Strength of Prayer in Weariness and Sickness

Divine Appeal Reflection  - 91

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 91: "In weariness and sickness your prayers are pleasing to Me. Do not waste any of these precious times." 

Weariness and sickness, often perceived as interruptions to productivity, are revealed here as privileged moments of communion (cf. Mt 11:28–30; cf. Ps 73:26). In the mystery of Christian anthropology, the human person is not defined by efficiency but by relationship with God (cf. Gen 1:27; cf. CCC 356–357), and when strength diminishes, the illusion of self-sufficiency is stripped away (cf. Jn 15:5; cf. Deut 8:2–3), allowing the soul to stand in a more radical truth before God—poor, receptive, and interiorly exposed (cf. Ps 51:17; cf. Job 42:5–6). This is why Our Adorable Jesus finds these prayers profoundly pleasing: they arise not from spiritual abundance or emotional clarity, but from poverty of spirit, where the soul possesses nothing yet offers everything . The Apostle Paul recognized that divine power manifests most intensely in weakness (cf. 2 Cor 12:9–10), not because suffering is inherently good, but because, when united to Christ, it becomes a living participation in His redemptive self-offering . In daily life, this mystery touches the exhausted seminarian struggling to focus , the overburdened parent persevering in hidden sacrifice (cf. Sir 2:1–5), the sick elderly person confined to silence (cf. Ps 71:9), whose hidden sighs (cf. Rom 8:26), fragmented prayers , and silent endurance become intercessory offerings united to the Cross . Philosophically, this transfigures the meaning of time itself: what appears “unproductive” within temporal metrics becomes eternally fruitful within the economy of grace . The Catechism affirms that suffering, when united with Christ, participates in His redemptive work (cf. CCC 1505, 618), revealing that no moment of weakness is empty but is charged with salvific potential when consciously offered in love . In this way, the soul learns that its deepest fruitfulness is not in doing, but in being with Christ—remaining, even in weakness, as a living offering of communion.

This appeal also unveils a Eucharistic dimension that is often overlooked, for in the Eucharist, Christ perpetuates His self-offering in a state of humble vulnerability (cf. Lk 22:19; cf. CCC 1366–1367), remaining eternally “given” and “poured out” in love (cf. Jn 6:51). Weariness and sickness mystically mirror this Eucharistic condition: a state of being emptied, where the person no longer acts from strength but from surrender (cf. Phil 2:17; cf. Is 53:12). In this light, human fragility is transfigured into participation in Christ’s own offering. Saints like St. Thérèse of Lisieux perceived that holiness is not rooted in extraordinary achievements but in offering the smallest sufferings with immense love (cf. Lk 16:10), while St. John Paul II reflected on the apostolate of suffering as a hidden yet powerful participation in Christ’s redemptive mission . When one is too tired to pray formally, simply remaining interiorly united to Jesus—through a silent gaze, a wordless surrender, or a brief movement of the heart—becomes a profoundly Eucharistic act . In practical terms, this may take the form of offering a headache, a sleepless night, or emotional exhaustion for a specific soul or intention (cf. Rom 12:1), thereby transforming passive suffering into active intercession. The Gospel reveals that Jesus Himself entered prayer through physical anguish in Gethsemane , sanctifying human fatigue and revealing that weakness can become communion. Therefore, such moments are not spiritual interruptions but privileged altars where the soul is configured more deeply to the Crucified (cf. Gal 2:20), and to “not waste” them is to consciously unite them to the offering of the Mass, even from afar .

