morning. O how welcome was he. What did it cost him to come here? I can but guess. He is kind. He brought records, even played a couple for me because he saw that rising would have cost me so. He's so unsteady, so shaky, his legs nearly too thin to endure his height. Yet there is something majestic about this man as he calls God's blessings upon a little hobo. God's strength, so subtle, so joyous its discovery in visible weakness.

Father left some records, including a Christmas album from St. Meinrad's. Jesus is born! As long as there is a living soul here on God's good earth He lives, poor human love all that can quiet God's whimper. He is hungry. O that those monks in that spot so dear to His Heart may continue to feed us of the multitudes, that somehow we may feed them, that Jesus cry no more. Hush, little One. Your Mother lifts You.

Sunday, February 23

Mother, my beautiful Mother, now happily I fling myself into your arms, exhausted, filled with some unknown strength, joyous. You're here and you're mine. Little Jesus searched for nothing more, nor shall I.

It's been long since my last note to you, yet we remain together always and I seem to forget just how long it's been or even that any time has lapsed. It is always in the eternal Presence of God. We but seek and we do find, just as Jesus promises, for God's kingdom has come. WE are His kingdom. My soul trembles. But it remembers that you are here and there is Peace.

As we visited at your shrine the 11^th, I was so pleased to find something for me at your feet. Those copies of Fr. Keith's sermons on "Friendship" and its supplement "Loneliness," yes they were heaven-sent by a Mother forever conscious of her little ones in exile, even though she is Queen enveloped in eternal Joy.

And what gift did I return to you on that joyous feast? O Mother, I wish I could be a child worthy of you. If I hide my face it remains dirty and tear-streaked; if I turn it up to you, you hardly recognize the lovely little thing Our Father placed in your arms when I was baptized. You'll wash it in the purity of your tears, won't you? I'll never hide from my Mother, for when all others turn away in disgust your love remains undiminished, rather greater, for you remember your Jesus' love of sinners.

Suddenly Daddy popped into my room that day and said that we were going to Gary. It was such a shock. I rebelled, foolish that I am. I begged him to wait a few days, a week, so that I could be stronger, so that I could bring the best of Jesus' Love to dear ones there. But Daddy refused to listen, to speak, merely sat here and watched me drain all that I had in the dilemma of packing. I'm sorry. Apparently I didn't hurt Daddy. How I wish that I couldn't see that my irritations bring him a little pleasure. Why, Mother? It's hard to see these things. I felt that our relationship was settling into a little depth, and for a couple weeks previous to this incident I rejoiced that at last the barrier he raised in me for years was being torn down. But now I find it again, a little higher wall than before. Will I ever span this gap between me and each member of my family? Again, Fr. Jim's words bring peace. "You have no family so that everyone may freely call you his own." Blessed be the Wisdom and Mercy of God!

So a little hobo left her corner, and the few comforts she had found there, to be once more a wanderer, a pilgrim, remembering that some day, not so very far away, there will be Home and rest. No comfy chair welcomed me at Myrt's, no position in which to relieve the ache in my legs. But I remained a co-missionary and happily thought that the little sheep a tender shepherd carried to the fold that night was perhaps not so heavy, nor Father's heart.

Wednesday morning Myrt and I attended Holy Mass at the hospital, then I got to stay with dear little Sr. Blanche. How blessed to be with her. We shared our crosses, a few words, all that was ours to share. And in the silent bond of suffering we've grown to love one another as we never could have had Jesus not planted His precious Cross within us. O Mother, help me to embrace Its wood. Let only death cause me to let go.

Dear Dr. Jahns came, with all his wisdom and kindness, to increase my joy. Of course, I'd fostered some secret hope that he'd suddenly extinguish my distress. O how the Old Boy magnifies the importance of such things. But there was so little to be done. Doc diagnosed my trouble as simply exhaustion. And the Father's Will became yet more apparent. He wishes to have a sleepy little hobo for a while? Here I am, simply to do as you tell me that I may please Him. His wish is my joy. I'm just waiting. Should He wish anything else please tell me. I'll just love Him in your immaculate love and rest assured that you'll never make me walk to Him alone.

The hospital chapel is large, and the Stations of the Cross let one on wheels know that the Way was long and steep and sapped Love from Him Who was already so drained.

Last Sunday afternoon we received a happy surprise when Sr. Emeline entered our room. She was with Jimmy and me at the Villa, and my dear friend there; another of the happy childhood memories Our Father squeezed into that oasis. She worked in the big kitchen. Guess I would go in for a visit and ask her to lift me to the counter. Standing and chatting just didn't go together. And such cute tales she had to tell of Jimmy. It was such fun remembering, and I can hardly wait to write to remind Jimmy of some of his little pranks. He was always so cute and so full of them. Like putting his dessert, a big helping, in the middle of his plate and eating it to the neglect of all else. Sr. Ralphe told him we just don't eat that way, and Jimmy said, "I do." And the tears as he stared at a piece of fish Sister put on his plate and resolved, "I'm not going to eat that whale!" O Mother, all this means so much to me, for I've lost so much of him and long to cling to all bits of precious memories sent my way.

