St. Kateri Tekakwitha: The Saint Who Quietly Walks Beside Me

Every year on July 14, my heart holds two memories at once. It is the feast day of St. Kateri Tekakwitha, and it is also my Grandpa's birthday. Today, he would have turned 91 years old. For as long as I can remember, those two celebrations have been connected in my mind. I cannot think of St. Kateri without thinking of my grandpa, and I cannot remember his birthday without remembering the gentle, courageous saint whose feast the Church celebrates on the same day.

My connection to St. Kateri goes much deeper than sharing a date on the calendar. When I entered religious life, I chose St. Kateri as my patron saint. It was not a decision I made lightly. I wanted a patron saint whose life reflected the kind of woman I hoped to become. The more I learned about St. Kateri, the more I found myself drawn to her quiet strength, deep faith, and unwavering trust in God.

St. Kateri knew suffering from the very beginning of her life. As a young child, she lost her parents and younger brother to smallpox. The disease left her with scars on her face and weakened eyesight, visible reminders of pain she never chose. Although my own scars are mostly invisible, I understand what it means to carry wounds from childhood that shape the way you see yourself and the world. As a survivor of childhood sexual abuse, I know how long healing can take and how deeply those experiences can affect a person's life. Yet one of the greatest lessons St. Kateri teaches me is that we are not defined by our wounds. Suffering may become part of our story, but it does not have the final word.

Despite rejection from members of her own community because of her Christian faith, St. Kateri remained faithful. She loved Christ with remarkable simplicity and perseverance. She did not seek recognition or admiration. She simply desired to belong completely to Him. There have been seasons in my own life when following Christ has felt lonely. There have been moments when I questioned where I belonged and times when healing required walking a path that few people could fully understand. St. Kateri reminds me that faithfulness is often quiet. Holiness is not always found in extraordinary moments. More often, it is found in choosing to say yes to God over and over again, even when the road is difficult.

Another reason I feel such a connection to St. Kateri is her love of silence and prayer. In a world filled with constant noise and distractions, she sought places where she could simply be with God. She understood that healing often happens in the quiet. I have found the same to be true in my own life. Some of the most meaningful moments of healing have not come through dramatic experiences, but through time spent in Eucharistic adoration, sitting with Scripture, journaling, or simply allowing myself to rest in God's presence. Those quiet moments have often been where God has gently reminded me who I am and how deeply I am loved.

I have also always loved how St. Kateri found God in creation. Whether I am watching a butterfly emerge, photographing a beautiful sunset, walking through nature, or simply looking up at the vast North Dakota sky, I often feel closest to God outdoors. Creation has a way of reminding me that God is always at work, bringing beauty from places where we least expect it. St. Kateri saw the beauty of God's presence in the natural world, and that perspective continues to inspire me to slow down, pay attention, and receive each day as a gift.

Perhaps what speaks to me most about St. Kateri is that she never allowed suffering to make her bitter. Instead, she allowed it to draw her closer to Christ. That does not mean her life was easy. It certainly was not. But she entrusted herself to God, believing that His love was greater than every hardship, every rejection, and every loss. That is the kind of faith I continue to pray for. I do not ask for a life without suffering. I ask for the grace to let suffering become a place where God continues His work of healing and transformation.

As I remember my grandpa today on what would have been his 91st birthday, I find comfort in remembering St. Kateri as well. My grandpa reminds me of the love and stability I experienced growing up. St. Kateri reminds me of the God who has walked beside me through every joy, every sorrow, every wound, and every step of healing. Together, they remind me that love endures, faith is worth pursuing, and God is always present.

St. Kateri Tekakwitha is important to me not simply because her feast day falls on my grandpa's birthday or because she was my patron saint in religious life. She is important because her life continually reminds me that our wounds do not define us, healing is possible, faithfulness matters, and God never stops calling us closer to Himself.

St. Kateri Tekakwitha, pray for us.

God's Gentle Reminders Come in Unexpected Ways

Every once in a while, there is a week that feels like God is quietly reminding you that He sees you. Not through dramatic miracles or extraordinary circumstances, but through ordinary moments that become extraordinary because of the love behind them. This has been one of those weeks for me.

