Evening Sigh - July 31

 

Very Short and Easy Prayers to Mary

Ejaculations to the Blessed Virgin

Mary.
(Ind. of 25 days, each time.―Clement XIII. Sept. 5, 1750.)

Mary, Virgin Mother of God, pray to Jesus for me.
(Ind. of 50 days, once each day.―Leo XIII. March 29, 1894.)

Mary our hope, have pity on us.
(Ind. of 300 days, each time.―Pius X. Jan 8, 1906.)

My Mother, my trust.
(Ind. of 300 days, each time.―Benedict XV. Sept. 6, 1915.)

Our Lady of the most Holy Sacrament, pray for us.
(Ind. of 300 days, each time, before the Blessed Sacrament exposed.―Pius X. Jan 10, 1906.)

The Man of God
Fr. Callan & McHugh
Authors of "Blessed Be God."
P. J. Kennedy & Sons, 1928

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Daily Prayers

The Day Begins

I will begin and end each day with Jesus and Mary in my heart. I imagine turning to Jesus and feeling His gentle and loving spirit all around me. It's like He is quietly asking me to follow Him, to stay close.
 
And then there is Mary, so kind and motherly always ready to help me bring my thoughts back to Jesus. I think she wants me to make my daily prayers and devotions part of my life and something I never forget.
If I can do this every day, maybe my heart will feel a little more like theirs - full of love and peace.

The Lord's Prayer

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come; thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation; but deliver us from evil. So be it.

Hail Mary (The Angelic Salutation)

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.

The Apostles’ Creed

I believe in God, the Father almighty, Creator of heaven and earth. And in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord, who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried; He descended into hell; on the third day He rose again from the dead; He ascended into heaven, and is seated at the right hand of God the Father almighty; from there He will come to judge the living and the dead.
I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and life everlasting. Amen.

Peaceful Sleep

Barbara Scott (sleeping ice skater), Switzerland, 1948
Photo by Walter Sanders

The peace of God is a most profound tranquillity and repose, like the silence of untrodden mountain summits clothed with eternal snows; or like the lowest depths of the ocean, where the fierce storms that rage on the surface are unfelt, and where the turbulent industry of men can never penetrate. Nothing can equal that peace.

O Loving Jesus, I offer Thee Thy most peaceful repose in the adorable Sacrament of the Altar, and in the hearts of all the just, and I beseech Thee most earnestly that I may rest this night in Thee so that in the morning I may awake with renewed fervour to love and serve Thee. Amen.

My Queen and my Mother, bless me with thy pure and holy hand―
That I may have a good night's rest,
That I may wake betimes in the morning, and have the grace and energy to rise promptly and continue the work thy divine and beloved Son has entrusted to my feeble hands.

Amen.

Prayers of an Irish Mother - 19th century

Do You Remember???

In 2012 ten year old Jackie Evancho mustered up courage to walk onto the stage of America's Got Talent. If one could have put a voice to a Botticelli Angel - here it was.

If I love what Jesus Loves

 

If I love what Jesus loves, I cannot be wrong; unless I love what Jesus loves, I cannot be right. I may then―I must―love the Madonna, and, like the angel, I may gaze lovingly into her face with reverence and delight and hail her as the "highly favored" Maiden, purest Mother of perfect Child.

