The Saints Who Made Christmas: Teresa

It was an ordinary Christmas in the home of the Missionaries of Charity in Calcutta. Mother Teresa, her sisters, and Monsignor Hnilica sat around a table, enjoying a simple Christmas meal together, laughing and talking and sharing the love of Jesus through their smiles. These women sitting around Monsignor Hnilica had an unearthly happiness about them. Even though they were not blessed with fortune and richness, they had what they needed, and they used it all to help those poorer than they. 

At one point in the dinner, the doorbell rang, and one of the sisters went to answer it. She returned a few minutes later, explaining how a woman had given it to her and run off afterwards.

“It must be money or food from a benefactor,” the sister said, handing the basket to Teresa. As she removed the clothes from the top of the basket, her eyes lit up and she exclaimed, “Jesus has come to us this Christmas!”

Everyone jumped up from the table to see what Teresa was talking about. They gasped as their eyes fell upon the figure of an Indian child, sleeping soundly. The sisters wrapped him up and took care of him, doting on him all that Christmas Eve. 

This is what made Teresa and her sisters so happy. This is what caused Teresa’s famous radiant smile, which lights up the hearts of everyone who sets eyes on her. Teresa and her sisters saw Jesus in every person they met, recognizing Him in poor children who ran around looking for food all day, in women who searched through the trash to find things good enough to eat, in men who were covered in terrible sores from leprosy. Teresa saw Jesus in every person, knowing He was there, living inside them, even if they did not even know Him. 

Teresa lived her life for Jesus, quite literally. She lived it serving others, whom she knew were the Temples of the Holy Spirit. She loved them with a love she felt for Jesus, and now her love is famous. Everyone has seen photographs of Mother Teresa, the smiling poor woman from Albania who “gave up her life to serve the poor”. But Mother Teresa did not give up her life, as some people say. Rather, by her own accounts, she gained it. She found the source and fullness of her life, Jesus, serving the poorest of the poor in the filthy slums of Calcutta. She did not avoid them, as others did. Teresa went to them and healed not only their bodies, but also their hearts. 

Teresa, who died in 1997 at the age of 87, shows us that even in this modern time, we can still find Jesus. She shows us that it does not matter who you are, where you are from, or how old you are - all that matters is where you are going. Teresa went to the slums to find Jesus. Where can you find Jesus this Christmas?

The Saints Who Made Christmas: Thérèse

“Well, fortunately, this is the last year.”

It was Christmas 1886, and the three members of the Martin family had just returned home from Midnight Mass. Mr. Martin and Celine, tired from the strain of being up at such a late hour, were selflessly preparing the parlor for the gift unwrapping as the youngest daughter, Thérèse, hurried upstairs to put her coat away. Thirteen-year-old Thérèse thought that Christmas was going wonderfully until she heard this remark from her sleepy father. Celine bit her lip, knowing if Thérèse was to hear such a comment, it would set her hypersensitive sister off. Peeking around the corner to whisper up the stairs while their father grabbed the treats, Celine addressed her sister. 

“You best calm down before coming back to get your surprise,” Celine suggested, trying to look out for both her sister and her father. 

Celine disappeared from the staircase, and Thérèse was left alone to sob her heart out, as she usually did when something of the sort happened. She sunk to the ground, the tears forming in her eyes burning them. How could this be the last year?! she thought grumpily. How could Father do this to me?

By chance, the sensitive teenager looked up, and she met eyes with the figure of Jesus, hanging on the crucifix on the wall just upstairs. Crucifixes were commonplace in her home - it was nothing new to Thérèse. But in that moment, Thérèse felt all of her tears recede, and she found herself simply in awe of the self-sacrificing G’D whom she worshiped. 

I can be like that, Thérèse thought. I can be like Jesus.

Standing up slowly, Thérèse ran downstairs, setting her coat on a nearby chair. Her shoes were filled to the brim with candy and little gifts. Celine was sitting on the ground by the hearth, and Mr. Martin was just walking into the room from the kitchen, holding a mug of tea in his hands. Upon seeing the face of her father, Thérèse ran up and threw her arms around him, leading him to a chair so he could watch the girls unwrap their many presents. Celine smiled to herself from the hearth, knowing all was well between them. In her own heart, she could sense the change in her sister, and she noticed it persisted all through their unwrapping session.

Celine would later come to understand, through the memoirs of her little sister, what exactly had transpired on the staircase in the early hours of that particular Christmas morning. And Thérèse, through her diary, would touch the world, teaching them to sacrifice their own needs and wants through her Little Way. What began on that staircase would continue on for the rest of her twenty-four years, and not a day would go by in her life as a Carmelite nun in which Thérèse would not thank G’D passionately for allowing her heart to be opened to Him. 

Thérèse’s “Christmas Conversion”, as she termed it in her memoirs, is an excellent example to us, future saints, that something so metamorphic can come out of an ordinary circumstance. If Jesus can touch the heart of an 1800s catastrophizer melting with emotion on the stairs of her home, what can Jesus not do for us - or rather, what would He not do for us?

The Saints Who Made Christmas: Clare

“I’m sorry, Mother Clare,” one of the younger nuns said as she pulled the back of her hand away from Clare’s burning forehead. “You are simply too sick to attend Mass tonight.”

