His Heart Pursues Me

What I say to you in the darkness, speak in the light; what you hear whispered, proclaim on the housetops. -Matthew 10:27

Deep breath. Here Goes. Illness kept me from attending Mass on Father's Day today where we also said good-bye to a too soon reassigned beloved priest. He often spoke of the Sacred Heart and encouraged us to allow Jesus to tend to ours. Today's Gospel, Father's message, and the recent consecration by the bishops of the US compel me to share what has been told to me in the dark. 

As a child, I recall thinking of the paintings of Jesus with an anatomical heart afire over his clothes as being what "heartburn" was and left it there until I began teaching at Sacred Heart in my early 20s where we regularly recited devotional prayers and I grew in my understanding about St Margaret Mary Alacoque and her visits from Jesus. Here it became a fascinating history lesson, but my heart wasn't particularly involved. 

Jesus waited patiently another 15 years or so before laying the trail of breadcrumbs that lead to my consecration first to the Immaculate and then the Sacred Heart with my miraculous physical healing accompanied by the appearance of the flaming Sacred Heart in the Italian sky sandwiched between. Jesus invited my surrender. And I gave it as best as I knew how.  

Though He physically healed it for a time, He wasn't finished working on my heart. That first Good Friday after being strengthened, as I prepared to walk up to the cross for veneration I felt a surge of skipped beats and a strange sensation in my physical heart. I wondered if my illness was returning and I recommited my surrender. As I knelt to kiss the cross, I "heard" inaudibly "My Heart beats in yours." The physical symptoms faded and I was left pondering this impossible phrase. 

My reprieve continued for two wonderful years before Covid brought an onslaught of physical challenges including new cardiac ones. Though I sought medical advice and treatment for these ailments I felt somehow resigned to these burdens and didn't ask God to remove them. Perhaps I felt he'd already taken and then given. He must want this for me. This was confirmed when a friend prayed over my headache and while I had my eyes closed I sensed a picture of a crown of thorns being gently placed on my head and a wooden cross lovingly pressed against my right shoulder, as if encouragement to carry. 

I was struggling particularly with my heart rhythm and light headedness in May of 2024. I missed Mass on Pentecost, May 19. That night, I had a dream I walked up to two enormous golden doors of rich architectural detail. They reminded me of the doors of St Peter at the Vatican that are sealed closed until Jubilee years only much taller and wider, larger than a human could open. There was a mail slot to my left, at shoulder height and I came to know that admission was one faithfully worn scapular. I removed mine from around my neck and fed it through the slot. After it was gone from sight, the doors began to move imperceptibly away from my feet as the dream ended.

I awoke the next morning and realized my scapular was missing. I found it hours later tucked behind the headboard of my bed and I remembered the odd dream. 

On May 21st, Tuesday, I still wasn't feeling well, but made it to Mass. I was physically trembling, trying not to pass out as I went up to receive Eucharist and Father took a few steps toward me to shorten the journey. The moment Jesus touched my tongue, it was as if I was back at the doors of my forgotten dream. The mammoth golden doors opened even wider, the floor growing before me. Pillars of light appeared and room after room of possibility in every direction of colors and lights not repeated in my human experience moved about me. I inaudibly "heard" the words, "I have prepared a place for you." I opened and closed my eyes and "saw" the same thing regardless. I felt immense, overwhelming joy and peace, a dwelling place! My interior castle! I have no memory of making my way back to my pew or standing for the final blessing. Tears wet my cheeks but I don't recall crying. 

The next time I received Eucharist, I was again taken into a realm of experience not of my doing, but not visual, and this time, though it was still a sense of lifting up, it was into an immense sorrow and was accompanied by physical aching of my head and right shoulder and intense heart racing. 

This continued every time I received Eucharist, 40 in all. I'd have a heart pounding, in the depths, trembling, tearful, sorrowing experience. My head and shoulder throbbed. At these Eucharists, I felt union with Jesus, but not in the joy-filled buoyant way that I experienced at heaven's door or in the cloud of the Sacred Heart at my healing. This was deeply sorrowful, as if being helplessly at the foot of the cross, though not at the foot- at the heart.  

