x Close
World at Prayer blog
Reflections of Family and Faith
"The family that prays together stays together." - Venerable Patrick Peyton
Holy Women's History Month | Lenten Reflections | catholic mom | women's history month
It seemed like the thing a good Catholic would do, and I was nothing if not a new, enthusiastic, join-everything-do-all-the-things Catholic. Eucharistic Adoration. An hour! In silence! In the church! Wait. What?!? Over the course of my early years in Adoration, I learned to sit in the silence. I learned to have a conversation of sorts with God. I learned to accept the discomfort and peace and weirdness of it all. And I read. Boy, did I read. (Though not nearly as much as I thought I would.) One of the books I discovered during Adoration was Divine Mercy in My Soul, the diary of Maria Faustina Kowalska, who would, in 2000, be canonized. The red tome was tucked among the small collection of books the Adoration organizers had put in the back of the church. My husband — who was then just a guy I was dating and probably going to marry — started reading it during his Adoration hour. He who does NOT read for fun reads Faustina’s diary cover to cover. All five million pages of it. And … he casually mentioned that I should check it out. Prefer to Listen—Audio version available!
Share
Learn more about our faith | Seasonal Reflections
A few years ago, a bus driver in Seattle named Marcus made headlines—not for any heroics, but for noticing people. Every day, he would watch passengers board his bus, many were his regular passengers, and most of them eyes glued to phones, avoided an older woman who was also his regular passenger in a frayed coat muttering to herself. One icy morning, Marcus saw this elderly woman shivering and he handed her his own thermos of coffee. She stared at him, then whispered, “You’re the first person who has looked at me in weeks.” Turns out, she wasn’t “crazy”—just a widow grieving her son, quietly unraveling. Marcus didn’t fix her life. He just saw her. And in that moment, he glimpsed eternity. That’s the scandal of today’s Gospel. Jesus says the final exam of faith isn’t theology or piety—it’s whether we recognize Him hiding in plain sight, disguised as the people we have trained ourselves not to see.
Share
Brief and contemporary inspiration focused on hope and family prayer will be delivered to your inbox! Articles include live video, written word, and links to resources that will lead you and your family deeper into faith.
Holy Women's History Month | Lenten Reflections | catholic mom | women's history month
There is one sound more unnatural than any other in the world; it is the wailing of a mother burying her child. Watching Shirley at her child’s funeral service, I wasn’t sure whether she was going to puke, collapse, or scream. I recall the crushing grip of her hand clinging to mine during my feeble attempts at prayer, the same grip that clutched the coffin of her fourth and final child who succumbed to the violence of the Chicago streets. This son had survived the longest, being shot dead at age 33. As a freshman in ministry, how was I to share God’s hope with this woman, much less find it myself? The happiness and praise ringing from Sunday liturgy felt off; the Good News of Jesus Christ seemed distant. Where were the words of the Church that could speak life into this tragedy? What wisdom or quip of a saint could I share to make the pain cease? Prefer to Listen—Audio version available!
Share
Holy Women's History Month | Lenten Reflections | catholic mom | women's history month
As a child (well, who am I kidding? This still happens), I cringed when we would read the parable of the Prodigal Son. It used to make me so irritated because what does a BOY have to do with me, a GIRL? I remember feeling stubborn angst towards this parable because the man had sons, and I was a daughter. I’d roll my eyes (still do) and listen in without really caring. You see, I understand this parable, even more so as an adult; however, it has just never resonated with me. As a girl child, I wanted to have my femininity seen by Jesus, just as so many boys saw themselves as the prodigal son. Side note: I do now understand this parable a bit more and actually identify as the eldest son most days. Prefer to Listen—Audio version available!
Share
Catholic Faith | family prayer | pray the rosary
Several years ago, my mom found herself in a precarious situation. Financial struggles and the complexities of her ordeal made her problems seem insurmountable. Her mental health—and her very future—hung in the balance, and I did everything I could to help. At the same time, my wife and I were new parents, and the weight of trying to pull my mom out of her difficulties threatened to pull my marriage down with it. I felt trapped, as if caught between Scylla and Charybdis—every path forward seemed to lead to disaster. I was treading water, searching for something—anything—to hold onto, even just a tiny glimmer of hope. And that consoling presence I longed for? It was nowhere to be found. I remember sitting in my mom’s living room one evening, anxiety pressing down on me. I worried about her. About myself. About my wife and our child. Then, as if something deep within me was praying through me, I began murmuring the Hail Mary. Over and over, I whispered: Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee… My thought—or maybe my hope—was that another mother might step in to help us. Without even realizing it, my mind had slipped into a practice I had learned as a child in Catholic school—the Rosary. That night, as I whispered each prayer, I asked for a miracle. And do you know what happened?
Share
Holy Women's History Month | Lenten Reflections | catholic mom | women's history month
I hadn’t heard of Saint Gianna Molla back in 1993. At the time, I was a young mother of three small boys. I had suffered a life-threatening internal hemorrhage after the remains of an ectopic pregnancy ruptured one of my fallopian tubes. Because I had experienced two previous ectopic (tubal) pregnancies, and because I nearly died with this one, my doctors and many of our relatives told my husband and me that we “had no business having more children,” and “you have to think of your other children now.” In those first few months after surgery, we believed that we ought to listen to the “doctors’ orders.” We continued using NFP (Natural Family Planning) in the most conservative way to avoid pregnancy. Prefer to Listen—Audio version available!
Share