“But Sister Annunciata,” Clare protested. “It’s Christmas Eve! No sickness will keep me from the Eucharist!”

“Mother Clare,” Sister Annunciata said gently, “you are so frail. I don’t think you will be able to even get over to the Church. Our Lord understands your sickness and will comfort you here.”

“But Sister-” Clare objected, but Sister Annunciata shook her head. 

“Please, Mother,” Sister Annunciata begged. “I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

Clare clasped the wooden rosary beads in her fingers even tighter and sighed. 

“Yes, Sister,” Clare agreed. “I will do what you ask.”

Sister Annunciata smiled her bright, Christ-filled smile and kissed Clare on the forehead before closing the door of Clare’s dark cell. Clare laid down in bed, her fingers twisting around her rosary beads. Why must I be sick now? Clare wondered sorrowfully. What could the Lord wish to accomplish with this?

Suddenly, a great light illuminated her room, as if the sun itself had been dropped from the sky and had settled in her cell. Clare threw a hand over her eyes, which were burning from the brilliance. A few seconds later, Clare’s nose began to tingle. There was something…beautiful…in the air. She pulled her hand down and her ears were instantly met with the piercingly beautiful sounds of a choir. In awe, Clare looked around her. The ceilings above her head were vaulted, soaring up to heaven, and there were vibrant colors everywhere. It was the Basilica of Saint Francis, the most beautiful church she knew of - but how was she there? 

Unable to answer these questions herself, Clare’s focus was drawn to the marble altar, where the priest was standing, leading the congregation in the Sign of the Cross. Clare made it with him and with the people, forgetting her questions and immersing herself in the mystery of the Mass. 

The Mass was absolutely beautiful, and Clare had almost completely forgotten that she wasn’t really there when suddenly, right when the priest passed, everything in the room fell away, and there was only darkness and silence.

At first, Clare was frightened. Where was she? Where was the bright, beautiful church she loved so much? As her eyes focused in the dim light, she began to take in sounds. She could hear the faint lowing of cows somewhere near to her. Her eyes set themselves upon a light a little ways away. Interested, Clare moved closer and stopped dead in her tracks as soon as she saw the people. 

It’s just like Francis’ crèche! she thought, her eyes settling on three figures centered in the little cave she had found. There was a man, his fingers clutching the staff at his side, and a young woman, whose eyes were resolutely fixed on the child in her arms. Clare put a hand to her gaping mouth and knelt down, leaning herself against the stones that made up the border of the young couple’s refuge. 

Is this what heaven is like? she asked herself. She was perfectly content to sit there and watch her Messiah sit in the arms of his adoring parents for all eternity.

Just as suddenly as the image had come, everything evaporated and there was only darkness. Clare stood up and looked around her. There was no vantage point, nothing for her to grasp - and Clare was afraid. 

Clare felt pressure on her shoulder, and instantly she was consumed in a divine peace. Her eyes detected a bright light around her. And turning slowly, she met eyes with her Messiah. He held the Eucharist in His hands, ready to give it to Clare. Tears of joy began to form in her eyes as she dropped to her knees.

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“Mother Clare!” a voice called distantly. “Mother Clare!” 

Clare’s eyes opened and she looked around. She was back in her convent in Italy, far from the cathedral, from Bethlehem, from heaven. She took in the sounds of her sisters running up the stairs, excited to see their leader who was too sick to attend Mass with them.

Sister Annunciata burst into the room, followed by Sister Isabella, Sister Lucia, and Sister Ginevra. 

Sisters Isabella and Lucia stood around Clare’s bed, while Sister Annunciata placed herself at Clare’s feet and Sister Ginevra knelt on the floor, taking Clare’s hand in her own.

“We really, truly missed you, Mother,” Sister Ginevra said sweetly. “It was such a beautiful Mass.”

“I am so happy you were able to be there, my sisters,” Clare told them with a radiant smile. 

“I wish you could have been there too, Mother,” Sister Isabella said. “You would have really loved it.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Sister!” Clare exclaimed, taking sorrowful Sister Isabella’s hand. “Don’t worry. The Lord took care of me.”

The Saints Who Made Christmas: Francis

It was a dark Christmas Eve in the year 1223, and hundreds of townspeople had gathered outside a local cave to watch a man give a demonstration. They held flickering candles and wore many layers to protect from the merciless cold. The man who led the demonstration was a poor religious of average height, his hair shaved into the tonsure style, and he wore no shoes. He appeared to be a dirty outcast to anyone from outside the small town of Greccio, but everyone there knew and loved him. So who was this well-loved friar, and what had he gathered the people for?

Francis had just come to Greccio from a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. It had been a long, exhausting journey of 1984 miles there and 1984 miles back, but Francis had never been more inspired. He considered the journey, no matter how long and perilous it was, to be the most important physical journey of his life, and he had returned to his beloved Italy a changed man. His love for Jesus, especially for the Christ Child, had swelled while visiting Bethlehem, and now Francis wanted to do something to honor the humble earthly beginnings of the Messiah to replicate his life-changing experience for others who could not make the long journey to see Bethlehem. 

And so Francis had an idea. Covertly, away from the eyes of the people, he began to prepare a Christmas surprise for them. He found a cave a ways from the city and began to stock it with oxen and donkeys and hay. He crafted a manger and found people to represent the people present at the birth of Christ. Finally, it was ready!

