Wake up, O Church—before the floodlight of Christ reveals what we refused to see. Let our lamps burn clean this Advent, and may the truth we feared at dawn become the light that guides us home.
Tag Archives: #dioceseofamarillo
Saturday of the Thirty-fourth Week in Ordinary Time
Spirit aching, dawn undone, yet still I rise and face the sun. Two days dark, no Mass in sight—still I choose the Advent light.
Friday of the Thirty-fourth Week in Ordinary Time
The bells rang — but the chapel stayed dark; Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John calling out to a flock still waiting for truth. Until we tear down what hides our wounds, no dawn will break across this Diocese.
Thanksgiving Day
Nala slips through shadows like a secret I’d rather ignore—yet still her pawprints expose what my heart wants to hide. So I turn back, like the healed Samaritan,
to give thanks for the God who cleanses what I’d leave unseen
and calls me home to truth, not pretense.
Wednesday of the Thirty-fourth Week in Ordinary Time
“An owl cries judgment in the branches, warning those who claim ‘persecution’—yet Christ still stands with the wounded ones,
and perseverance turns victims into prophets.”
Tuesday of the Thirty-fourth Week in Ordinary Time
I drove home with hay in the truck bed, thinking of shepherds and stones. Some build temples from silence, others protect the flock with truth. And I—still crying out—wait for the one who will hear the sheep before the shouting fades.
Memorial of Saint Andrew Dŭng-Lạc, Priest, and Companions, Martyrs
Two coins, two seeds —offered out of season. Martyrs burned bright, the widow gave all,
and I —I plant in cold soil, enduring to the end until grace makes it grow.
Solemnity of Our Lord Jesus Christ, King of the Universe
a burning bush blazes in my yard,
rooted, obedient, ordered to God—but I am the one anointed to choose. Christ my King whispers, “fear God, and rule what is yours with justice.” even the diocese, even the Centennial, awaits the courage of a king who remembers—Paradise opens to the one who asks.
Memorial of Saint Cecilia, Virgin and Martyr
Pawprints in the soil and footprints in the soul—bishops rise, bishops fall, yet the lost still wait to be made whole. Grant us oil in our lamps till the Bridegroom draws near,
and a Church that sings truth more loudly than fear.
Memorial of the Presentation of the Blessed Virgin Mary
Four bishops, four roads meeting in the fading light—Matthiesen unmoved, Yanta urging me on,
Zurek standing guard at the gate,
and Strickland crying out into the night.