Earlier this week, I met a friend for lunch, and somewhere in the middle of our conversation she began sharing what Light Still Stands has meant to her. She told me she has cried several times while reading it because she sees herself in the characters and connects so deeply with their journeys. Then she shared something that touched me even more. She isn't rushing to finish the book. Instead, she's intentionally reading it slowly, savoring each chapter and taking time to reflect before moving on to the next.

As an author, I don't know that there is a greater compliment than that. Of course, I hoped people would enjoy Light Still Stands, but my deepest prayer was never simply that readers would finish the story. I prayed they would pause, wrestle with the questions the characters wrestle with, recognize pieces of their own lives within its pages, and discover that even in life's hardest seasons, God is still present and still writing a story of hope. Hearing my friend describe her experience reminded me that books are sometimes more than stories. They can become companions for the journey, inviting readers to reflect not only on fictional characters but also on the ways God has been at work in their own lives. As she spoke, I silently thanked God, not because someone complimented my writing, but because He allowed a story He placed on my heart to become part of someone else's.

Then today, another unexpected gift arrived. Out of nowhere, my aunt sent me a simple text message that read, "I just want to tell you how proud I am of you and how much I love you." There wasn't a birthday or a milestone that prompted it. She simply wanted me to know. I found myself reading those words more than once because it's amazing how a sentence that takes only a few seconds to type can remain in your heart for the rest of the day.

There was one more unexpected blessing this week. Yesterday, I texted a dear friend because I had an extra ticket to a concert this weekend. She lives out of state, so I sent the invitation hoping she might be able to come, but honestly, I didn't expect it to work out since it was last minute. It felt like one of those invitations you extend because it would be wonderful if it happened, while quietly assuming life would make it impossible.

Instead, she talked with her husband, booked a flight, and decided to come.

The more I've thought about it, the more I believe this weekend is about much more than a concert. I think it may be exactly what the two of us need. Life has a way of filling our calendars while quietly emptying our hearts. We spend so much time caring for others, meeting responsibilities, and answering the next demand that we sometimes forget how deeply we need authentic friendship. We need people who know us well enough that we don't have to explain ourselves, people who can make us laugh, sit comfortably in silence, and remind us that we don't have to carry life's burdens alone. I have a feeling this weekend will be one of those gifts that refreshes both of our souls.

As I've reflected on these three moments, I've realized they all carry the same message. My friend's words reminded me that God can use our gifts in ways we never fully see. My aunt's text reminded me that I am loved, not because of what I accomplish, but simply because I belong to a family that cares deeply for me. My friend's decision to board a plane reminded me that relationships are worth making time for and that sometimes God provides exactly what we need before we even realize we need it.

When I look at these moments individually, they seem small. A lunch conversation. A text message. A last-minute plane ticket. Yet together they feel like God's gentle whispers saying, "I see you. Keep going. You are loved. You don't have to do this alone."

How often do we pray for God to speak while expecting something dramatic, when all along He is speaking through the people He has placed in our lives? His encouragement often comes through a friend's honesty, a relative's kindness, or someone's willingness to show up. We just have to slow down long enough to recognize those moments for what they are.

This week reminded me that encouragement is never wasted. A heartfelt conversation, an unexpected text, or a simple invitation can become part of God's answer to someone's prayer. We rarely know what another person is carrying or how desperately they need to hear that they matter. So tell someone you're proud of them. Tell them you love them. Encourage them in the work God has been doing through their lives. Invite them to spend time together. Those small acts of kindness may seem ordinary to us, but in God's hands they often become extraordinary reminders that we are deeply seen, fully known, and abundantly loved.

I Saw Jesus Today

There are some Sundays when the homily is what stays with me. Other Sundays, it's a particular line from Scripture or a hymn that continues to echo in my heart throughout the day. But today, it was a man.

As Mass began this morning, a man wearing a long white robe quietly entered the church carrying his shoes in his hands. I immediately noticed that he had no toes. He slowly walked to the very front of the church, sat down on the floor, and began to pray. There was something about the way he carried himself that drew my attention. His movements were slow and deliberate, and his posture reflected humility. Even before Mass officially began, he seemed completely focused on being in the presence of God.

