devotion – TYPiNG ouT oF THe BLue

She was twelve when her heart already burned for something bigger than her quiet French town. Born in 1647, Sister Margaret Mary grew up fragile, sickly, but full of longing—like her soul was tuned to Heaven’s frequency.

When she entered the Visitation convent in Paray-le-Monial, silence became her world. But in that stillness, something eternal broke through. One night, she said Jesus appeared to her—His Heart surrounded by thorns, glowing with love. Not the kind of love people post about, but the kind that bleeds, forgives, and keeps loving even when the world turns away.

Christ’s message to her was simple yet deep:

• Love Me in return for My love.

• Make reparation for the coldness and indifference of souls.

• Honor My Heart through prayer and the First Friday Communions.

It wasn’t easy. Some sisters thought she was too emotional. Others said she imagined it. But she kept going. Because once you’ve seen love that real, you can’t unsee it.

From her quiet yes began one of the most powerful devotions in faith’s history—the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Through her, the Church learned that love must never harden, that mercy must never fade.

Saint Margaret Mary Alacoque died in 1690, but her message still whispers: if you can’t change the whole world, start by softening one heart—yours.

⌨ ᴛʸᵖⁱⁿᵍ ᴏᵘᵗ ᵒᶠ ᵗʰᵉ ʙˡᵘᵉ ᵈᵃʳᵉᵐ ᵐᵘˢⁱᶜ ᵇˡᵒᵍ

Traces of courage, silence, and sacrifice—this is Saints.

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An imagined lament of Mary upon her seven sorrows

Simeon held my Child and blessed Him, then turned to me with words that never left my heart: a sword would pierce my soul.

One night Joseph woke me, his face filled with urgency. I gathered Jesus in my arms while we left everything behind. Soldiers were searching for Him, but we carried Him into the darkness, trusting God alone.

There was a time I could not find Him. Three days of searching, calling His name, my heart breaking with every hour. At last in the Temple He sat among the teachers, calm while I trembled with sorrow and relief.

Years passed. The boy I once searched for in the Temple became the man I saw bent beneath the Cross. His face bloodied, His body torn. The crowd shouted, soldiers struck Him, and our eyes met. I had nothing to give Him but my tears.

I stood beneath the Cross as the nails were struck, as the sky darkened, as His breathing slowed. My Son gave His last breath, and my soul broke with Him.

They placed His body in my arms. Once I held Him small and new, now I held Him cold and still.

And then the stone closed the tomb. The silence was heavier than death itself, yet my love for Him remains.

This reflection is only an imagined lament, written to draw hearts closer to the sorrow of Mary and the love of Christ. The memorial of Our Lady of Sorrows is kept on September 15.

𝚃𝚢𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙾𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙱𝚕𝚞𝚎 • 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗆.𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗂𝖼.𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗀

Tag: devotion

Sister Margaret Mary Alacoque and the Sacred Heart of Jesus

Our Lady of Sorrows