From a mystical perspective, weariness and sickness purify intention, because when energy is abundant, prayer can subtly become self-referential, marked by consolation or a sense of achievement (cf. Mt 6:5–6), but in weakness, prayer is stripped to its essence as a simple, naked act of trust (cf. Ps 62:8; cf. Heb 11:1). This echoes the experience of Job, who, in the extremity of suffering, passed beyond human reasoning into a direct encounter with God , discovering that true knowledge of God arises not from control but from surrender. The desert fathers likewise spoke of the “prayer of infirmity,” where the soul, unable to rely on its natural faculties, rests entirely in divine mercy (cf. 2 Cor 1:9), entering a state of radical dependence that mirrors Christ’s own abandonment into the Father’s hands (cf. Lk 23:46). The Catechism teaches that prayer is fundamentally a gift before it is a human effort (cf. CCC 2559), and thus in sickness, the soul learns not how to achieve prayer but how to receive it . In modern contexts, this applies profoundly to moments of burnout, mental fatigue, or chronic illness (cf. Eccl 1:8), where instead of resisting these states with frustration (cf. Jas 1:2–4), the soul is invited to transform them into silent consent to God’s will (cf. Mt 26:39), allowing weakness to become a place of communion rather than resistance. This does not negate the legitimate search for healing or rest (cf. Sir 38:1–2), but integrates suffering into a larger redemptive horizon . Such prayer is deeply ecclesial, for it sustains the Body of Christ invisibly (cf. 1 Cor 12:24–26), strengthening others through hidden intercession (cf. Eph 6:18), and thus becomes a form of contemplative apostolate accessible in every vocation, where even apparent passivity is transformed into active participation in divine love .

There is also a profound apostolic urgency in this appeal, for the phrase “do not waste” implies that these moments are not neutral but carry eternal weight (cf. Gal 6:7–8). Time, in Christian thought, is the arena of salvation , where every moment of suffering can either be consciously offered or lost to self-absorption (cf. Eph 5:15–16). Jesus’ concern reflects His thirst for souls (cf. Jn 19:28), inviting believers into real collaboration with His redemptive mission . Biblical revelation, especially in the figure of the suffering servant (cf. Is 53:4–5), shows that hidden suffering, when united to God, becomes mysteriously fruitful for many . In daily life, this takes on deeply practical form: intentionally uniting moments of discomfort to intercession—for families (cf. 2 Macc 12:44–45), for the Church (cf. Col 4:3), for those far from God . A mother enduring fatigue can offer it for her children’s faith (cf. 2 Tim 1:5), a worker overwhelmed by stress can offer it for colleagues (cf. Col 3:23–24), and a sick person, though hidden, can become a spiritual force within the Church (cf. Jas 5:16). In this way, what appears as passivity is transfigured into mission (cf. Jn 12:24), (cf. Col 1:24) and the soul enters into the mystery of co-redemptive love . The saints consistently testify that the most fruitful apostolates are often unseen (cf. Mt 6:6), where grace operates in silence yet with eternal impact, and thus weariness itself becomes a participation in Christ’s salvific love, extending far beyond what is visible into the hidden economy of grace .

This appeal invites a reorientation of how we perceive “preciousness,” for in a culture that values strength, success, and visibility (cf. 1 Jn 2:16), Jesus reveals the hidden, the fragile, and the overlooked as spiritually decisive (cf. Mt 6:4). This reflects the logic of the Cross, where apparent defeat becomes victory and weakness becomes the place of divine power . The Catechism teaches that Christ calls each person to take up their cross daily , not as a meaningless burden, but as a path of intimate union with Him in love . Saints like St. Padre Pio and St. Teresa of Calcutta embodied this mystery by embracing suffering as a means of loving more deeply , allowing hidden sacrifices to become channels of grace for the world . Practically, this calls for the formation of an interior habit: when fatigue or illness arises, instead of immediate complaint , the soul pauses, recollects itself, and consciously offers the moment to God . Over time, this forms what may be called a Eucharistic soul—one that lives not sporadically, but as a continual offering . Such a life becomes at once deeply mystical and profoundly practical, touching every vocation—students, workers, parents, and consecrated souls alike . In this way, nothing is wasted, for every hidden moment becomes a seed of grace within the mysterious economy of salvation (cf. Eccl 11:6), and the soul learns to live not by visible results, but by invisible fidelity , where God alone sees, receives, and brings all to fulfillment.

Prayer 

Our Adorable Jesus,in our weariness we come before You. Receive every fatigue, every illness, every hidden suffering as a united offering. Teach us to sanctify these moments through love. Let nothing be wasted. Transform our weakness into intercession, and make our lives, even in limitation, a living sacrifice for souls. Amen.

Sr. Anna Ali of the Most Holy Eucharist, intercede for us.