Blessed be God for this holy season. Somewhere in my throat is a cry, "My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?" It just stays there. It's an ache. But there are no tears, no sound. This desolation is for Jesus alone to hear, while others sleep. I watch with Him so poorly. Perhaps this desolation of my waking hours will soothe His distress.

Wednesday the strength of the Sacrament of Penance was given me through the kindness of Our Father. The burden is yet so heavy, but Jesus bears it all. I know. Even the chore of carrying it isn't mine to give; only my weakness as I watch my Beloved take it from me.

Sr. Michelle came for a little while Wednesday afternoon. We spoke little. Talking, even for this noisy little sister, is becoming a chore. I'm tired. And I rejoice that Jesus is at last leading me to the sweet silence He's wished to share with me for so long. O how I thank Him for all the lessons He's taught recently. Illness is but a retreat in which we may learn that which alone we need to learn, Jesus Christ and Him crucified.

What few words we exchanged were of my missionary. And that evening as I rolled by your sorrowful Way I saw as never before that you are truly the Queen of co-missionaries. Jesus is your sword, His exile, His loss, His Cross that which He saves for her He loves most. Only in death, after He's given even you to another, can you truly claim Him for your own, a beaten King thrust in your Immaculate Heart. The last picture I would love to paint myself were I an artist. Your limp body and tear-streaked face would not be there, for you alone would have walked tall, majestically, smiling, to greet the dawn. His triumph your joy.

Sr. Philomene met me as I left chapel that night. And behind her back she held for me one big, red carnation. How deep was the red, the suffering there, its edges all jagged, yet it was beautiful to behold. If I can't be like the red rose of suffering, please let me be a little red carnation. Surely there is somewhere in my missionary's bouquet for me to hide.

Saturday morning, having been deprived of attending the Holy Sacrifice, I offered myself to the Father in sleep and there had such a beautiful dream. It was so like the story of the Good Samaritan. I found myself in the hospital chapel, the pain and spasms in my legs forcing me to leave. Sr. Ida took me to an adjoining room, where I placed my head on some of the equipment there to rest.

Sr. Blanche entered to ask what I was doing. When I told her I was resting, she proceeded to chapel. Likewise Sr. Amedea. Then Fr. Keith entered. He asked if I wished to go to Holy Communion and I told him how I longed to go. With that he pushed me to chapel, right to the Communion rail, and the Bishop, who had just finished the last Gospel, came to me with Jesus at Father's request. Immediately as I awoke I felt compelled to welcome Jesus. For somehow, through the love of a missionary, I knew He'd come. Blessed be God Who reveals such wonders to His least worthy children.

This morning I was able to SING at Holy Mass. Yes, strength is returning. It was good that it should be taken, for Jesus had lessons to teach. They are precious lessons. Please help me never to forget.

Mother, did you see the lovely stack of Valentines I just finished reading? Jesus' Love is so alive in my precious brothers and sisters. Surely being loved so by such as these will make me a more worthy instrument of His Love.

Truly the most beautiful valentine is that which he whom you've given me sent. His own writing, his own thought, his own heart. I hasten to lay it at your feet, for I know my own unworthiness. May he forever be your Son.

Time to unpack a knapsack and fling myself on Love's embrace. Goodnight, Mother.

Monday, February 24

Tonight I bring a gift. It isn't pretty, Mother, I know. Many of the gifts I give aren't. Yet I know you see not their ugliness, and even if you do you are pleased to bring them to our Father, to gather them in the same arms that once offered His Son and find Him well pleased. I offer the deeds of our poor sister _________. Everywhere I've turned today I've met hearts wounded by her actions. They weep, and my heart cries to Our merciful Father. Yet what heart could be more crushed than her very own? Why, Mother? How often have I failed in Jesus' Love that her hatred crush so many? I admit a grave responsibility. I live with her, talk with her, suffer and pray with her, yet she knows not how much Jesus loves her. I'm yet too filled with self to show her our Beloved. Yet I trust that even my poverty will win the sweet mercy of God.

My hands yet so shaky and aching, my speech yet faltering, behold God's little servant girl, child of Mary.

Tuesday, February 25

Good evening, Mother, in the name of each of my dear brothers and sisters here at Good Sam. I offer all their pains, their loneliness, their idleness. Soon their exile will end. May they who knew not your sweetness here possess it at last, eternally. My poverty aches for them, for a little sister must be content to be helpless amid suffering humanity. Just this morning I learned that their food is to be even more limited. I thought that one tea bag for three patients was really stretching. Now Sr. Raphael has decided to order no more fruit or jello. Everything is being so rationed, or else completely excluded. It's hard to watch. My brothers and sisters pay high prices for their rooms. But in return their burdens seem to be becoming yet weightier. They have so little. Must even some of that be taken? Eggs, bread, toilet paper are rationed. Cautious spending seems to be turning into miserliness. I embrace Holy Poverty with you and Jesus of Nazareth. None of these limitations are pinching me, but the mumbling of those around me is hunger in my soul. Please feed them the Bread of Life, baked within the furnace of your Love. Though they may know not the source of their strength, please prepare them to rejoice in its approaching Discovery.