Poor Little Justin

OUR LADY OF LOURDES

BY HENRI LASSERRE 

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ALTHOUGH the crowd was, as we have already stated, more particularly dense in the morning at the time of Bernadette’s arrival, it was not to be supposed that solitude reigned during the after part of the day at the Rocks of Massabielle. All the afternoon there was perpetual going to and fro on the road leading to the Grotto, which, from that time, was to be so celebrated. Every one examined it in all directions, many prayed in front of it, and some broke off fragments of it in order to keep them as pious souvenirs.
On that day, towards four o’clock, there were still five or six hundred persons, employed as above mentioned, on the banks of the Gave.
At the same moment, a heart-rending scene was passing round a cradle in a squalid house at Lourdes, in which resided Jean Beauhohorts, a day-laborer, and his wife Croisine Ducouts.
In the cradle there lay a child about two years old, who was sickly, and of a wretched constitution. He had never been able to walk, was constantly out of health, and, from his birth, had been wasted by slow fever of a consumptive nature, which nothing had succeeded in reducing. Not withstanding the skillful attention of a medical man of the place, M. Peyrus, the child was rapidly approaching his end. Death was spreading its livid hues on a countenance which had been reduced by protracted sufferings to a deplorable state of emaciation.
The Father and mother kept their eyes fixed on their dying child, the former, calm in his grief, while the latter seemed plunged in despair.
One of their neighbors, Franconnette Gozos was already busying herself in preparing a shroud for the poor chid’s burial, and, at the same time, using her best efforts to induce the mother to listen to some words of consolation.
The latter was crushed with grief, and anxiously watched the progress of the last agony of death. The child’s eyes had become glazed, his limbs were absolutely motionless, and his breathing was imperceptible.
“He is dead,” said the father.
“If he is not dead,” observed the neighbor, “he is on the point of death, my poor friend. Go and weep by the fire, while I, ere long, fold him up in his shroud.”
Croisine Ducouts, the mother of the child, did not appear to hear what was said to her. A sudden idea had just taken possession of her mind, and her tears ceased to flow.
“He is not dead!” she exclaimed; “and the Holy Virgin of the Grotto is going to effect his cure for me.”
“Grief has turned her head,” said Beauhohorts, sadly.
He and the neighbor endeavored in vain to disssuade the mother from her project. The latter had just taken the already motionless body of her child out of the cradle and wrapped it up in her apron.
“I will go at once to the Virgin!” she exclaimed making her way to the door.
“But my dear Croisine,” said her husband and Franconnette to her, “if our poor Justin is not quite dead, you are going to kill him outright.”
The mother, as if beside herself with grief, refused to listen to their expostulations.
“What matters it whether he dies here or at the Grotto! Allow me to implore the mercy of the Mother of God.”
Saying this she left the house, carrying the child in her arms.
As she had said, “she went at once to the Virgin.” She walked at a rapid pace, praying aloud, invoking Mary, and appearing to all who met her like an insane person.
It was about five o’clock in the evening, and there were some hundreds of persons before the Rocks of Massabielle.
The poor mother forced her way through the crowd, with her precious burden in her arms. At the entrance of the Grotto she prostrated herself and prayed, after which she dragged herself on her knees towards the miraculous Spring. Her face was burning, her eyes sparkling snd full of tears, and the state of disorder of her entire person proved the intensity of her grief.
She had reached the basin which had been dug by the quarry-men. The water was of an icy temperature.
“What is she going to do?” observed the spectators to themselves.
Croisine drew out of her apron the body of her dying child, which was in a state of complete nudity. She made the sign of the Cross on him and herself, and afterwards, without hesitation, and in a quick and determined manner, plunged the child up to his neck in the icy water of the Spring.
A cry of terror, and a murmur of indignation arose from the crowd.
“The woman is insane!” they exclaimed on all sides, pressing round her to hinder her putting her plan into execution.
“Would you kill your child?” said some one to her, rudely. It seemed as if she were deaf. She remained motionless as a statue,―the statue of Sorrow, Prayer, and Faith.
One of the by-standers touched her on the shoulder. The mother turned round on this, still keeping her child in the water of the Fountain.
“Let me alone, let me alone!” she exclaimed in a voice at once energetic and beseeching. “I wish to do all in my power,―God and the Blessed Virgin will do the rest.”
The complete immobility of the child and the cadaverous hues of his face, were remarked by several of those present.
“The child is already dead,” they said, “Let her alone; grief has turned the poor mother’s head.”
No; grief had not turned her head. It led her, on the contrary, into the path of the loftiest faith, of that absolute, unhesitating, undecaying faith which God has solemnly promised never to resist. The earthly mother felt within her, that she was addressing herself to the heart of that Mother who is in heaven. Thence arose her boundless confidence which neutralized the terrible reality of the dying body she held in her hands. Doubtless, she saw as plainly as the multitude around her, that ice-cold water, such as that in which she was plunging her child, was calculated, in ordinary circumstances infallibly to kill the little hapless being to whom she was so fondly attached, and suddenly to terminate his agony by the stroke of death. No matter! Her arm remained steady and her Faith was strong. For a whole quarter of an hour, before the astonished eyes of the multitude, in the midst of the cries, reproaches, and insults heaped upon her by the crowd of by-standers, she kept her child immersed in the mysterious water which had but lately gushed forth at a gesture from the all-powerful Mother of that God, who, for our sins, died and rose again.
What a sublime spectacle of Catholic faith! This woman precipitated her dying child into the most imminent of earthly dangers, to find in it, the name of the Virgin Mary, the cure which comes from heaven. Humanly speaking, she was urging him in the direction of death, in order to lead him supernaturally to life! Jesus commended the faith of the Centurion. Truly, that displayed by this poor mother strikes us as being still more worthy of admiration.
