Written on the Heart: A Reflection on Mercy

 

Readings 071726 

When I sit with people in prayer—  

as a deacon, a spiritual director,  

a friend, a brother—  

I see a pattern that runs deep in the human soul.  

Desolation doesn’t always come from catastrophe.  

Sometimes it comes from hunger—  

a hunger for mercy  

that has gone unfed for far too long.

One wound,  

one memory,  

one moment of rejection  

can open a desert inside a person.  

And in that desert,  

the heart begins to starve.  

It starves for gentleness.  

It starves for compassion.  

It starves for the simple grace  

of being seen and loved without condition.

As I prayed through that today,  

the Gospel offered its quiet diagnosis:  

“I desire mercy…” 

Not sacrifice.  

Not performance.  

Not spiritual achievement.  

Mercy—  

because mercy is the food the human soul was made to live on.

The Lord says,  

“My words are spirit and life.” 

But spirit and life are only received  

in silence,  

in humility,  

in reverence.  

He keeps speaking—  

to every person,  

every soul—  

yet many hearts have grown calloused,  

and in that hardness,  

they lose the ability to taste mercy at all.

And maybe that’s the deeper ache of our world:  

desolation is not just emptiness—  

it is humanity starving for mercy,  

crying out for a tenderness  

we no longer know how to give.

So today,  

let go of the pressure to perform.  

Sit in the quiet.  

Let His mercy feed the places  

that have gone dry and weary.  

Let Him write His words  

upon your heart—  

because mercy is the nourishment  

that turns desolation  

back into life.

Prayer

Lord, 

Feed the dry places within me 

with Your mercy.  

Soften every hardened corner of my heart.  

Let Your quiet voice rise 

above my desolation.  

Heal what has grown weary 

and forgotten love.  

Write Your mercy 

upon my heart today.

Amen 

My Burden is Light

 

Readings 071626 

Sometimes the hardest truth to accept  

is the simplest one:  

we are not meant to do everything.

I was reminded of that this week  

when Mass times shifted,  

when responsibilities stretched,  

and when both my pastor and my wife  

looked at me with the same message—  

spoken and unspoken.

“Deacon… it is not for you to do everything.”  

And my wife’s quiet head‑shake  

was the Amen that sealed it.

She sees the weight I carry—  

caring for my mother,  

working full‑time,  

serving two churches,  

leading prayer,  

the constant reaching  

to be present  

wherever I can..  

And I always tell her,  

“If God wants me to do it,  

He will give me a way.”

But Jesus adds something deeper.  

He says the way He gives  

is not more strength,  

not more hours,  

not more striving.  

The way He gives  

is rest.

Only God can give the justice,  

the resurrection,  

the peace  

the human heart longs for—  

and He gives them  

by drawing us  

into His own meek  

and humble heart.

“Come to me,  

all you who labor and are burdened…  

and I will give you rest.”

Maybe the holiest act today  

is letting go  

of what God never asked us to carry.  .  

To take His yoke,  

not every yoke.  

To let His rest  

become our strength.

Prayer

Lord Jesus,  

Teach my heart to release 

what is not mine to carry.

Draw me into Your meek and humble rest.

Let Your yoke be the only weight 

upon my shoulders.

Give me the courage to lay down 

every unnecessary burden.

And let Your peace become the strength 

I live from each day.

Amen