Lately, St. Joan of Arc has been quietly appearing in my life: a quote, a study, a passing thought. She seems to be one of those saints who keeps tapping me on the shoulder until I stop and pay attention. Joan's story has never captivated me primarily because she led armies or changed history. It captivates me because she learned to recognize the voice of God, and then she courageously spent the rest of her life refusing to let louder voices drown it out. That kind of discern

"Dios está aquí." God is here. Those were the among the first words we sang as Mass began today. By the time we reached Communion, we were singing, "Where You are, Lord, I am free." Those two simple refrains tell the entire Christian life. God is here. And where He is, there is freedom. Today's readings (1 Kings 3:5, 7-12; Matthew 13:44-52) invite us to ask a question that cuts beneath our surface desires: What do you treasure most? In 1 Kings, Solomon could have asked for fi

Over the past two Sundays, I’ve been struck by the theme in the Gospel readings: Everyone wants the harvest. We celebrate the full wheat field, the overflowing fruit basket, the answered prayer, the healed marriage, the saintly life. We love the harvest. But almost no one talks about what had to happen before the harvest. Before a seed ever grows, hard ground has to be broken open. Rocks have to be removed. Weeds have to be pulled. Soil has to be turned over, often in ways th

The older I get, the more I realize that peace isn’t found when life finally slows down. It’s found in the presence of Christ. As I sat in my rocking chair recently one afternoon with my Marian garden behind me, Jesus the Good Shepherd in front of me, and storm clouds gathering overhead, the Gospel of the day settled deep in my heart: “Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11:28) There is a verb there. Come. Rest requires movement

On July 4th, a friend's yearly Fourth of July iced coffee showed up on my porch. I look forward to it annually; I might get a little too excited about it. But this year, there was something else tucked alongside it: cranberry orange muffins in a simple brown paper bag. And I cried. To anyone else, they are just muffins. To me, they carry great significance of God’s peace and mercy. The tradition began after tragedy struck our little friend group of young moms sixteen years ag

Four years ago this fall, my phone buzzed with a text from my brother-in-law. Honestly, it feels as though an entire decade has passed in that time. I had forgotten about the text. It popped up again this week as I was searching for something in my phone. It reads: “I know that you are in a whirlwind right now. To the point where it likely seems like almost more than you can bare. Only you can define that but give yourself the credit that you deserve and put everything else o

This year, May did not feel like flowers. May felt like motion. Relentless motion. One particular four-day stretch required an hour-by-hour list just to keep my world from falling apart. I slipped into survival mode. It was the kind of motion mothers understand: calendars, forms, schedules, clothes, ironing, forgotten details recovered at the last minute, unexpected trips to urgent care, and celebrations that require someone quietly holding everything together behind the scen

Why depth matters: Easter is not over; we’re just getting started. I did not post on Good Friday or Holy Saturday. Part of that was practical. Part of it was intentional. Some days are not meant to be hurried past with commentary. Some days are meant to be kept. And that is part of what I have been thinking about now that Easter has burst upon us in all her light: Catholicism does not train us to treat the holiest mysteries as moments to glance at and move on from. It teache

Holy Thursday and the love that kneels The house has been quieter these last few days. As I have worked towards living more liturgically, in the rhythm of the church, it brings to life the season and the Word for me. I have slowed my commitments to focus on the gravity of the week. More quiet, less hurry, more candles, less light. The ache of betrayal has already entered the Gospel. The shadow has been gathering. Morning by morning, the Lord has been opening the ear, teaching

Holy Wednesday and the faithfulness of God By Holy Wednesday, Holy Week has changed its tone. The palms are long since folded away. Monday’s tenderness still lingers somewhere in the house. Tuesday’s ache still lingers somewhere in the body. And now the week feels quieter, but it's heavier too. How fitting that as I type the dark sky is lit by lightning as ominous thunder splits the quiet in my study . The darkness is also moving in the Gospel. Judas has begun his bargain. Th