During the opening prayer, Deacon Paul noticed him sitting on the floor. Without interrupting the reverence of the moment, he quietly walked over, warmly welcomed him, and gently showed him where he could sit in one of the pews. It wasn't done to correct him or make him feel uncomfortable. It was simply an act of kindness and hospitality. It struck me how naturally our deacon made room for him, ensuring he knew he belonged.

At first, I wondered if he was Catholic. Perhaps he had wandered in looking for a place to pray. But during the Liturgy of the Word, he turned to the woman sitting behind him and quietly asked for help finding the readings. Without a second thought, she leaned forward, opened the missal, and helped him find the correct page. There was no hesitation, no awkwardness, and no judgment. Just one person helping another encounter God's Word.

From that moment on, I found it difficult to concentrate on anything else happening around me. I wasn't distracted because he looked different. I was captivated by the sincerity of his faith. Throughout the Mass, I found myself watching him. During the homily, he once again lowered himself to the floor and listened with complete attention. There was nothing casual or routine about the way he participated. Every gesture seemed intentional. Every movement reflected someone who knew he was standing on holy ground.

Then came the Sign of Peace. At first, he wasn't quite sure what everyone was doing. He looked around as people began extending their hands to one another. As he watched those around him, he slowly smiled. People reached out to him, shook his hand, and welcomed him into the celebration. There was a joy on his face that is difficult to describe. It was as though, in that moment, he realized he wasn't simply attending Mass. He belonged there.

Then came Holy Communion. As the congregation began processing forward to receive Jesus in the Eucharist, he remained standing where he was. He waited patiently while nearly everyone else approached the altar. He wasn't in a hurry. He wasn't concerned about being first. He simply waited. When it was finally his turn, something extraordinary happened. He slowly walked forward, knelt, bent down and kissed the floor before receiving Holy Communion on the tongue. At that moment, tears began streaming down my face. I couldn't stop crying.

His love for Jesus was unmistakable. There was no performance. There was no attempt to draw attention to himself. There was simply a man approaching the Eucharistic Lord with profound humility, love, and reverence. Looking at him, I had no doubt that he believed what the Catholic Church teaches: that what appeared to be ordinary bread was truly the Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity of Jesus Christ. I found myself wondering whether my own love for the Eucharist was visible in the same way. Do I approach Jesus with that kind of awe? Do I truly recognize the incredible gift I receive every time I walk forward to receive Him? Without saying a word, this man had become the homily I needed to hear.

After Mass had ended, I watched several parishioners walk over to him. They introduced themselves, welcomed him to our parish, invited him to return, and even embraced him with hugs. No one seemed concerned about how he looked, how he was dressed, or that he had entered carrying his shoes. They simply saw a brother in Christ.

As I reflected on everything I had witnessed, today's Gospel from Matthew 11:25-30 came rushing back to me: "Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am meek and humble of heart; and you will find rest for yourselves. For my yoke is easy, and my burden light."

Those words suddenly felt less like something I had heard proclaimed and more like something I had watched unfold before my eyes. It felt as though Jesus Himself had walked into our parish in the person of this humble man. Not because the man was Jesus, but because he reflected Christ so beautifully. His humility, his poverty of spirit, his reverence, and his complete dependence on God reminded me that Jesus is often found in the people the world overlooks.

I also witnessed something equally beautiful. I witnessed the Body of Christ truly being the Body of Christ. I saw a deacon quietly make room for someone who might have felt out of place. I saw a woman gladly help a stranger find the readings. I saw parishioners extend peace, offer hugs, and make someone feel welcome. No one asked where he came from. No one questioned whether he belonged. They simply loved him. Isn't that exactly what Jesus would do?

I left Mass humbled, filled with joy, and deeply grateful. I was grateful for a parish that welcomes all people. I was grateful for a community that sees dignity before differences. I was grateful for a man whose witness reminded me that authentic faith is often expressed far more through actions than words. Most of all, I left grateful that Jesus still finds ways to teach us, surprise us, and transform us when we least expect it.

I have been to Mass thousands of times, but I have never experienced anything quite like this.