Wednesday, February 26

A poor old Sister pleaded today for her daily Bread, and cruelty snapped she hadn't time to push her to the Communion rail. This from a bride of Christ? How can I answer our confused aides when not even I knew "that Sisters are like that?" Please beg Our Father's mercy on each of us here. Where is His Kingdom? Within me? Why is it yet so hidden? Do they not know I love them? Jesus asks. O God forgive me; I haven't told them so! I must dig up the treasures of Jesus' Love, and bury my self in the dirt. But alone I can do nothing. Please never tell me to care for my own affairs.

Our tiny Mrs. Phillips' exile is ended this evening. Blessed be God! For several years she remained with us at Good Sam, in silent abandonment. Never did I hear a word escape her lips, and never did I see her refuse anything our aides brought. She just lay there, on her cross. The other night, while everyone was fast asleep, I crept into the hall to offer God the slumber of my brothers and sisters: their snoring, their tossing, their peace. Only she was awake. She lay there shifting yet so silent. How long did she watch? I don't know, for I returned to my room. But I know today Jesus must have been anxiously watching for her. At last there is One to claim her for His own.

Thursday, February 27

No Jean or Mary or Lou this morning with whom I might at last speak of Jesus' Love, so obvious yet sometimes so subtle within me. And this evening I waited long, filled with hope of seeing the beautiful faces of Ruthie and Dee, but Jesus seemed to ask that I stare at the night instead and be filled with the hope of beholding His Face soon. This exile is dark and all "good" planning is brought to stupidity in the smile of Divine Providence. Silly little children magnify their Father's Wisdom, don't they? I don't want to be ashamed of that which pleases Him. Rather, I am delighted in His delights. O boundless Love that would keep such ugly poverty in existence, AND LOVE IT.

As I flung myself at Jesus' feet today in what is becoming a period of fatigue and ache, Sr. Raphael came in to tell me that she was moving me once more from my corner. It is good to be recognized for the little hobo that I am, to be asked to step down because another more deserving of my room is coming. With the tired joy of a pilgrim I once more packed my knapsack.

And here we are, Mother, in a sweet new shrine. No one can guess what a move costs, and that's fine. Sister doesn't realize the multitude of adaptations a handicapper must make with each new surrounding, nor the mental work needed to draw them up.

The room is hardly 2/3 as big as our last one, and maneuvering this little VW here is such a challenge. There are only certain spots where I can turn, one where I can make a complete circle. The terrazzo floor isn't quite so inviting, and the cold will be, thank God, my companion till winter is past. But then in the summer there will be the breezes dancing. And already sunshine streams in the windows to adorn everything with gold. Beneath the window where I sit writing to you cars form an endless stream, and in the daytime I shall see our children on their way to the visible high school.

It's easy to be forgotten why back here, but the little silence I did enjoy has been taken by the continuous blare of the TV in the adjoining room where our people gather. Even closing the door gives no escape. But each time I enter or leave there are my brother and sisters and Jesus waiting for a little greeting. It is so good.

It's far from the elevator, and my aching arms are embracing Jesus' Cross a little more with each trip I must make. It's so far from meals and a long distance from the phone. So perhaps Jesus doesn't wish those little chats that once seemed so essential. So many things that were once so are becoming irrelevant. God wishes to take all that He may return what is truly All. Please tell Him how His little hobo longs for His greater glory, and all that may bring His Kingdom to the hearts of men. I feel so drained, my strength, my laughter, my tears now so meager. And yet my self is left. O please let me go with you to Calvary.

Friday, February 28

I love you! Look to the right, Mother dear. See that moon? It's so full and bright. Yes, there is a cross rising with it, this evening considerably lighter than previous ones. Does Fr. Eugene see it too? Is it perhaps more pronounced to him? When we get Home we'll delight in sharing such miracles of Love.

Jean, Lou and I went to Mary's this morning. It was good for us to be there. I wish to speak so little, yet their presence is joy. To what beautiful heights is Jesus now leading? No, I mustn't ask. He says, "Let us go up," and I follow. That's enough; the Master has invited us. O to at last kiss the bloody foot of His Throne.

Saturday, February 29

O Mother, the beautiful discovery Jesus reserved for this Mary little Saturday. Suddenly I ceased the letter I'd been typing. All ceased but Love. The amazing realization that I sit, right here, this very moment, directly above the Tabernacle of our Beloved is thrilling beyond words. The thought makes me wish to be on the floor. It will never seem so cold, so hard now that His Eucharistic Presence cushions my days and nights. What Little Sister could desire any other Fraternity than this Our Father has kindly fashioned? Last night, after I'd written to you, I shifted a few things, and now the room looks twice as big and so nice. The sweetest room in our house, and O how God knows my unworthiness. In poverty is He magnified.

On our new March bulletin board is a little brother. He kneels before a water jar and hugs a Cross. And a little sister hastens his Hour, and her own. Yes, you know the story well. Please repeat it for me, Mother.