The Heart of God could not but be touched by an act of faith, at once so simple and so grand. Our Father, who is, at the same time, so invisible and so manifest, bent Himself, doubtless, at the same time as the Blessed Virgin, over so moving and religious a scene, and He blessed the Christian woman, who believed with all the fervor of primitive times.
The child had remained motionless as a corpse, during this long immersion. The mother wrapped him once more in her apron, and hastily returned home.
His body was cold as ice.
“You see now that he is dead,” said the father.
“No,” said Croisine, “he is not dead! The Blessed Virgin will effect his recovery.”
With these words the poor woman laid the child down in his cradle. He had scarcely been there a few moments, when the mother, having bent her ear attentively over him, suddenly exclaimed:
“He is breathing!”
Beauhohorts advanced rapidly and listened in his turn. Little Justin was certainly breathing. His eyes were closed, and he slept a calm and deep slumber.
The mother did not weep. During the evening and following night, she came every moment to listen to her child’s respiration, which became stronger and more regular, and she waited with anxiety for the moment of his awaking.
This took place at break of day.
The child’s emaciation had not disappeared, but there was some color in his cheeks, and his features wore an air of repose. The mild ray of life sparkled in his laughing eyes, which were turned towards his mother.
During his slumber, deep as that sent of yore by God upon Adam, the mysterious and omnipotent hand, from which every thing good emanates, had re-animated and strengthened―we dare not say resuscitated―his body, which, but a short time before was motionless and cold.
The child sought his mother’s breast and drew from it long draughts. Though he had never walked, he wished to leave his cradle and walk about the room. But Croisine, notwithstanding the courage and entire faith she had displayed the previous day, dared not trust too much in his recovery, and trembled at the thought of the danger he had escaped. She resisted the repeated solicitations of the child, and refused to remove him from the cradle.
Thus the day passed by. The child constantly demanded nourishment from his mother’s breasts. Night at length came, and was passed as calmly as the one preceding it. The father and mother left the house at day-break, in order to proceed to their daily toil, and their little Justin was still sleeping in his cradle.
When the mother opened the door on her return, she almost fainted at the sight presented to her view.
The cradle was empty. Justin had risen without any assistance from where his mother had laid him; he was on his legs going to and fro, touching the different articles of furniture, and disarranging the chairs. In short, the little paralyzed child was walking.
A mother’s heart alone can imagine the cry of joy emitted by Croisine at such a spectacle. She wished to rush forward, but could not, so great was her emotion. Her limbs trembled. Her sense of happiness seemed to deprive her of strength, and she supported herself against the door. A vague fear, however, in spite of herself, was mingled with her beaming happiness.
“Take care, you will fall down!” she cried out with anxiety.
He did not fall; his step was firm, and he ran and threw himself into the arms of his mother, who embraced him with tears in her eyes.
“He was cured from yesterday,” thought she to herself; “since he wished to leave his cradle and walk, and I, like an infidel, have hindered him, owing to my want of faith.”
“You now see that he was not dead, and that the Blessed Virgin has saved him,” she observed to her husband, on his return home.
Such were the words of this happy mother.
Franconnette Gozos, who had, only two nights since, been present at what was supposed to be poor Justin’s death-agony, and had arranged the shroud for his interment, happened to arrive at the same time, and could scarcely believe her eyes. She was never tired of gazing at the child, as if she wished to convince herself of his identity.
“It is certainly he!” she exclaimed. “It is certainly poor little Justin!”
They knelt down.
His mother joined the child’s hands to raise them towards heaven; and, all together, they offered thanksgivings to the Mother of Mercies.
His malady never returned. Justin grew rapidly and suffered from no relapse. Since that period, eleven years have elapsed. The writer of these pages determined to see him, not very long since. He is strong and in good health; only his mother grieves that he sometimes plays truant when sent to school, and reproaches him with gadding about more than he ought.
M. Peyrus, the medical man, who had attended the child, frankly allowed the impossibility of explaining this extraordinary occurrence according to the ordinary rules of medical science.
The Doctors Vergez and Dozons undertook, separately, an examination of this fact so highly interesting, both as regards Science and Truth, and, like M. Peyrus, they could but attribute it to the omnipotent agency of God. All united in establishing three circumstances which manifestly impressed on this cure a supernatural character,―the duration of the immersion,―its immediate effect―and the faculty of walking displayed as soon as the child had quitted his cradle.
The conclusions of M. Vergez’s report were unmistakable on this head.
“A bath of cold water for a quarter of an hour’s duration, in the month of February, inflicted on a child in the agony of death, must, in his opinion, and according to all the data, theoretical and experimental, of medical science, produce immediate death. For,” added the skillful physician, “if affusions of cold water, especially when applied repeatedly, may be of the utmost service in severe adynamic affections, their use is subject to certain rules which cannot be transgressed without exposing life to real danger. As a general rule, the duration of the application of cold water should not exceed a few minutes, because the depression occasioned by cold would destroy all power of reaction in the system.
“Now, the woman Ducouts, having plunged her child in the water of the Fountain, kept him in it for upwards of a quarter of an hour. She therefore sought the cure of her son by means absolutely condemned by experience and the rationale of medical science, and yet she did not on that account obtain it less immediately; for, a few moments later, he fell into a calm and deep sleep which lasted for about twelve hours. And in order that this fact should stand out in the clearest light, and that not the slightest incertitude should hover over the reality and instantaneousness of its production, the child, who had never walked, escaped from his cradle, and commenced walking about with the confidence which is usually only the result of practice, showing by this that this cure was effected without any intermediate state of convalescence, in a manner altogether “Supernatural.”