Francis showed his work to his brothers first before sending them out to tell the townspeople of the exciting event that would transpire the next day in the cave outside their town. People were at first confused, but when they heard Francis’ name, they became excited, wondering what the radical friar would do next.

The turnout was exceptional, and as Francis exited the cave from the last-minute preparations, he instantly thanked G’D at the sight of the people, waiting to see. Francis nodded to them, and let them come forward to see his Christmas scene, which he had toiled so hard on. Francis pulled out the Biblical account of the birth of Christ from Saint Luke’s Gospel and began to read in a loud voice, so all could hear and reflect on the incredible event of Christ’s birth. 

“Now it happened that, while they were there, the time came for her to have her child,” Francis read, “and she gave birth to a son, her first-born. She wrapped him in swaddling clothes and laid him in a manger because…”

At that moment, Francis paused reading and went to kneel in front of the manger. The people, singing songs of praise, craned their necks in order to see what Francis was doing. 

Francis could not believe his eyes. There, in the manger, lay a small child - a baby! - sleeping. Instantly, Francis gently took the child into his arms and began to cry. Everything around him melted away, and to Francis, there was only the Christ Child in his arms. 

This Christmas miracle, born from the mind of Saint Francis, is a practice still widely used today. This is the origin of the nativities you see in your home, which are brought forth from boxes and put in prominent places for all to see. So even if you cannot travel to Bethlehem, as many of us cannot, you can still treasure the events that happened there through a scene, carefully replicated from one crafted by Saint Francis just under eight hundred years ago!

The Saints Who Made Christmas: Lucy

At the crack of dawn, Kateri opened her eyes, looking around the room. It was a dark winter’s morning and the sun was not yet up. At first, Kateri considered falling back to sleep, mentally groaning at the thought of losing sleep before school. But when her eyes settled on the white robe that was draped over her wooden desk chair, Kateri jumped out of bed with a passion. It was the thirteenth of December, and Kateri had a mission of love that not even the coldest Wisconsin winters could keep her from. 

Careful not to wake the sisters that shared her room, Kateri changed from her warm pajamas into the thin white robe that she had set out the night before. Quickly tying a sash around her waist, Kateri grabbed the little wreath from the desk and dashed out of her bedroom on tiptoes. 

The oven clock read 5.52am when Kateri arrived at the foot of the stairs. Mother was busy in the kitchen making breakfast for the children to eat before they got ready to go to school. 

“Good morning, Saint Lucy,” said Mother cheerily, planting a kiss on Kateri’s cheek. Kateri smiled and looked around the kitchen for the sweet bread she had delicately prepared the night before, long after her younger siblings had gone up to bed. Kateri 

went over to the counter and grabbed her tray, piling the little loaves of sweet bread onto it. Mother set a pitcher of hot chocolate onto the tray beside the buns and Kateri added four little mugs. Nodding at the assemblage of warm breakfast treats, she readjusted the wreath atop her head and trekked back up the stairs to the bedrooms of her siblings. 

After knocking on the door to the boys’ room, Kateri opened it. The sleepy eyes of her younger brothers, Ambrose and Joseph, immediately lit up as they saw their older sister coming to greet them with breakfast in bed. After serving the boys, Kateri moved on to her own bedroom, where her younger sisters Zelie and Gemma were fast asleep in their bed. Opening the door, light flooded into the room behind her and she went to wake up her sleeping sisters. 

“Good morning, guys,” said Kateri with a smile. “I brought you breakfast!”

Zelie and Gemma reached for their early morning treats with squeals of delight. This was what made Kateri want to continue doing it every year - beyond the seemingly everlasting tiredness that was involved in waking up before the roosters, there were always jolly smiles to look forward to, and Kateri would never trade those for the world!

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Can you imagine a time when it was illegal to be a Christian? In a faraway country called Italy, a long time ago, it was. The Italian Christians, however, were a fierce bunch, not afraid of what earthly rulers would do to them if they decided to follow Jesus, so they held Masses in secret and supported each other under cover of darkness. Many Christians were even killed because they believed in Jesus! But even with the threat of death over their heads all the time, the Christians did not stop loving Jesus and sharing the Good News with those who had never heard His name. They were fearless people, unafraid of death, because they knew that death was the way to meet the man they honored more than the most powerful king - Jesus!

One of these fearless people was a young woman named Lucy. She promised Jesus that she would never get married and consecrated her life to the service of the suffering Christians who were in deep trouble with the leaders of their country. When she was only twenty years old, Lucy’s acts of kindness towards Christians in danger were discovered by the government and she was put to death. She died when she was still very young, but she was inspiring to the other Christians, and soon her story spread. Eventually, Lucy became one of the first saints honored by the Catholic Church because of her bravery and compassion for Christians. 

One of Saint Lucy’s most famous kindnesses began underground, but eventually spread all over the world. Lucy would bring food and prayers to the Christians hiding underground in the catacombs wearing a wreath of candles to light her way. Now, on her feast day, girls and boys all over the world participate in pageants and processions, or wake up their siblings with warm breakfast treats, just like Kateri’s story!