"The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story--and writes another; and his humblest hour is when he compares the volume as it is with what he hoped to make it." James M. Barrie

Sunday, March 1

Please take this month for my missionary: Lenten Penance in Union with the Liturgy. That magnificent "spiral" by which Holy Mother Church leads us to the Father, that Life of Christ that is now our life because a tremendous Lover uttered the words, "This is My Body." O please bless the kindness that has revealed these things to little ones!

That same kindness permitted me to look up from a letter I was typing this evening to find my missionary's slight figure in the door watching me. Sweet Mother, today I heard Jesus ask, "Who are my brother and my sister and my Mother?" Though you sensed the deeper meaning of His words, yet I watched your co-missionary's heart broaden yet more as He bade you follow Him no longer in the lowliness of Nazareth but in the heights. And in your longing you've lifted the burden of my heart by my brother's presence. Truly you know my lowliness, and love me still.

For one brief moment I clasped that sacred hand to my heart. O the caresses my heart lavishes upon his powerful hand, powerful as that which calmed the storm and lifted the lame and dead and fed multitudes of little ones.

My little brother brought a gift, little balls of cotton with which to stuff my ears. He well knows my sensitiveness to sound, and here I am right next to the TV. It blares from 8 A.M. to 11 P.M. I can't rest. O and the cries of my brothers and sisters, gladly would I endure the first did these not plague. But here at this end of the hall are those poor little ones who yell for relief, for attention, for needs we can but guess at times. A little sister offers what others become angry with, the sounds of the multitude. I know your Jesus offered them also, as they thronged about Him, devoured Him. He remembered them when all was accomplished and He flung Himself, deity and humanity, into the bosom of His Father in the transcendent present of Redemption.

Please be pleased with the vigil light we've lit in this hallowed spot in remembrance of one whose presence blessed it for some happy moments.

Monday, March 2

O this sweet little corner where Jesus' Love has turned to sunshine! The chimes of St. Joan of Arc Church float in every fifteen minutes, just one more reminder of His Presence, and the song in my heart flows to my lips. I LOVE YOU.

Jimmy sent me one of his recent pictures. Such a handsome young man he is becoming. O please never forget him. He's so far from me, yet I love him so. He's so alone, yet you're our Mother, and this sets my hopes to soaring. Though our eyes meet not, we remain under your mantle forever. Does he know how near I am? It matters little. Only that he knows your Love and Jesus'. He instructed me, "Throw away the one with too much hair." Obviously the Beatle mania hasn't appealed to him yet. My sweet little ornery Thumper.

Sweet little Nancy graced our corner this afternoon, just after Daddy had gone. Need I remind you of the longings of her heart or ask the Will of Jesus? I know she seeks her Mother's guidance always. Yet please accept the request her little sister makes for her. For I know you like it so, your little ones becoming conscious of one another's needs. And how I long to please you, for you're lovely and, by some prodigality of Divine Mercy, you're mine.

Ruth and Dee just left a little bit ago. O what a treasure is their friendship and peaceful joy their presence. My little corner yet glows with the memory of them. Their songs fill the air, the unsung songs of Amicitia. Dee hung our pictures to bring yet more warmth to this most beautiful corner in the whole world.

Tuesday, March 3

After I'd written to you and slipped into my nightie and sung along with Mitch, I returned to this sweet corner to have another nosebleed. It was a little one, and I know it fell on Jesus' roof. It was as water seeking nothingness in the red wine of His Passion. What will be the price of it? The approaching days will tell. I am almost afraid, till I remember the sweetness of your Little One and the secrets Love can whisper to none but nothingness. But it's all so far away. There is nothing but NOW and I run into its beauty.

These nosebleeds may be associated with pain, for with the last one it was in my legs. And now, for more than a week, it's possessed my left arm. I can use it still, but every movement costs much. My wrist, my fingers, my armpit throb with it. My poor members. Thus Jesus pursues sinners, longing to ease their diseases that His entire Body may function well. Please teach me not to hurt Him so. Does Mama's pain still pursue her? And what of Sr. Jude, "a woman wrapped in pain?" God forgive me for even noticing mine!

In today's mail was a set of earplugs from my sweet, gentle Little Brother. Though they dull the din outside my door I can yet hear it well. But my poor brothers and sisters need to enjoy themselves. They hear so little it's almost a shame to plug my ears to escape their entertainment. You already thanked our little brother? I know; O thank you, Mother.

Wednesday March 4

It's been a cloudy, drizzly day, one just right for a little hobo to nap. Even forgot the earplugs. Just nestled here so close to Jesus, in Our Father's arms, once more delighting in the knowledge that He loves His little nothing.

Our little Maudey sleeps there forever now, in His peaceful embrace. She left our exile about 3:30 this afternoon. When I see my brothers and sister go Home I am so filled with joy. No more will they suffer nor be crushed in the press of loneliness. "This is My Blood." And Christ Glorified becomes yet more entire.

