Blogger’s Note: This is the latest in a collection of daily posts outlining my journey to the Sacred Heart over the past year or more. See an overview and links to past posts here.
It’s been a long week, headed into a working weekend and another long week, and I’m short on sleep. Rather than write a long, rambling, and unfocused Sacred Heart post, I think I’ll share this little piece instead.
As a kid I remember my sister and I spending a week in the summer at the farm where my mom grew up. I remember exploring the barn and watching the painted turtles in the water tank dive to the bottom when the cows came to drink. I remember Dziadzi’s dog King, and the screech of Guinea fowl, and Busia’s big, bountiful garden. I remember the big tire swing in the willow behind the house, and the mystery of Sunday Mass just up the road at St. Michael Catholic Church in Wilmot. (Yet another St. Michael parish in my life, along with this one and our current one.)
I remember they had religious artwork in their home, as well, but only one specific image comes to mind: an image of the Sacred Heart of Jesus that hung in their bedroom. I remember it has the striking appearance almost of a photograph of our Lord—but in retrospect, it’s strange I remember it at all, since I was rarely in their room.
As providence would have it, my godmother ended up with that image and, a few years back, gave it to Brendan. It hangs now in our basement family room.
The inscription reads: THE SACRED HEART OF JESUS, The King and Friend of Our House. The fine print reads, “National Center for the Enthronement, Washington 17, D.C.”
Sacred Heart of Jesus, I trust In You.