Today, I saw Jesus. Not because He appeared in a miraculous vision, but because He reminded me that every person is made in His image and likeness. Through one man's humble faith, Jesus challenged my own heart. He invited me to look beyond appearances, to welcome without conditions, to love more generously, and to approach the Eucharist with deeper reverence than ever before.

As I continue to pray about this experience, one question keeps echoing in my heart: What was Jesus trying to teach me today? Perhaps the answer is that Christ is still walking into our churches every day, often in the people we least expect. The question is not whether He is there. The question is whether I have the eyes to recognize Him.

250 Years of America. 105 Years of One Extraordinary Life.

This year, America celebrates its 250th birthday. For two and a half centuries, our nation has experienced moments of incredible triumph alongside seasons of hardship. We have seen wars and peace, innovation and uncertainty, division and unity. As we commemorate this historic milestone, I find myself thinking not only about the history of our country but also about the history sitting around my family's table.

This December, my great-grandmother will celebrate her 106th birthday. While America marks 250 years of history, I have the incredible blessing of knowing someone who has lived through nearly half of it. Even more remarkable, our family currently has six living generations. This is a gift I never take for granted. Every family gathering reminds me that history is not just found in books or museums. Sometimes it is found in the stories shared around a dinner table.

A couple of years ago, I had the privilege of interviewing my great-grandmother for a college communications class. What began as an assignment quickly became one of the most meaningful conversations I have ever had. Listening to her reflect on more than a century of life gave me a greater appreciation for both her resilience and the values that have shaped our family.

Born on December 27, 1920, she entered a world that looked nothing like the one we know today. She has lived through the Great Depression, World War II, the Civil Rights Movement, the Space Age, the arrival of personal computers, the internet, smartphones, and now artificial intelligence. She has watched the world transform in ways that most of us can scarcely imagine. Yet what amazes me most is not simply what she has witnessed but how she has embraced those changes. At 105 years old, she uses a cell phone, keeps up with family on social media, and continues to learn new things. During our interview, she laughed and admitted she was "electronically challenged" while trying to connect technology, but she has never let her age keep her from staying connected to the people she loves.

As we talked, it became clear that while the world around her has changed dramatically, the values that have guided her life have remained constant. Faith has always been at the center of who she is. She shared how she was taken to Sunday school as a young girl and continued attending church throughout her life as she raised her own family. Her commitment to faith was never something she simply talked about. It was something she lived.

She also spoke about her lifelong love of learning. Although attending college was not emphasized when she was growing up, curiosity was always encouraged. She spent countless hours at the local library reading, especially books about history. Then, at the age of sixty, she decided to return to school and earned her associate's degree. When she told me about it, I realized that learning had never been a season of life for her. It had become a way of life.

As someone who has spent my career in education and has returned to college several times myself, I now recognize how much of that love for learning has been passed from one generation to the next. During our conversation, she also shared how her parents encouraged their children to stay informed, vote, and treat every person with kindness and respect. Growing up in a small rural community, she had little opportunity to meet people from different backgrounds, yet her parents taught her to be respectful and inclusive of everyone. Those values became part of the legacy she passed on to her children, grandchildren, and generations that followed.

Toward the end of our interview, I asked what brought her the greatest joy. Her answer was immediate. She spoke proudly of her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and great-great-grandchildren. She smiled as she talked about our family's monthly book club, where multiple generations gather to read, discuss books, and simply enjoy being together. Then she said something I have never forgotten: "All my life has been learning, and I'm still learning."

Those words have stayed with me because they perfectly capture the kind of life she has lived.

As America celebrates 250 years, I think about the countless individuals whose names may never appear in history books but whose lives have quietly shaped families, communities, and future generations. My great-grandmother is one of those people. Her legacy is not measured by fame or recognition but by faith faithfully lived, a deep love of learning, unwavering perseverance, and the values she has passed to six generations of our family.

History is often told through presidents, wars, and landmark events. But perhaps the most meaningful history is found in ordinary people who lived extraordinary lives of quiet faithfulness.

This Independence Day, I am grateful for the history of our nation. I am equally grateful for the history within my own family. What a privilege it is to know someone who has lived for more than a century, to witness six generations gathered together, and to be reminded that the greatest legacies are not built in a single moment but one faithful day at a time.

Interview with my Great-Grandma.