How sweet that I should hobo this way just before Maudey was called Home, that each time I left my sweet corner there she was. I held her hand; she kissed mine. That was enough. She'd grown too weak for talk. That little pilgrim was surely traveling lightly. All of her possessions that had to be gathered were her teeth, her glasses and one photograph. And now All is hers. Alleluia! If ever that word was significant it's at the death of a Christian.

Thursday, March 5

Mother! Happily this poor little hobo rushes to greet you. To enter this sweet corner finding light and warmth when all is cold and dark without means such security. Here you are, waiting. And you're so beautiful. You but smile as you remind me that not all little sisters come in at 2:00 A. M. Just the hobos.

O Mother, all those beautiful faces shining before me as we entered the church for our hour with Jesus. Will He forgive me that my heart wandered constantly from one to the other for a little while in His Presence, that it left His Eucharistic Reality to adore His Spirit shining in their eyes? He is kind, so patient with little ones. Though He may grow weary of their pranks, yet He lifts them to His knee, speaks with them and fills them with the dazzling light of His grace. He loves them and forgets His fatigue.

"A Woman Wrapped in Silence" was there. As the eyes of my soul scanned the beauty of those who knelt in adoration, so far from a lone hobo yet so lovely in the Kingdom where hearts meet and converse and fall yet deeper into the Love called God, I met one woman and halted. My journey was finished, for there you were. One idea of Fr. Lynch's haunts me; it hasn't left me for weeks. And there it was again. Jesus had been removed from the only throne He'd sought, and life's kindness returned Him to the loveliest throne earth could provide for Him, His Mother's arms. There your thoughts wandered to where you had held Him before, to where all that He was had been enfolded in the infinity of your Mother's heart, and you began to rock Him till John put his hand upon your arm and gently spoke of haste. My poor Mother.

Kindly murmurings escaped the confessional. And after these I knew that a long, slender hand was raised in absolution. And O the joy to know that he had found and healed yet another of his little sheep.

That missionary bore his poor little cross to Julie's new home. We walked in the nippy, teasing breezes, and above our heads every little star seemed to laugh. Each time we've gone out into the evening they've greeted us thus. They seem to follow this alter Christus and laugh in delight because He looks so much like the Man Who loved them so and called them His.

There is a peace, a depth in Julie never there before. Blessed be God! Her road has been long, lonely, confusing, frightening, yet who are we to estimate the masterpiece God will accomplish from lines yet more crooked than these? When such a glimpse is given us we can but be filled with gratitude, silence, adoration.

We separated into three smaller groups for more intimate discussion of this month's topic, Faith, then assembled to summarize our ideas and to be together for precious moments. To be there with them, embracing them, looking upon their wondrous faces to behold the ever clearer image of the Master upon them, now to look within my heart wherein are kept all these treasures, what more of strength might I seek? Please remind me of the folly of my desires.

Faith. Please beg that mine be strengthened, Mother. You know my needs well. How many times each day do we sinners call upon our Mother's prayer to obtain for us God's mercy? O for a faith which wouldn't bring tears to Jesus' eyes because it is yet so insufficient, a living faith that will remind Him of yours, Mother, and please Him. One that will move the hearts of men to Him, a far greater feat than the moving of mountains. Here He resides a Prisoner of Love immediately beneath me. Yet how can I for one instant forget that He is there? No Mother, I have no faith; I have nothing, for I am your little slave. Queen of my heart, please give me your Faith and of all that is yours. How pleased will my Beloved then be. And to please Him is all.

Friday, March 6

Hello, beautiful Mother. Remember that book of liturgical readings Fr. Lucien gave me during our visit last fall? Today I read a goodie he quoted from St. Augustine at that time. And how present was my big, wonderful, silver-topped brother. His voice dropped to a big, deep whisper as it always does when he tells me something that sounds from the depth of his big, deep heart. "Do you wish to see how powerful the Son of God is? 'All things were made by Him'…Do you desire to know Him weak? 'The Word was made flesh and dwelt amongst us.' The strength of Christ has created you; the weakness of Christ has re-created you."

This morning's sunrise was splendorous. O how blessed is a hobo to be witness to such beauty once again. Our Father sends endless delights. O to see, always.

At last, Mother dear, please let me rest here with you. The cries of my brothers and sisters would permit no rest for me today. And I'm so tired. You're so beautiful; goodnight, my Mother.

Saturday, March 7

It's our Sister Aquinas' feastday. Please don't forget, Mother dear. All day she's dominated my thoughts and prayers. O that Jesus become more and more her Peace, her Joy, her Life, her All.

See the spectacle outside our window this moment? An endless stream of cars struggling to get away from the high school, their drivers hoarse, no doubt, in this Hoosier Hysteria. Did Kokomo win? It seems there would be lots more noise if she did. I'll learn tomorrow, when the entire city will be speaking of nothing else. So now I leave our little FM to its lovely music while the sports fans have their parties. This is just a quiet little corner, almost beyond the realm of such excitement. To but enter is to find Peace. It is sweet. My Beloved and me alone. O how can my desires find greater heights to conquer? Love is measureless, and here am I at its foundation. It's head is tall and in the clouds. And I'm little and weak. But still sweet little Hope sings of one Who laughs at the impossible and laughs at the prospect of beholding His Face Who stands mightily beyond mountains of clouds. O God of loveliness! Your beauty will smite me into the Mountain of Your Kingdom. There are mountains to climb right within the human heart, since Jesus has announced the astonishing fact that the Kingdom of God is within us. Queen of all heights, and depths, do not forget us pilgrims searching Jesus' palace, which is yours.

