If Love is a wellspring within me, I need only go with the flow. Indeed, if Love has swept me away, I cannot help but live in harmony with Him; no need to check every word or deed before I speak or do. 

And yet, sharp rocks in my heart disrupt the flow, creating the little waterfalls over which I plunge. Perhaps I will always suffer from these rocks, these faults of mine, and my way to Heaven will ever be tumultuous. But perhaps not. Perhaps one day I will look behind me and see only tranquil water. Perhaps I will discover that the weaker I was, the stronger Love was, wearing those rocks away to nothing. 

But I need only focus on the way ahead, my destination, which I will reach only if I learn not to fight the current, to be docile to the movements of Love in my life. If I surrender myself to Love and let Him sweep me away, I will one day find myself immersed in Him. Letting go, I will let Him in. And only when I am flooded with Love can I share Him with the world, my heart overflowing. I need not fear drowning in Love, for this drowning is the gateway not to death but to eternal life.

Even as Christians are called to be signs of contradiction, so too are we called to go with the flow. 

Every now and then, my heart is crushed with yearning for a misty heath and sheep to tend and soda bread bronzed from a wood stove. I desire to hear the wind rustling through untamed grass, a cowbell echoing from the heart of a wooded dell, a collie barking in a farmyard—not the ding of a text message, the buzz of the fridge, the rumble of a truck. 

But freedom is not a dream or an idealized fantasy.

Freedom is opening my hands to the sky and receiving whatever God desires to give me.

I feel my heart thrill when the wild horse graces the horizon, dares to wander near. I do not seize a rope or an enticement of oats; I stand at the window and behold. And when the horse snorts and bursts into a gallop toward places I cannot follow, I remain where I am and thank God for His gift—fleeting or otherwise.  

Freedom is also letting go, because good things roam free. And must remain so, lest in the capturing the goodness is broken. 

As I am called to accept life as it comes, so too am I called to accept God as He comes—in fire-bright consolation or in deep-dark desolation. I should not cling to those times when He seemed to be breathing in my ear; I should not reject His hallowed stillness enfolding me now. If I look behind to what was, I am grasping and shredding mere memories, even as I brush aside the Presence in the present moment. If I peer ahead to what may be, I live for a mirage. 

Rather, I gaze up at the pristine blue sky and offer my gratitude to God: whether He leads me through emerald heights or rugged canyons, I have Him. And if I remain open to His will, palms up, goodness will ever be present in my life, and I will ever be free.

I picture myself in the early morning, when the most devoted fishermen rise and take to the water, floating in my blue-and-white boat, the sail bound tight, because the wind is extinct. I am alone. And the net I have cast is hanging limp beneath the green surface of the mire, because Christ is not beside me. 

Anyone can drift. Continue reading→

If we really believe the Eucharist is truly Christ—not just a symbol, but His actual flesh and blood under the guise of bread—why do we not find every Catholic facedown before the tabernacle in the churches throughout the world?

It’s a sobering question, one I have long been grappling with.Continue reading→

Last year, I wrote the reflection below, tinkering with ideas for a flash-fiction contest. I happened across it again yesterday. It’s a strange experience when your own writing strikes you to the heart; that’s when you know it must have been inspired by God.Continue reading→

How blessed is my life. And how strange. Here I again find myself living in the small town where I was once a teenager pedaling about on Mr. Buntwell (my vintage tricycle)—only now I am married, pushing my six-month-old baby in a stroller. We’ve wandered down every street by this point, Rosé and I, searching for hidden treasure (quaint houses for sale, or a grotto amid evergreen). She likes to ride leaning forward, clutching the tray, ready to take on the world.Continue reading→

I am writing two stories. One is on paper, and the other is on the heart of my sweet Rosé.Continue reading→

I am settled in a rope hammock, my bare feet gliding over the labyrinth of shadows on the ground. Rosé is perched on my lap, her skin so very pure in the sunlight, her pale hair shimmering like the finest threads of spun gold. She is blinking up at the poplars arching over us, mesmerized by the leaves fluttering like untold emerald butterflies. We’ve spent much time here together, swinging, swinging.

Some might say motherhood is monotony, but I say it is music.Continue reading→

The blog I was planning to write would have been, in comparison, a boring one—something about how peaceful and beautiful the Mallett family farm is, how happy I am to be home. I would have told you about the divine smell in the air and the chorus of birds in the lofty treetops—treetops that are no longer alive and well.Continue reading→

As flies begin to buzz again at the windows, Nicholas and I prepare to leave this island, this humble island that has carried us through many seasons. Astonishing to think that when I first arrived here three years ago, I was a single woman. Today, I am married to an islander and mother to an islander. God did not waste time with me.Continue reading→