Divine Appeal 91

ON THE EUCHARIST:A DIVINE APPEAL

(Revelation to Sr Anna Ali of the Most Holy Eucharist)

VOLUME 1

“As I am exposed, I will pour My infinite mercy in the human soul.”

“My daughter, spend these dark hours with Me. Watch and pray. With love and mercy I am calling. I do not want anyone to perish.

Pray and bring Me souls. Let nothing else count for you any more apart from what grieves Me.

Never suffer outside My Love but let your sufferings be like new accents of love for Me. You know that I love you. Stay with Me. Do this for the sake of souls. Do it as though it were in your power to give Me every living person in a single instant. You can quench My thirst with it.

For the sake of souls let your ears always be on the alert to listen to Me. Look how alone I am in the empty churches. You will be My victim and offer yourself in union with Me. I feel that need of being surrounded by all My beloved ones. Adore My love and My hunger for souls. Pray with me. Now that you have seen how deep is My love.

I do assure souls that I am calling them all to repent. These are tragic times. The evil one already knows that the time is short. The children of darkness calumniate Me because they will never see My Truth. I accept this offering of sufferings.

As I am exposed, I will pour My infinite mercy in the human souls. My great love for mankind forces Me to remain lonely in the tabernacle.

Give Me your heartfelt adoration. Pray more. Do not blame yourself as if you were responsible for your happenings. I do not want you to be imprudently sad for I tell you whatever you do you will have sorrow. This is why I want you to be wisely aware of the state of penance in which you always dwell. Take it for souls.”

In weariness and sickness your prayers are pleasing to Me. Do not waste any of these precious times. Bring Me souls. As a traveller seeks a shelter where he may rest along the way, you are such a shelter for Me. You are suffering because you are a victim for Me.

Pray a great deal.”

“I give My blessing.”

20th February 1988

Copyright © 2015 Bishop Cornelius K. Arap Korir, Catholic Diocese of Eldoret, Kenya.  All rights reserved. Reproduced from ON THE EUCHARIST: A DIVINE APPEAL, Volume I by www.adivineappeal.com.

Not Leaving Jesus Alone

Divine Appeal Reflection  - 90

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 90:  "Do not leave Me alone. I am like a terrified child begging not to be left alone."

To “not leave Jesus alone” begins in something very simple, yet very demanding: learning to truly be present. God is never absent,(cf. Col 1:17; Acts 17:28) because He sustains everything in existence at every moment and holds our lives together even when we are unaware . Yet in becoming man, Our Adorable Jesus chose to enter a condition where His love could be personally received—or quietly ignored (cf. Jn 1:10–11; Phil 2:6–8). His “loneliness” is not weakness, but the sorrow of love that waits, offers itself, and is not always welcomed. When He says, “Do not leave Me alone,” He is not asking for extraordinary achievements, but for the gift of our attention, our awareness, our staying. It is possible to be externally close to Him—through prayer routines, religious practices, or even service—yet internally distant, distracted, or divided. The disciples in Gethsemane were physically near Him,(cf. Mt 26:40–41) yet they slept , and that sleep reflects a deeply human reality: the heart’s tendency to drift, to escape, to withdraw from the intensity of love that asks us to remain. In daily life, this “leaving Him alone” happens quietly and almost unnoticed. A moment meant for prayer is filled with noise or screens. Silence feels uncomfortable, so it is avoided . Responsibilities take over, and God is postponed . Even in suffering, instead of turning toward Him, the heart can close in on itself . Yet not leaving Jesus alone does not require emotional strength or constant focus—it begins with small, faithful returns. It is choosing, again and again, to turn back to Him: a brief interior glance during work, a whispered prayer in fatigue, a conscious awareness of His presence in ordinary tasks. Man is created for this living relationship , and without it, there remains a subtle emptiness, a sense of disconnection. To remain with Jesus is not about feeling something, but about choosing Him in the midst of everything. Even a few seconds of sincere attention, a quiet “I am here,” becomes real companionship. In this way, love becomes practical, constant, and human—and Jesus is no longer left alone.