Sunday, March 8

No ear stopples could have warded off today's music of the multitude. TV was never louder, nor the cries of our poor ladies. And when a tired hobo sought the peace of the chapel there followed her another little lamb bleating for the attention she craved. There is no one to offer these precious gifts, it seems. People have only time to scold and hush and become angry at these cries. Great is Our Father to place me here, their least sister, that each evening I may drag their burdens to your feet and be confident that somehow they will rise to the throne of Almighty God and please Him. And if I become weary with their weight then so much the greater will be Our Father's pleasure. Yes, it is good for us to be here, with you and Jesus.

On this Laetare Sunday many found their rejoicing in bringing goodies to a little hobo. May they be filled. First came Sister Aquinas with a big piece of her chocolate feastday cake; then the ladies of St. Joan of Arc with cookies and candies; and then darling little Lois with a big piece of yellow cake. And Our Father came with strength to His little one. It's so wonderful to feel myself returning to normal capacities. My left arm is nearly beyond the pain, and I use it almost as much as before. So it is that with Holy Mother Church I rejoice at this oasis in the desert. Hope and strength assure me that I can endure all with Jesus, in Him. We continue our climb, to be crucified. Queen of this Hill, please show me the Way.

Monday, March 9

Poor old "Ellie Vator" wasn't able to serve this morning. Cold weather is mighty rough on what ails her. So I got to greet Jesus in THIS tiny chapel. I was kneeling on the floor. It's hard and cold, but He's so near this spot I don't notice anything else much. During Lauds I looked out to see the sky becoming more and more golden. How glorious God's visible creation. Who can imagine the designs of Divine Grace, or the Heart of a Mother filled with all that is God? But I'm your child, and in my silly fancies I'll continue to try…

It's getting rather late, for I just joined Mitch for his happy Sing-Along. So I must scoot to night's oblivion. It a very cold, Mother. Are the others' rooms this chilly? I hope not. Do cover them well.

Tuesday, March 10

This evening please take my poor little offering for my missionary. Make it lovely because you've merely smiled upon its lowliness. Here it is, Mother, all the anticipation of being with him again today and the emptiness and the waiting that filled this day when the weather didn't permit me the joy of his presence; that my heart might experience once again the yet deeper joy the time and distance between us weave. Somewhere out there in that night he goes about his Father's business and ours.

Now I must clean out this little knapsack filled with funny little goodies for our day together. On top is that little piece of wood I would have had put back at my left side when it had been modified. And I'm secretly happy it's not there yet. It hurt so, and I seem so unwilling to endure yet more. Please ask Our Father to forgive my cowardice and to send what His gentleness deems best. Only that He be glorified in His little ones is enough. And here are the bananas Mary and I salvaged from yesterday's breakfast for our precious little brother's snack. Such monkey business! And the birthday-feastday gift I would have given that beloved companion of Jesus, "A Woman Wrapped in Silence." Now I put these little things away, yet my heart is not heavy though it knows it might not see him for a long time and had so wished to speak with him before renewing its Easter promises. Mine and yet not mine who am Maryly in LOVE. He is your son, Mary, and how pleasing he must be to you. Once again I offer him for your sweet pleasure.

Wednesday, March 11

"What is so much thine own as thyself? and what is so little thine own as thyself, if that which thou art is another's?" St. Augustine.

Somehow today brought Charlie's "All my plans turn out to be mere bits of paper" from a new depth of my being. Futility is so painful, yet what can lead us more quickly to seek the Omnipotence of Our Father?

For your good pleasure I place at your feet this evening the note today brought from Fr. Sal. If my heart sings so joyously what then must you derive from him, brother of your Jesus and son of your heart?

Thursday, March 12

Dawn's break brought us a thrilling view of God's winter wonderland. Everything was fairyland sparkle and innocent purity. 0 thank God for eyes with which to behold such, and for a heart that knows a seed lies dreaming happy things beneath its fluffy blanket.

Friday, March 13

Good evening, lovely Lady of my thoughts and dreams. How sweet to find you here, always. I've just returned from Jean's. Yes, an entire day in her Nazareth, and such a blessed one. Please tell Our Father so.

When Lou and Mary were forced to leave, I just stayed put in that comfy kitchen corner and watched Jean's smile of approval that I stay.

She attended to some errands, and there I was alone and furthest from loneliness any hobo could be. Who could read the goodies laid before me, or sing songs that filled my soul? Who would be fool enough to mar the stillness of those precious moments? Nothing was to be heard but the chugging hum of passing vehicles, then even that faded. At last there was silence. Sweet little moments those of her caresses. Just the voiceless speech of Jesus.