Holy Communion Prayers

1. Say these Prayers slowly, a few words at a time.
2. It is well to stop after every few words that they may sink into the heart.
3. Each prayer may be said several times.

BEFORE HOLY COMMUNION

Prayer for Help

O my God help me to make a good Communion. Mary, my dearest Mother, pray to Jesus for me. My dear Angel Guardian, lead me to the Altar of God.

Act of Faith

O God, because Thou hast said it, I believe that I shall receive the Sacred Body of Jesus to eat, and His precious Blood to drink. My God, I believe that with all my heart.

Act of Humility

My God, I confess that I am a poor sinner; I am not worthy to receive the Body and Blood of Jesus on account of my sins. Lord, I am not worthy that Thou shouldest enter under my roof; say but the word, and my soul shall be healed.

Act of Sorrow

My God, I detest all the sins of my life. I am sorry for them, because they have offended Thee, my God who art so good. I resolve never to commit sin any more. My good God, pity me, have mercy on me, forgive me. Amen.

Act of Adoration

O Jesus great God, present on the Altar, I bow down before Thee, I adore Thee.

Act of Love and Desire

Sweet Jesus, I love Thee. I desire with all my heart to receive Thee. Most sweet Jesus, come into my poor soul, and give me Thy Flesh to eat and Thy Blood to drink. Give me Thy whole self, Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity, that I may live forever with Thee.

O most sweet Virgin Mary, Mother of God and my Mother, lend me, I beseech thee, thy Immaculate Heart to receive my Jesus: that so I may receive Him by thee, by whom the world received Him.

O Jesus, I offer Thee Thy sinless Mother's Heart, with its perfect dispositions at the moment of Thy Incarnation and all her communions. Come to me now by her, as I came to Thee by her. With her heart let me receive Thee.



AFTER HOLY COMMUNION

O my Queen, thou hast given me Jesus in thy heart, therefore, now, with the same true heart, entertain Him for me. Adore Him, thank Him, and implore Him for the graces thou knows me to need-in particular.

Act of Faith

O Jesus, I believe that I have received Thy Flesh to eat and Thy Blood to drink, because Thou hast said it, and Thy word is true.

Act of Adoration

O Jesus, my God, my Creator, I adore Thee, because from Thy Hands I came and with Thee I am to be happy forever.

Act of Humility

O Jesus, I am but dust and ashes, and yet Thou hast come to me, and my poor heart may speak to Thee.

Act of Love

Sweet Jesus, I love Thee; I love Thee with all my heart. Thou knows that I love Thee, and wish to love Thee daily more and more.

Act of Thanksgiving

My good Jesus, I thank Thee with all my heart. How good, how kind Thou art to me, sweet Jesus. Blessed be Jesus in the most Holy Sacrament of the Altar.

Act of Offering

O Jesus, receive my poor offering. Jesus Thou hast given Thyself to me, and let me give myself to Thee:

I give Thee my body, that it may be chaste and pure.

I give Thee my soul, that it may be free from sin.

I give Thee my heart, that it may always love Thee.