Even though we are no longer we are not facing death for Jesus in America, we can still look to Saint Lucy as an example for how we should act towards people who are being persecuted. We don’t have to stop celebrating Saint Lucy when the sun sets on her feast day - we can celebrate it all year ‘round through our kind works towards others! Saint Lucy knew Jesus was inside of every person. Let’s follow her example and see people not as objects, but as Temples of the Holy Spirit!

The Saints Who Made Christmas: Nicholas

Nicholas was hurrying through the streets of Myra, browsing the town’s handful of shops and markets for vegetables. The kindhearted bishop of Myra knew that in the winter, vegetables were scarce, but knowing that fact didn't stop him from perusing the stands at the market, making sure his suspicions were true. 

Nicholas’ eyes caught on a slew of carrots sitting atop a wooden table. He walked over and began to inspect the vegetables under the cautious eyes of the woman manning the market stand. As he was looking the healthy, fire-colored carrots on the table, his ears caught on a conversation going on a few paces over. 

“Did you hear about Mustafa’s daughters?” one woman asked. “It looks as though he will have to sell them off, since he cannot pay the appropriate dowry.”

“It was going to happen sooner or later,” the other woman replied with a sigh. “Mustafa has never had much money at all.”

Upon hearing the words of the women near him, Nicholas’ mind fell deep into thought. He knew Mustafa as a good, honorable man, even though he was not a Catholic and did not attend Nicholas’ church. He knew Mustafa would be eternally grieved if his daughters were not with him, especially knowing they were working as slaves. Nicholas’ heart was saddened by the women’s revelation, but he did not know what to do. 

“Bishop, are you going to pay for those carrots?” the shopkeeper asked, pulling Nicholas from the world of his thoughts and back onto the chilly Myra street. Nicholas nodded absentmindedly and pulled a pouch full of gold coins from his pocket, extracting one and handing it over to the shopkeeper. As the woman wrapped up the carrots and handed them to Nicholas, he had an idea. What if he were to go to Mustafa’s house and give the money to him? 

No, he thought. He didn't want Mustafa to know it was him - Nicholas was a very humble man. As he walked through the winding streets with an armful of carrots, Nicholas pondered how he would deliver the money to Mustafa without the kind man knowing it had been the bishop of Myra. If he left it outside, it might be stolen. He could throw it inside…but there was no guarantee the windows would be unlocked. 

Nicholas was deep in thought for the rest of the evening. After a while, he decided to put some coins in a bag and walk over to Mustafa’s house to see if, perhaps, G’D had left a window open for him. Praying all the way, the timid bishop asked G’D to provide a way for him to leave the money safely with the family.

As he approached the house, he peeked through the window. No one was in their living room except for the three daughters, who were sleeping on a cot under the window. He tapped the window to see if it would open, and by the grace of G’D, it did! Relieved, Nicholas looked for a place to drop it. He couldn’t leave it with the girls - they would wake up, and he didn't want them to see him standing there. Nicholas’ eyes caught on their wet shoes, drying off by the fire. 

I’ll throw them in there! Nicholas thought. Carefully, he tossed the bag towards the shoes. Nicholas, however, was bad at aiming and instead the bag hit the side of one of the shoes and fell to the ground. The coins spilled loudly out of the pouch, covering the floor with gold. With a gasp, Nicholas hurried to the side of the house so as not to be seen. He heard the sounds of Mustafa coming out of the back room, and the jolly noises of the girls, exclaiming at their good fortune. Happily, Nicholas listened to the sounds of the girls and their father, crying and laughing together at the sight of the precious coins. Nicholas instantly lifted his face to the heavens and thanked G’D for allowing him to help the family in need. 

Nicholas’ generous actions have inspired the whole world, both religious and secular, to call Christmas the “season of giving”. Nicholas’ example of generosity can inspire you too on your road to sainthood!

The Saints Who Made Christmas: Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar

Everyone has seen the Nativity scenes that are commonplace for a wide range of time, sometimes from Thanksgiving weekend until early February! And everyone knows about the Magi, sometimes called the “Wise Men”, who travelled to see the Christ Child because they saw the star and knew it to be a sign of the coming Messiah. We know their gifts to the baby and His parents - gold, frankincense, and myrrh - and we even sing songs about them, such as the ever-popular “We Three Kings”. But even though these wise kings are so standard, I beg to ask - how well do we really know these three men? 

In truth, no one truly knows who these three men really were. Their stories are shrouded in mystery and myth, and the only “facts” we know about them really aren’t facts at all, but are more pieces of legends fashioned without a known source. 

The names of the wise men come from the names of three kings who ruled at the time of Christ’s birth -  Caspar, king of India, Melchior, king of Persia, and Balthazar, king of Arabia. Some accounts claim that they received ordination from Saint Thomas the Apostle and were named bishops. Others state that the three men evangelized all around Europe, Asia  and Africa and were eventually martyred for their faith. 

Because of their inspirational journey from lands far away to visit the baby Messiah, the Church has honored them with a feast day, Epiphany, which occurs each year on the sixth of January. Epiphany marks the end of the Christmas season. Many Catholic families write the initials of the wise men, surrounded by the calendar year, as a blessing on their home and family.

But in between all the tradition and folklore, there is a much broader question to ask - why were the Magi even there at all?