Then activity began as a mother efficiently busied herself in her kitchen. Fingers nimble with love stuffed celery and broke macaroni, and when loved ones had consumed her gifts she gathered the empty dishes to wash them. And in the corner a little hobo watched. Somehow I knew what it was like for Little Jesus to sit upon your kitchen floor and watch. Do forgive me if before leaving I placed a kiss upon the cupboard of that Mother. I too long for Nazareth. And it will never be found beyond the ordinary.

Sunday, March 15

Please, Mother, together with the Spirit of God's Love, transform me into Jesus that Our Father be pleased.

During this evening's precious moments in chapel I watched a little lamb lay herself upon the altar of sacrifice, seeking yet more suffering for her poor body that she better resemble Him Who called Himself a Lamb. For a half hour her arms remained extended. They shook; their ache became nearly visible, yet she forced them again and again into the air. And I but laid my head upon the pew to find the evening's peace and rest. Will Our Father forgive my listlessness? Because I offer so little please take all from me, that by some mysterious kindness I too may be said to serve, stupid little servant that performs only the tasks assigned to her. 0 that today I would hear my Master's Voice and my life become an affirmation that the Word became flesh.

It's quite late, and I'm weary. Yet I long to have this precious time with you. My mind grows dull, and it knows not what my fingers say, nor my tongue. Please beg forgiveness for your poor little one. In fatigue she always forgets to control her tongue, instrument of folly and injury, yet possible agent of Peace did silence but rule its insanity.

It wasn't necessary to mention the suffering Sr. Aquinas' actions bring my heart. No good came from my complaint, but instead I've become more oppressed with guilt than she. I beg forgiveness and the lessons of a Woman Wrapped in Silence and in Love. Please, Mother. I've failed continually. I throw myself before you, the treasure house of all God's graces, and I know what you lovingly give to this beggar will be sufficient. Tell Jesus I shan't lash at Him again, inebriated with selfishness. If Love fills not my mouth, please don't let my lips speak until you've planted it there. Please, Mother, help a very, very foolish child who wishes to please you and Jesus.

The new vigil light burns to remind you of your Ruth, Dee and little hobo. Somehow I feel the warmth of the flame burns for but one of us. May its spark light an eternal Flame in the soul of Dee that Jesus' living Love may fill him. And he'll love his Mother so.

Monday, March 16

Unrest prevails here at Sam. There is nowhere to turn from the whispers of dissatisfaction, disgust, scandal, prejudice. I've exhausted excuses; I too need someone to turn to for explanations. 0 Mother, did I not find you here I would surely despair. But you care for us always and tell us Love does reign in depths I've not fathomed. I believe; 0 please consume my confusion in your perfect act of faith.

Like the statues in our little chapel, Jesus' presence in some souls is cloaked and hidden from the human heart. Though I am sometimes blind before these living tabernacles, I truly believe that He is there. Please consume your little one's feeble faith in your own simple protestation of Truth, "Here I am, God's little servant girl."

Wednesday, March 18

We gathered at Barb's this morning for some coffee and chatter. There were new faces, new tabernacles before which we might bow in adoration of the living Christ, and Him dying.

Mother, I've been a very poor Little Sister this Lent, you know. My arms are empty. I, the silly little hobo who used to delight in bringing silly little gifts you might offer Jesus, cold water in the morning, lack of blankets at night, all kinds of little goodies with which I might satisfy MY need to give to my Love. And now? Yes, Mother, my arms, my heart are so empty. And there is nothing to fill them but Jesus. Anything else is painful defeat. I am but desire. Only to know Jesus Christ and Him crucified is enough, and anything else would but mock this hunger. Here He is, surrounding me, His cries, His loneliness, His moans, His abandonment, His searching eyes and thirsty lips and feverish Heart. How relieve Him? I can't. "There stood by the cross of Jesus His Mother." That's all; that enough; that's everything; that's Hope, that woman standing there; that's you, Our Mother.

What are these tears? I don't know, Mother. They're so peaceful; so infrequent of late. Have I been proud in my new-found strength? Have I counted too triumphantly the days they did not flow? Have I called God's grace MY maturity? Now only the overwhelming reality that you are my Mother, I but a child who can't stand to leave the security of your embrace nor ever wishes to envelopes me. My defenses are shattered. A little girl weeps, because weeping here is so nice and that's what little girls are made of. They need their Mothers so. You know.

Thursday, March 19

Your dear Joseph's day! It seems you've introduced me to him often, anxious to share all that God has lavished upon you. He was in a monastery, his greatest joy to be a servant and to pretend that his guests were serving him, and you called him Fr. Eugene. He was a kindly Father of a diocese, this very diocese, and you titled him Bishop. He was stationed in a seminary in Ghana to teach his humble wisdom to other Christs, and his name was Fr. Pwamang. He was a poor, simple farmer. He was a father with a twinkle in his eyes. He was the prudent ruler of a household. He was a young gentleman. Dick, Jack, Leo, Dee, Mr. Goldsberry. He was a poor handyman in Nazareth, and God liked to be called his Son. He taught Him through Whom all things were made to saw and plane. 0 the tremendous humility that took the Creator's hands to teach them to build! He Joseph, carpenter of Nazareth, and God was pleased to be known as his son. And you his Mary sweetheart. Will his silence not shout the Gospel of Nazareth across centuries to us today? He can't do it without mentioning Jesus' Holy Name and yours. I'm glad.