Holy Tuesday and the wounds that still ache Holy Tuesday’s Gospel is not an easy reading. Some passages of Holy Week feel tender. Some feel solemn. Some feel beautiful in a way that almost carries you. But today’s Gospel is sharp in a different way. It enters the room and touches places many of us would rather keep guarded. Jesus is troubled in spirit. Betrayal is no longer a shadow somewhere out ahead; it is already at the table. And before the night is over, denial will be

Holy Monday in the domestic church Holy Monday does not begin in a spotless chapel or a perfectly ordered heart. It begins, for many of us, in a house. On a Monday when things may feel a little chaotic. For me it did. I woke up a bit confused at first about what day it was and what I was supposed to be doing. After a busy weekend on the heels of being sick, I was a bit disoriented this morning. Monday unfortunately began with dishes still in the sink, the shoes by the door, t

Photo: My own; Hermleigh, TX I spoke at a women's gathering today at a chapel in the middle of a cotton field. As the wind howled through the windows of the tiny space in West Texas fashion, I was tasked with leading the Stations of the Cross through the eyes of Mary ( Mary's Way of the Cross ) followed by my reflections. When preparing, I expected Mary's Way of the Cross to be something tender and prayerful. Something quietly Marian. And although it is all of those things, w

On Lazarus, the love of Christ, and trusting God when the storms blow through Sunday’s readings led us straight into one of the most tender and startling moments in Scripture: the raising of Lazarus in John 11:1–45. Alongside it, the Church gave us Ezekiel 37:12–14, Psalm 130, and Romans 8:8–11; readings full of grief, waiting, and the promise that God brings life where we see only death. Photo: my own; Groton, Massachusetts There is a kind of love that feels beautiful until

Today marks one year since one of the most grace-filled days of my life. On March 13, 2025, in the heart of Lent, my husband was baptized. In that same Mass, we were both confirmed in the Catholic Church, received our first Holy Communion, and in the midst of it all, had our marriage convalidated before God and the Church. We had the joy of celebrating a second wedding with friends and family in attendance. The readings that day were from Esther, Psalm 138, and Matthew 7:7–12

Discernment, healing, and the freedom to hear God clearly Yesterday was International Women’s Day, and while I do not personally identify with or embrace the full feminist movement, I am not blind to the reality of female suppression or the quiet ways women can be diminished. I can appreciate the sentiment behind International Women’s Day without subscribing to every ideology attached to it. I have lived enough, seen enough, and healed enough to know that a woman’s voice, dig

There’s a surprise mercy in Lent that I didn’t expect: Fasting can feel like freedom. Not loud freedom. Not the “I finally got my life together” kind. It’s quiet. Peaceful. What my soul longs for. When I stop feeding every craving the second it speaks up, I remember I’m not owned by my appetites. I don’t have to obey every impulse, every mood, every urge to soothe, scroll, or control. Fasting slows me down just enough to notice what’s actually driving me. And in that quieter

One of the biggest misconceptions about Lent is that it’s essentially a church-approved diet plan. Every year, as Ash Wednesday approaches, conversations turn quickly to what we’re “giving up”: sugar, coffee, social media, bread. While these sacrifices can be meaningful, Lent is about far more than trimming waistlines or testing willpower. When reduced to self-improvement, Lent loses its heart. From the beginning, Lent was never about becoming a better version of ourselves. I

Disruption. Even typing the word makes me feel like I literally need to look over my shoulder. There are times that I talk about things with people who are close, and I get that feeling. I have learned to acknowledge it and let it pass. Tonight I lit a candle to type beside because of the symbolism and the flickering reminder that this is holy and refining work. And that the Lord is right here in the disruption. Sometimes faithfulness feels like lighting a candle in a room th

The sunrise earlier this week felt like a catechesis, a gentle kind of teaching in the ways of God. Quiet. Emerging without fanfare. Existing. Light spilling into the middle of real life. Before the first email; before the first hard conversation; before I asked myself whether I had enough grace to carry the day. The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases,
 his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning;
 great is thy faithfulness. “The Lord is my portion,” say