Take a look at any Nativity scene, any image, any play…you always see the same thing - three crowned men holding gifts, often on the older side, always with different colored skin. Through the mismatched colors of skin, we see a very important message - Jesus did not just come for the Jews! He didn't even come only for the Christians, the poor, or the dirty - He came for everyone, from India to Persia to Arabia and beyond! The importance of the three wise men, so essential to a proper Christmas anything, goes further than the gifts they gave or the crowns they wore - it’s about who they represent and how we should approach the Christ Child. We should come to visit Him in our hearts, making lengthy spiritual journeys, honoring Him with our prayers and immaterial gifts, and remembering that Christ accepts us no matter who we are or where we come from. 

The Saints Who Made Christmas: Joseph

How is this even possible? Joseph thought as he sat on the dusty earth. His deep, chestnut-colored eyes would not leave the gentle figure of his infant god. His strong, carpenter arms seemed to have weakened to oblivion when Mary had carefully laid the child there. Perhaps he had expected a strange force to pulse through him, but instead there was only a weight of seven or so pounds. Or maybe he had assumed a fanfare of trumpets would sound at any second, but the only sound that met his ears were the soft coos of the baby before…silence. Could this really be the G’D of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, he thought, so unreservedly exposed to the elements He had fashioned with His own hands?

Joseph chuckled to himself as he realized that the only extraordinary thing about the birth was the arrival of filthy shepherds, completely ecstatic, begging to get their hands on the Messiah in between proclamations of a miraculous visitation by a host of angels. Joseph had been skeptical and defensive, wanting to protect both his wife and his LORD from the sullied hands of strangers, but he soon realized his efforts were in vain as his travel-weary wife trustingly passed off the Son of G’D to the wild men. His eyes still darted alertly to the euphoric herdsmen until he felt a hand grab his gently. He looked down at his wife, who was beaming. 

“Do not worry, Joseph,” she whispered. “G’D has a plan.”

G’D has a plan, Joseph thought. For an instant, he wondered if G’D really did have a plan. His Son was born in a dirty stable, turned away from every inn, tavern, and private home they went to. Before His birth, His earthly mother had been an outcast in her town, scorned for something they could not comprehend with their human minds. The only guests at His birth arrived late, and they were smeared with dirt and hysterical. He had been wrapped in a single layer of linen and before Joseph had grabbed Him, he had been lying in a manger atop a layer or two of thrice-used hay. How on earth could the arrival of their long-awaited Messiah come under these circumstances? Joseph wondered. How does it even make sense?

Joseph pondered the events for the next hour - the message from the angel, the long journey to Bethlehem, how they were turned away at every inn, the arrival of the shepherds, and now, this ever-so-ordinary silence…could this really be the plan of G’D?

Out of the blue, a thought jumped into Joseph’s head. Maybe it’s not supposed to make sense.

Joseph looked back into the eyes of his king, suddenly understanding how he did not understand. Understanding that his incomprehensiveness was okay. Not understanding the purpose, but knowing whatever the plan for the Messiah was, it would be beyond Joseph’s feeble human imagining. 

Joseph looked up through the cave’s opening as the child drifted back to sleep, his eyes settling upon the glittering stars, formed thousands of years ago by the tiny hands currently curled around Joseph’s fingers. 

My G’D, Joseph prayed, how beautiful I know Your plans to be. Give me the wisdom to protect this little child, Whom I know will deliver us. Help me to believe in Your plans, even when I do not understand.

Joseph’s eyes returned to his Messiah, peacefully asleep in his arms. It did not seem right, but it was. The plan of G’D was going to be manifested through His Son, a man…and Joseph couldn’t wait to see what happened next.

Roman Martyrs in Kentucky? ~ Saints Magnus and Bonosa

A thundering roar echoed through the massive Colosseum, a thousand voices cheering as they caught sight of three colorful figures emerging from a lower door. Two were dressed in imperial red, capes waving in the summer wind, their strong hands wrapped around the arms of a young woman. The girl, their prisoner, walked between them, a fearlessness in her step. 

Magnus leaned forward in his seat and settled his chin on one fist as the girl was brought towards the center of the arena. As a high-ranking centurion with front row seats to all the Colosseum's spectacles, he had seen many prisoners face their deaths, but what always captivated his interest was the unfathomable courage of the Christians. 

He could already tell based on her peaceful expression and the way she carried herself that she was a Christian. She, like her brothers and sisters, appeared unafraid of the grisly death which awaited her, a death which would send a grown man bolting away, crying out in terror. An almost halo-like glow had settled around her golden hair, and a pleasant smile graced her young face. Fearless. 

Magnus hardly heard the Roman words cutting through the silence, numbering the girl's charges - Bonosa, Christian. The sentence for such a faith was death, and everyone knew it. But while the crowd cheered lustily for her blood to be spilled, Magnus remained silent. He focused his attention on the gentle words escaping Bonosa's lips - something about Christ, about hope, about being unafraid to carry her cross. 

Her eyes, shining with a holy light, met his, only for the briefest of moments. And you, Magnus, they seemed to ask. Are you brave enough to carry the cross?

She flashed her Christ-filled eyes away from him, turning her entire body towards the executioners who had brought her in. Drawing her right hand to her forehead, she crossed herself, awaiting the beasts. 

It was as though he had been called by G'D Himself. Rising from his seat, a firm resolution in his heart, his hand wrapping around the hilt of the sword at his side, he marched through the seats. Within minutes, he was standing beside Bonosa, calling out his belief in the G'D of the Christians. Within minutes, the beasts were flying at him too...