Friday, March 20

Mother. 0 if I could but whisper that name, soft and soothing as your Jesus. Does the mere mention of His sweet Name stir your pain to deeper reality? I'm sorry, so sorry; I'm a sinner. I am a sword in your Immaculate Heart; a cold vagabond crying in dark exile; the lonely sinner searching, searching, searching; one who shouts "Crucify Him" while you stand nearby; it is I who call you Mother. Please know that it is only because Jesus told me to, I the eighth sword He plunged into your Immaculate Heart. Mother, please tell me how to become like Jesus. I'll try to be a good child, really I shall. I'm sorry.

Saturday, March 21

Who can know the marvels of Divine Grace? Let me never be stupid enough to try. 0ur Father is good; that's all. Upon leaving our little chapel early this morning I passed poor Mrs. Michael's room. Mother, I've heard her each day, her calls growing weaker, and her mind. She does nothing now but repeat the same phrases over and over. How often have I taken them to form a litany of praise. But today I heard "Sister, Jesus, Mary, Joseph, Sister, please help me." It was there, her very own litany. If it caused such joy in the poverty of my heart, what must the angels have felt? I offer it once more this evening for Our Father's pleasure. My people lose their minds so quickly, it seems. Please keep their souls, and all is well here at Sam. All is well.

Today's mail would make any little hobo pull out her knapsack: notes from Fr. Eugene and Br. Patrick. All speak of joyous longing, of death and hope and glory. How long, my God, how long?

Two years ago today there was a day of recollection and Love calling to Love, and a little Nazareth for a hobo's very own. Just for a little while. It was lovely. [Editor's note: Virginia is most probably referring to the invitation Velma Tanzilli extended her on March 24, 1962 to live with the Tanzilli's that summer.] Today I can return to its remembrance with a hobo's freedom, without turning back relive it and weep and find that I possess nothing but that unbearably selfish ache. Because I've grown weary of clutching it to my heart, at last I can SEE Nazareth. It's lovely; at last, it's mine. But it's gone, and we're on our way to Jerusalem with Jesus. I know, and with all pilgrims I go this Way with a song in my heart, a tiny Magnificat.

It's still a little cold, Mother dear. Thank you. Though my feet remain numb and aching, my hands are at last warm. What is this ragged shawl? It was SME'S. She no longer used it, so a little hobo joyously claimed it in remembrance of a love that was once returned. It's so big I must use pins to keep it on. And it's wonderful. Perhaps this will be my closest contact with her during our final years of pilgrimage. Okay, for it's nice to remember that Love is eternal. The chill of three days without heat is warm in the cold vacuum of unrequited love. How much does the God of my heart endure!

Sr. Anna Marie and Sr. Phillip graced our lovely corner today. And yesterday there were precious seconds with Sr. Frances Cabrini. Something Sr. Phillip said in speaking of Fr. Keith was wonderful. "O the union prayer can bring!" The contact with sanctity that has been mine since you gave my heart away is gloriously overwhelming. Yes, Mother, I am so tiny and weak; you know the magnitude of my needs. Thank you.

Now let's go to cut some branches to make Jesus' entrance into His Passion filled with joy. I know what kind would be nice. Remember the bush at St. Meinrad's from which Fr. Lucien handed me a twig each time we passed? Its leaves were numerous and tiny and soft. Would our King not be happy with these; the vein a little missionary, the little leaves his numerous flock, softened by Jesus' Love that fills his heart? With songs of joy I gather these, for I hear the quiet approach of our King.

Sunday, March 22

"O if only I could find some peace!" Her eyes were misty, her features taut, her hands gripping for something almost beyond her reach, her soul crying in desperation. And yet her Spouse is He Whose greeting remains, "Peace be to you." Please help us to find Him, that's all.

In this morning's sunrise there stood the stark, defiant smokestack. It became a tree, waiting for another beam and a Burden the weight of which no creature has endured. It stands there yet, strong, patient, waiting for the anguished ring of iron beating on iron, and you stand too, erect, majestic till the hour when He will be crucified to you, the hour when once again He will be yours, and more than ever yours. And though He gave you away, it's but that in death He might possess you more assuredly, and from the tomb of my heart yet call you Mother.

Holy Mother Church helped us to gather our palms this morning and joyously throng to greet our King. But then, as She read the Holy Gospel to us, those palms withered and became distorted, and our hands seemed to hold knotted cords, a bush of thorny branches nearby. My soul, already in anguish, plunges into this week so appropriately called holy. Please let me remain with you each second, and may as much of your anguish my soul is capable of bearing be poured upon my trembling spirit.

The flesh is so tired, my throbbing head, my fumbling hands. But my soul longs to watch with Him Who is in such anguish and loneliness, fright and joyous resignation. Father, glorify your little girl that her whole life become a living Gospel of Jesus' Love!

END OF VOLUME FIVE

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