I generally felt helpless to respond or act or even think during these experiences. I was just taken up and brought into His sorrowing presence. But on June 5th I managed to ask, "What do you want of me?" I heard, "Console my heart." I had a sense that the rapid heart beat I not only felt but heard each time was somehow both our hearts. "My Heart beats in yours," I remembered. I don't know how I ever could be able, but I desired to obey. This instruction gave me peace and sense of purpose and it lessened the concern I felt about others seeing me in this trembling, crying, state at church. 

June 7 we celebrated the feast of the Sacred Heart by having our family's image of the Sacred Heart enthroned in our home. 

July 8 was to be the last Eucharistic sorrow I experienced. July 11, Feast of Benedict I was not plucked out of the church, lifted to the cross and immersed in Jesus' agony. I could think about it, remember it, with my usual distractions, but the Presence and physical manifestations were gone and have not once returned. And I'm left pondering still. 

While with Him on the cross, I was sitting with all the times I've failed to see Him in the Eucharist, received Him unworthily, or forgotten Him. I could be there in that sorrow for eternity for my failures alone, but he will not leave me there. Perhaps He gave me that time to make it up to Him in a little way. I trust He can multiply my little offering and make it holy fuel for others. 

Before this experience after receiving Eucharist I would often pray, "Jesus, stay with me." Followed by the concerns of the day. When I was lifted up to the cross, it was as if I was now invited to stay with Jesus, to console him in His suffering. It isn't the physical suffering that is most painful to Him. It is the hardened hearts of those who refuse His love. He is in agony over those who do not love him in return. Before, when I'd look at a crucifix, I'd see Jesus dead, as a corpse. Now I see him suspended still in the act of waiting for every beloved son and daughter to receive His mercy. 

Three months later in October 2024 I was struggling with suffering well and still taking care of my responsibilites and I took this to adoration. I brazenly told Jesus to pick one because I couldn't do both and that I knew he could just reach His hand down and touch me on the head and heal me if he wanted and take back this cross and crown. I guess I didn't think He was really listening to my rant because I was surprised when I "heard,"

My priest's hands are the closest things to my own hands on earth. Go to him and ask him to lay My hands on your head.

Yikes. Does that mean he'll take the cross and crown?

I didn't hear an answer, but I sensed His rhetorical question, 

Do you want Me to take it?

To which I hedged, well, no. Not if you want me to carry it. But I can't do it all! 

I left adoration thinking I would need courage to ask a priest to lay his hands on my head and immediately saw one across the parking lot walking away. I didn't think he was even aware of my presence quite a distance behind him but he paused and turned and raised his hand waving at me, only I saw it distinctly as Jesus' hand saying, "Here I Am." 

Ok then. 

 

Father did not seem at all surprised by my request and soon met me dressed in robe and stole of anointing as I tried to explain that I didn't think I needed anointing, he quieted me, laid his hands in the person of Christ upon my head in prayer, not anointing, and the Holy Spirit came and I felt as if He poured spiritual and physical waters over me. As Father prayed, I "heard," 

I Am with you.

I love you.

I DO ALL THINGS WELL.

emphasis on the I

When it had ended, the little cross and crown remained. I wasn't ready for Him to take them back. I'm sorry I yelled at you, Jesus. I can't be trusted. 

For two years I wondered HOW to console the Sacred Heart of Jesus. I'd receive little consolations and challenges to console the sufferings of others, to endure my own suffering better, and to console through joy. I'd find glimmers in homilies and scripture, but Jesus was mostly quiet and somehow I wasn't at peace with the how and I continued to ask. A lot. 

June 4, 2026 I asked again in adoration. Feeling no answer had been given, I got up to leave but my eye caught a paper on the chair in front of me with the quote. "I firmly wish that My face reflecting the intimate pains of My Soul, the suffering and love of My Heart, be more honored! Whoever gazes upon Me already consoles Me." 

I found peace in this answer. Gaze upon His face and His Heart is consoled. 