Gemma Galgani & Other Saints for School (Pluta #3)

Maria Pluta, now a grown-up six-year-old, stood before the mirror in the tiny downstairs bathroom as Mama ran a brush through her chestnut hair. Maria looked at the little girl in the mirror with a great sense of anticipation, as she was excited for her first day of school. The little girl staring back at her wore a freshly pressed uniform, indicative of the first day of school, and her hair was being pulled back into two short braids, to be tied with little elastic bands. 

"There you are," Mama said with a contented sigh. "Let me look at you!"

Maria whirled around obediently and her mother hurriedly ran a hand over her uniform jumper, straightening out the little sleeves of her snow-white shirt and running a damp finger at the space above her upper lip, where the remnants of a blueberry muffin sat, previously undetected. 

"Mama," Maria said, her voice instantly growing quieter. "There are butterflies in my tummy."

Mama looked with compassion on her eldest daughter and knelt down until she was at the little girl's level. 

"Here," she said, reaching into her skirt pocket. "I have something for you."

Maria watched with interest as her mother ruffled through her pocket and extracted a thin card, with the image of a young, dark-haired woman printed atop it. The girl quickly studied the woman's face with curiosity. She was young, pious-looking, with an expression of great peace creasing her face. Her hands were clasped in prayer, immediately reminding Maria of the various saint statues scattered throughout their home. 

"This is a prayer card for you, Maria," Mama said, setting the card in the hands of the girl. "This is Saint Gemma Galgani. She lived in Italy in the 1800s, and she is the patroness of students. Perhaps she can be your friend today."

"What do you mean, Mama?" Maria questioned curiously. 

"The saints are always looking out for you, whether or not you realize it," Mama began. 

"I thought that was Mary's job!" Maria interrupted. 

"It is the job of Mary to watch over you, with Our Lord and the Guardian Angels," Mama continued. "However, it is also the job of saints, particularly those who are especially close to us."

"So today...Gemma will be watching over me?" Maria asked, tilting her head to one side and squinting her deep blue eyes. 

"Yes," Mama answered. "With every step. You have only to ask her for help."

Maria jumped into her mother's arms, the prayer card firmly in her grasp. As the morning passed and it came time for Maria to board the bus, she got on with the prayer card stuck into her little pocket, and it was taken out several times, followed by a quick utterance of four simple words from the child's mouth: "Gemma, pray for me."

And so, Gemma became a dear friend to Maria. As school begins, everyone is invited to enter into a special friendship with the saints, the Friends of G'D! Perhaps you will choose Gemma to ask for help from this year, as she is the patroness of students. But at her side are many others who would like to help you this year! Saint Thomas Aquinas, Saint Scholastica, and Saint Aloyisius Gonzaga are all patrons of students. Saint Edith Stein and Saint Catherine of Alexandria are patronesses of deep-thinking and debating. Perhaps you can call on Saint Albert the Great for help in science, or Francis de Sales in English. And of course, always call upon Saint Joseph of Cupertino for help with testing...these saints will NEVER fail you, and will always be at your side to inspire your mind to find the correct answers. Never ignore the power of their friendship, as they will never leave your side! 

What is a Novena? & How to Pray One/Our Lady, Undoer of Knots Novena #1

"Maria! Joseph! Come on downstairs!"

It's seven o'clock in the Pluta household. A cotton-candy sunset has painted the sky, the golden light of sun saying its final goodbye as it disappears behind the mountains for the night. Papa, Mama, and Elisha are gathered in the living room, and they listen as Maria and Joseph, the two eldest, come running down the stairs from the top floor. Maria leans backwards into the couch until she has fallen into place beside her father, and Joseph plops down on the floor at his mother's feet. Maria pulls her tiny wooden rosary from a pocket, a present gifted to her by her parents just before she began first grade the year before.

"Not today, love," Mama says, resting a hand over her six-year-old daughter's rosary-wrapped one. "Today, we'll be praying a little differently."

Maria cocks her head and looks with curiosity at her parents. 

"Today, we are going to begin a novena," Papa declares. 

"What's a novena?" Joseph pipes up from the floor, his head resting on Mama's knee. 

"Here, we'll teach you as we go along..." Mama says, and she and Papa reverently make the sign of the cross. 

A Monday Reflection

Happy August! I am very sorry for my "disappearance" this summer, but I hoped to start back up again on Mondays as the school year comes ever-closer to us (oh no!). I came across this beautiful reflection just this morning and it led me to think about my relationship with Jesus in a special way - about how I can grow in my love of Jesus by spending more time with Him. It is especially important to remember, as the year becomes less our own and more scheduled, to continue to make this time to grow our friendship with the Lord. 

Enjoy!

The Little Soul

There once was a little boy named Ambrose. His mama and papa frequently took him to Mass and the Sacraments. As he got older, Ambrose learned more and more to enjoy such ventures. After his first Holy Communion, he made a promise to frequent the chapel weekly, so as to pay homage to his dear Jesus in the Eucharist.