I give Thee every breath that I shall breathe. and especially my last; I give Thee myself in life and in death, that I may be Thine for ever and ever.

O Jesus, wash away my sins with Thy precious Blood.

O Jesus, the struggle against temptation is not yet finished. My Jesus, when temptation comes near me, make me strong against it. In the moment of temptation may I always say, "Jesus, mercy! Mary, help!"

O Jesus, may I lead a good life; may I die a happy death. May I receive Thee before I die. May I say when I am dying, "Jesus, Mary, Joseph, I give you my heart and my soul."

Listen now for a moment to Jesus Christ; perhaps He has something to say to you. There may be some promise you have made and broken, which He wishes you to make again and keep. Answer Jesus in your heart, and tell Him all your troubles. Then pray for others.

O Jesus, have mercy on Thy Holy Church; take care of it.

O Jesus, have pity on poor sinners, and save them from hell.

O Jesus, bless my father, my mother, my brothers and sisters, and all I ought to pray for, as Thy Heart knows how to bless them.

O Jesus, have pity on the poor souls in Purgatory, and give them eternal rest.

Sweet Jesus, I am going away for a time, but trust not without Thee. Thou are with me by Thy grace. I will never leave Thee by mortal sin. I do not fear to do so, though I am so weak, because I have such hope in Thee. Give me grace to persevere. Amen.

Let's Go To Church

My father was a mill hand, and during the last 15 years of his life he was a hopeless invalid. Always vigorous and active he suddenly became sick, and could not work. It was his heart.

A little group of friends would come to visit him every evening. Plain people. This is Canonsburg, Pennsylvania, a mill and mining town. These men, with the lined faces, and bent backs, and gnarled hands, who worked every day from sunup to sundown, were brought together by my father’s illness.

Before, they had spent their free hours in noisy play, freeing themselves from the monotonous drudgery of the mill and mine. Now, sitting there, clustered around my father, they all asked themselves: Who are we? Where do we come from?

They all had heard of God. They all believed. But they didn’t work at it. They never really listened hard. Now they came within earshot of Him. There was a new light in all their faces, including my father’s. It shone when he said: “Become poor in spirit and share the light with me.”

At the time I didn’t understand all this. I was 14. But I knew that my father was showing me how to believe in many ways. His last 15 years were years of pain, but they were the happiest years of his life.

They couldn’t have been made so happy because of what he owned. Pop never made more than $175 a month. But he raised 13 kids, and not one of them a black sheep. We all worked. It was natural for me to start at the age of 11 in a barber shop.

Before school I opened the shop and lit the stoves. After school I swept the hair off the floors, polished the mirrors, and the owner taught me how to cut hair. My pay was 50¢ a week. My ambition then was to be the best barber between Canonsburg and Cleveland.

When I was 14, my father set me up in my own shop. If things got slow, I’d pick up my guitar and sing. You put someone with Italian blood down in the bleak mine country, and his only defense against the bleakness is to sing. The singing was also a reflection of the joy that came from a happy home.

By the time I was 20, I was making a big fat $40 a week. My mother and father thought that was the height of prosperity. To Pop, prosperity meant “enough to remind you to be thankful.” My mother even predicted that some day I’d be making $60 a week.

Later, much later, my father never could understand what they call success in the singing business. He was always puzzled by how a man standing in front of a microphone could earn a lot of money.

The first time he heard me sing was in a theatre where I was appearing. After the show I rushed to him, asking silently for his approval.

“Bravo,” was all he said.

At first I was hurt. But when Pop added: “The audience ... do all your audiences cheer you so loud and crazy?” I realized what he meant: applause every day keeps feeding your vanity and pride and greed. And that’s no way to become poor in spirit.

Besides, to people like Pop, singers meant Caruso, Martinelli, Scotti. And you know, maybe they’re right.

Anyway, I wouldn’t have had my father different.

And my mother, she’s still teaching me how to be poor in spirit. I’d like her to come and stay with me and my wife Roselle and our three kids. But she won’t. At her house in Canonsburg, with all her grandchildren, it’s like a big party all the time. She sits on the porch and everybody who comes by says hello.

Up here in New York nobody says hello in quite the same way. She’s probably right. To people like Mom, a little conversation with a friend is more important than running around for big things.

Roselle and I and the kids get down to see her every month, and Mom still can’t figure out what I do for a living. When we bring her a gift, and it’s a little expensive, she looks at me suspiciously, and asks: “Where did you get the money?”