I am a sinner. I cannot fathom why the God of the Universe would deign stoop down to even toss breaths of life or rays of sunshine toward me, much less all these consolations. But the rain falls on the good and evil alike. He abases Himself to the lowliest. It's like His whole thing. See every example ever. I have shied away from sharing these whispers here for fear of what others will think of me, either for well or for ill. But I've been moved to proclaim that God does all things well and He is waiting for us to love him back. Love him back. He has big hearts to fill. 

Scruffy Little Mangers

Part of solving the medical havoc of October entailed health insurance changes the firsts of October, November, and for the fun of it, December, but all seems to be soothed for now. I'll complain Ben's wheelchair is still in need of one of the repairs he's been working on since the summer, but he's making do. 

Gigi and I took a turn serving the hungry with the Missionaries of Charity and sold Christmas trees at the church tree lot. She ended her volleyball season and got to be an Advent dancer in a school prayer service. She had her high school interview, made a pi Pie for her math teacher, and sold a record number of Advent candles for the Little Flowers, being her last chance at the table. 

When we moved into our house over 12 years ago the realtor commented that the house in disrepair next door would be torn down within the year. Nearly every house on our side of the street has been demolished and replaced with infill since then, but her prediction was off by 12 years. It's a little noisy in my home office, but I'm like a toddler boy fascinated by the diggers and dozers that creep past my window squashing siding, moving earth, and felling trees.

Attendance at our traditional open door Thanksgiving took a bit of a hit due to under weathered family members which scared off all but the bravest of souls. 

Inspired by the snow and the Nutcracker ballet, we decked our halls before the boys headed back for their dorms and readied ourselves for Advent. 

I was at Mass one day recently looking at the golden tabernacle that holds the Eucharist, that we believe to be truly Jesus, body, blood, soul, and divinity and pondered why He would choose to leave the perfection of heaven, to be in all the tabernacles of the world so that he could come to us, even unworthy little me, then thought of the manner that He chose to do this, through the sinless vessel of Mary, another more worthily created tabernacle, as a vulnerable unborn baby to be delivered in the hay. But that's just how crazy in love Jesus is with us. He yearns to cover the lowliest, the darkest corners, the hidden places. I wrote this little reflection and since then have been asking Mary to help make me into a little manger before every Eucharist, an offered unworthy resting place in which to adore Him, just like He wants. 

I am not worthy that You should enter under my roof. But If I imagine myself like the lowly feeding trough, the manger found in the cold musty cave. Mary could possibly see within me a needs must place that could make do for a little while. She could see more in me. Dust me off, make my rough places smooth, clear away what offends and allow me to be a temporary resting place for you, Lord. Mary, if it pleases you, make me into a little manger for Jesus. Nestle Him beneath my heart, cradle His sweet little newborn body pressed into the simple linens you’ve arranged for His nesting comfort, and come, let us adore Him. How vulnerable and humble our Lord, to be descended among the scraps and lowing. How can it be that my Lord should come to me? We adore You. We consume You, and little by little we become a little crumb more like You. Rather, we adore You. You allow us to consume You, and we pray to one day become consumed by You.

My (brief) Adoration Testimony

A friend asked regular adorers to summarize our thoughts on Eucharistic Adoration for our church bulletin. Here's mine: Before committing to a regular adoration slot I would stop in when struggling. Jesus lent a quiet ear. I’d pour out my worries and come away lighter. Eventually I felt drawn. Will you not stay awake one hour?

There’s countless ways to adore. I’m reminded of the farmer in St Vianney’s parish that would sit for hours before the monstrance. When asked what he was doing all that time he replied simply, “I look at Him and He looks at me.” 

Though I have tried to employ this advice of less chatter and more gazing in wonder and awe, I frequently find my mind wandering into list making or studying the rug pattern. Once, I decided to combat this tendency by saying the name of Jesus to myself each time I began to wander away. Eventually I was repeating His name over and over in rapid succession when I was interrupted by an amused and kindly presence. Jesus said to my heart, “Stop saying My name so that you can hear Me say yours.” 

There is nothing lovelier than hearing our name from the very lips of our beloved. 

Go to Him. He waits for you.