These simple acts of devotion were so pleasing to Our Lord. He loved to see Ambrose tiptoe into the chapel after a long school day, tidying his messy blonde hair to the best of his abilities and tucking in his maroon uniform polo. Ambrose would always make sure to come as close to the Tabernacle as possible, front and center for Christ to see him. And there was no greater joy between the two hearts, each staring into one another with a gaze of love like no other. 

You see, Our Lord is fond of little souls. Their childlike demeanor seizes his love like nothing else. But oftentimes, souls try to become too big. As people grow old, they lose sight of Heaven and instead turn to the world. Things like money and security, politics and society, concern them more than a relationship with their Creator. They are too focused on taking on everything themselves that they forget whose hands their lives are in. And this makes Our Lord so, so sad. the gaze of love is broken and too often never mended.

One evening, Ambrose came to Jesus a little differently than usual. He was gripped with anxiety and filled with fear. For many years, the boy had followed willingly where Christ was calling. Some trials were easy, while others had him clinging to the cross for aid. Still, Ambrose had put total confidence in his King. But that confidence in Christ slowly became a confidence in himself. Little did he know, Ambrose had begun taking matters into his own hands. And when things went right, he ceased to praise God, but instead gave glory to himself. But now, Jesus was calling him to something which seemed to be too much.

“I can’t, Lord!” he cried coldly before the Blessed Sacrament. It wasn’t really that he though he couldn’t. Remember, Ambrose was quite sure of his abilities. Rather, he was scared to.

Our Lord was calm as He is with all His children, “And why not?”

“Think about it,” Ambrose pleaded, “I’m a businessman. I make good money. What good would it do to throw away my job? I give you what I’m obligated, don’t I? I come to Mass each Sunday and still make a chapel visit weekly. There isn’t a month that goes by where I don’t make it to Confession. What more do you need?”

Hurt by the insincerity of his words but still eager to engage the young soul, Christ replied, “My Child, don’t you remember the love that we shared? You were so certain that I would do anything for you, and it was true. It is true. Tell me now, why do you fear?”

Ambrose stopped in his tracks, looking away from the Tabernacle and to his folded hand that rested upon the rail of the pew. He remembered a time when they were small and fair, uncalloused but still held in the same reverent position. The memory had been one of love, a love worth dying for. And here Ambrose was, unable to even say yes to such a love. But why?

“I guess it comes down to the unknown,” he finally replied. Everything about Christ’s call was cloaked in uncertainty. If he could just know what lay ahead…

“But don’t you know Me, child? If you know Me, then you know the plan,” Our Lord lifted Ambrose’s gaze to the crucifix above the altar and invited him to ponder each one of His wounds. Sufferings which Christ would have borne if only one of us needed Him, let alone thousands.

“See,” sweet Jesus concluded, “my plan is all goodness and love.”

And from that moment on, Ambrose could not refuse even the smallest biddings of Our Lord. Beginning with his resounding yes to the priesthood, he lived the life of a little soul on fire for Jesus. Fiat by fiat. Little by little.

A Monday Reflection

Happy Memorial Day! I recently came across this reflection, written by a close friend of mine, and it touched me in an especially deep way...I hope you find the love of Christ here, as I did! Enjoy!

Dancing with Jesus

Standing in an empty ballroom, I can see my reflection in the perfectly shined wood floors as the smell of cedar wafts throughout the room. It’s not expansive, yet it seems to hold the whole world within it. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, emanating a pure white light that dances across the walls. I blink a few times in disbelief as the rays take on color and form.

A beautiful woman materializes before me, wearing a simple, ivory gown. It reaches just above her bare feet, trimmed with the finest of pearls. Her sea blue eyes meet mine cheerily as I notice her regal crown. Vines rimming her head and yet still growing into a canvas of wildflowers, bouquets of every color creating a veil that trails ever behind her. She bows her head to me in acknowledgement, brushing some of her jet-black hair behind her ear, and moves towards the windowsill as if awaiting another arrival.

Still in awe of this Lady, berating myself for not having shown more respect to someone so much better than I, I am startled by another figure as He comes from the light.

Overtaken by awe, I fall to the ground as He approaches me. My knees are tucked into my chest as I lie before Him. Such terror, such sadness arise within me. I feel as if I might turn to dust then and there. A sob threatens to wrack my lungs when His soft caress puts me in a stupor.

His fingertips lift my chin, forcing my eyes to meet His impenetrable ones. Dark, brown hair frames his face. It’s clean but littered with sawdust. I can see the beginnings of a beard growing on His face, His lips carved in a smile ever so slightly.

“Are you ready, My Child?” He asks me.

His low, smooth-sounding voice resounds like rolling thunder, yet it also reminds me of a cool breeze across a stream in the deserted woods.

I hesitate. Is He talking to me? But there’s no one else for Him to have meant. I look back to the wonderful Lady, and she smiles at me encouragingly.

Slowly but surely, I reply, “Yes, my Jesus… but not on my own.”

He smiles, this time a full smile, opened wide and ending with a chuckle as the rays from the chandelier transform into all the saints and angels of Heaven. I can hear them whispering words of faith, hope, and love, urging me on and stunning me with their kindness. One last glance at the Virgin as I see her mouth, “Fiat,” and I know what must be done.

Returning to Christ’s gaze, His eyes implore me once more. And some part of me, in the deepest depths of my soul, in the sin I’ve always managed to turn back to, and the doubt and fear which the devil has tormented me with, cries out. It tempts me to remain in what I know, in the certainty of earthly things, things tangible and so much more easily obtained than that of Heaven.