I wouldn’t have her different either.

Sure, I got the things money can buy now. But the things money can’t buy my mother and my father gave me.

My wife Roselle gives them to me too. She’s as blonde and pretty as the day I married her 20 years ago. A year after we were married, we went off for a week’s vacation to Cleveland, and there Roselle talked me into singing for a band leader named Fred Carlone.

He offered me $25 a week. That was the end of my making an honest living. But it began seven years of one-night stands, climbing on and off buses, living in flea bag hotels. Three years with Carlone, and four with another band leader named Ted Weems.

Roselle traveled with me. It was like the foreign legion. We couldn’t get out. No, I take that back. Going from $25 to $125 a week was a lot of money. I didn’t want to get out—until our son Ronnie was on the way.

We went back home, and I was all ready to open a barber shop when I got a phone call from New York. Columbia Broadcasting offered me $76 a week on a sustaining show of my own. I hesitated. But Roselle said: “Honey, you can always open up a barber shop.” I went to New York.

It was the time of the Frank Sinatra bonfire. Anyone with some hair, a set of his own teeth, and a voice that could stay in key had plenty of chances. They gave me the jackpot; theatres, night clubs, records; Then they signed me to a big radio show; and I even got a movie contract. All within a few months. And now television.

It was crazy, but it was the singing business. A barber can work from 8:00 a.m. to 10:00 p.m. to make $50 a week—maybe. An engineer, a scientist, a doctor, a writer, they sweat and study long and hard before they can even start earning a buck. But in this business a guy makes one record and gets $50,000.

Somewhere along the line Someone sure put His hand on my head. I keep trying to deserve it.

We’ve got reason to be thankful, Roselle and I. But we never talk about it. That kind of gratitude isn’t for conversation. Faith is a word for doing, not talking.

We have three kids, Ronnie is 14. We adopted two more: David, who’s seven, and Terri, our daughter, who’s six. We got David when he was four, and Terri when she was six months old.

They all have an equal place in our hearts. They all reflect our own beliefs. But the way children believe, it’s like an inner beauty that shines right through to the outside.

I see it when I know they’ll all be home waiting for me to get there.

I see it when they all put their arms around me and kiss me goodnight, with the complete assurance that they’re loved and wanted.

I see it when Ronnie takes the four and a half dollars he saved and asks his mother to match it so he can buy a rod and reel for his brother and take Davey fishing.

I see it every Sunday when we all march off to church together, including the maid.

And I see it shining when we sit down at the table. The kids won’t start eating unless Grace is said. Who do you think says Grace? The two small ones, Davey and Terri.

When they mumble, Ronnie, the sergeant, says: “Say the words so we can all understand them.” And he gets them to say them over and over until they do it right.

And I see it when they say their prayers before they climb into bed every night.

I pray just like my kids do. Were my prayers ever answered? If you believe, anything you think, do, or have is an answer to prayer. If you believe, you know that without anybody having to tell it to you. Then your heart’s at peace.

If your heart’s at peace, everything else is. If it isn’t, everything else is wrong. That’s the way it always is.

Everything that’s ever happened to me has been the result of faith. The faith I found in my father’s house, and now find in my own house, and in my world. Sure, there are different beliefs, but as long as men believe, they believe basically the same thing. The lyrics may be different, but the music is always the same.

I know now that with his illness and poverty, my father had wealth beyond money. His heritage to his children was greater than any fortune.

That’s the only heritage a man can give his children while he’s alive.

It’s the only one that becomes more precious after his death.

27 Times

The artist Murillo painted his picture of the Immaculate Conception twenty-seven times. After each attempt, he was not satisfied. It did not praise Mary enough. On the twenty-seventh attempt, he painted the most beautiful picture of Mary ever painted. 

Today, somewhere in this world, there is a soul which loves Mary more than anyone else. Why couldn't that soul be one of us?

A blind girl was once asked what she would most like to see and she replied "Sometimes, I think that I should like to see the Mother of God."

We too hope someday to see the Mother of God in heaven. Therefore, we should listen to the words of Saint Bernard:

"If the winds of temptation arise, if you should fall on the rocks of tribulation, look toward that star―call on Mary. If anger or avarice or the allurements of the flesh have dashed against the ship of your soul look towards Mary. When endangered, when perplexed, think of Mary―call on Mary."

Bartolomé Esteban Murillo 
(born December 1617, baptized January 1, 1618 – April 3, 1682)