The room goes dark, and I am alone. Utterly alone. Helpless. Weak. A sinner unworthy of saving. A failure impossible for success. I see myself for what I am and suddenly realize that what I am, He is not. The path which I would take is the road which Christ would forsake. To come to what I do not know, to a God who is entirely beyond, I must go where I know nothing.

And at this revelation, some light is restored to the room, just enough for me to see my Savior once again. He stretches one had out towards me, a hand pierced my continual wrongdoings. I anxiously look up, only mustering the courage to behold His crown, thorns penetrating the flesh that gives me new life, which I so often reject. And there are these flowers interwoven into the diadem, flowers like His Mother’s, that glorify His pain. Finally, I see the rip in His toga, where the soldiers threw a lance in His side, and it shocks me. Still, blood and water gush forth, a fount of mercy and love, freely forgiving the world for their sins. A world that includes me. Little old me.

And in that moment, I respond to Christ, “There’s one more thing, so that my sins might be forgiven…” and I begin to pour out every misdeed I have ever done. But it’s more like He draws them out of me. Because the more I see Him for who He is, the more I love Him. And the more I love Him, the more sorrow I feel for my sins, the more I want to renounce myself, the more I want only Him. Christ alone. I am seized by love and unable to let go.

Finally, I say, “My Jesus, now, I am ready,” and He takes my hand, leading me onto the dance floor.

Fiat Voluntas Tua (#1)

On her tiptoes, Maria Pluta reached up and plopped the floral wreath onto the statue's polished ceramic head. Airy Marian tunes echoed from the mouths of her mother and brothers, standing behind her. After crowning the motionless statue, she returned to stand beside her three-year-old brother Joseph. She looked to her mother, who was just then finishing singing Salve Regina with one-year-old Elisha getting antsy on her hip - squealing along, clapping two pudgy hands together as he did so. 

Six-year-old Maria joined in with Joseph as Mother began to pray the Hail Mary. Then, with a reverent cross as an example for her children, she released a squirming Elisha to the creaking wooden floorboards of their Wisconsin home. 

"See how happy Mary is?" Mother asked her children, still hanging around the family's altar, bedecked in peacock blue for the month of May. "You have made our mother so happy with your prayers."

Elisha let out a high pitched squeal and tore across the room, followed closely by Joseph, eager to take part in whatever his little brother was doing. 

"Would you like to come help me ice the cake, Maria?" Mother asked, noticing that Maria was still hovering near the altar. 

"Okay!" Maria exclaimed, her face lighting up with a smile as she raced into the kitchen. Her mother's blueberry bundt cake, which had been extracted from the oven about an hour before their ceremony, sat waiting on the counter beside a bowl of soupy white glaze. Blueberries, their color leaking out from their time in the oven, colored the cake's ridge a pleasant indigo. Grabbing a spatula from one of the many crocks scattered about the countertop, she dipped it into the bowl of glaze and watched it drip back to its container. Licking the spatula, she handed it to her mother, who was carefully sliding the cake from the tray it had been sitting on to their best cake stand. 

"Thank you, Maria," Mother said, taking the spatula from her eldest daughter's hands. "You did a wonderful job crowning Mary today. You made your patroness very, very happy."

"Patroness?" Maria asked curiously. 

"Yes," Mother said, dipping the spatula into the bowl. "With the name Maria, your patroness is our Blessed Mother - particularly Our Lady of Czestochowa. That's why you have her icon in your bedroom."

Maria thought about the icon in her bedroom. It was a tiny thing, somber in color, positioned over her dresser. She had often rubbed her hand across the burnished golden halos arcing over the heads of Mary and the Child Jesus. On the same image, she had traced her fingers across the two long slits running down Mary's darkened face. She had always assumed it had been dropped, but not long ago, her father had picked her up and told her the story of Our Lady of Czestochowa - how thieves had tried to steal it but could not, so they slashed it twice and ran away. Now, every icon of the Virgin of Czestochowa bore those two slashes. 

"When we named you, we asked Our Lady to protect you in a special way, and she has," Mother explained. "She has given you the grace to replicate her fiat, her yes, every day."

"Her yes?" Maria questioned, accepting the spatula from her mother and beginning to replicate the drizzling motions. 

"When the Angel Gabriel came to Mary in Nazareth, she could have said no to being the Mother of G'D. But instead of being saying no, Mary obeyed and trusted in His plan. I see you trusting G'D every day when you are obedient to me and Father and even to your siblings," Mother explained. "You see, Maria, Mary is your special example for how to be a saint, and so if you continue to learn about her and pray for her help, she will bless you and help you to say yes to G'D, as she did."

The cake, perfectly drizzled and looking as much like a crown as a bundt cake could, sat finished on the shining cake stand. Maria looked at it with happiness - she loved being with her mother, and she loved to make G'D happy. If doing what Mary did would make G'D happy, then she would do it for Him. 

Her mother carried the cake into the dining room, with Maria trailing afterwards. Her mind was filled with ideas of saying yes, just like Mary had...and she knew she had her patroness to guide her in making G'D happy!

"Mary said, 'Behold, I am the handmaid of the Lord. May it be done to me according to Your word.'

- Luke 1:38