The most literal place where Jesus experiences being left alone is the Eucharist, where the Living God remains sacramentally present in silence, vulnerability, and hiddenness (cf. CCC 1374; cf. Mt 28:20), choosing a form of presence that depends entirely on human response for consolation . To leave Jesus alone in the Eucharist is not merely to neglect a devotion; it is to ignore a Person who remains out of love (cf. Jn 6:51), and empty churches, rushed Mass attendance, distracted reception of Holy Communion all become variations of abandonment . Yet the opposite is equally powerful: one soul kneeling in adoration restores companionship to Christ’s Heart (cf. Ps 34:18), as St. Peter Julian Eymard saw the tabernacle as a “prison of love,” not because Christ is bound, but because love waits without force . In daily life, this dimension becomes concrete: a worker stepping into a quiet church during lunch, a student pausing before exams, a parent offering a silent visit after exhaustion—these are acts of “not leaving Him alone” (cf. Ps 63:1–2). Even when no church is physically accessible, Eucharistic communion extends spiritually through desire (cf. Jn 4:23–24), and a whispered “I am here, Lord” in traffic or suffering becomes mystical companionship (cf. Ps 139:7–10). The Eucharist is therefore not passive presence but relational vulnerability, for Jesus remains not because He must, but because He desires not to be alone (cf. Jn 15:9). To abandon the Eucharist is to ignore Love that chose to stay (cf. Lk 22:19–20), and to remain is to become consolation to God .

The phrase “Do not leave Me alone” also enters the emotional mystery of divine-human encounter, where Christ, true God and true man, assumes a human heart capable of relational sorrow, and in Gethsemane reveals interior anguish (cf. Mk 14:34; cf. Heb 4:15), showing that love suffers when it is not received (cf. Jn 1:11). Psychologically, human beings understand the pain of loneliness as the absence of response (cf. Ps 25:16), and Jesus freely enters this experience so that no human loneliness remains untouched by Him (cf. Is 53:3), yet He also invites the human heart to respond in kind—to console Him . This is not because God is emotionally deficient, but because love by nature seeks reciprocity (cf. Jn 15:12–13), as St. Thérèse of Lisieux understood when she offered small acts of love to “comfort Jesus’ Heart” in hidden ways (cf. Col 3:23), where even a smile offered in suffering becomes participation in divine consolation (cf. 2 Cor 1:4). In daily life, this dimension becomes deeply practical: when a person chooses prayer instead of scrolling endlessly (cf. 1 Thess 5:17), when forgiveness is chosen over resentment , when silence is offered instead of anger (cf. Jas 1:19), these become emotional companionship to Christ. Even emotional fatigue can become prayer: “Jesus, I stay with You even when I feel empty” (cf. Ps 73:23–26). The refusal to leave Him alone is not emotional perfection but emotional fidelity—it is remaining when feelings fade (cf. Ps 42:5–6), loving when dryness comes (cf. Hos 2:14–15), and choosing presence over escape (cf. Lk 22:42), so that human emotional life becomes a place where Jesus is no longer alone but accompanied in love .

To not leave Jesus alone is also a moral reality, for Christ identifies Himself with the suffering, the poor, and the marginalized (cf. Mt 25:40), and therefore every act of neglect toward the vulnerable is mysteriously connected to leaving Him alone . When injustice is ignored, when truth is silenced (cf. Is 59:14–15), when compassion is withheld (cf. 1 Jn 3:17), Christ is again left alone—not in abstraction, but in His mystical body (cf. 1 Cor 12:26), and the Catechism teaches that love of God and love of neighbor are inseparable , so moral life becomes companionship with Christ in the world. In practical terms, this means that listening to someone who is unseen becomes companionship with Jesus (cf. Prov 31:8–9), defending truth in uncomfortable situations becomes standing with Him (cf. Eph 6:13–14), refusing corruption even quietly becomes fidelity to His presence (cf. Ex 23:8), and caring for family members patiently becomes consoling Christ in daily hiddenness . St. Vincent de Paul saw Christ in the poor not metaphorically but sacramentally extended , while St. James insists that faith without works is dead (cf. Jas 2:17), meaning Christ is “left alone” when love is not embodied . Even small acts—checking on a lonely friend (cf. Sir 7:34), helping without recognition (cf. Mt 6:3–4), choosing honesty when no one sees (cf. Lk 16:10)—become moral companionship, and thus Jesus is not only in churches but in every ethical decision , where to leave Him alone is to choose indifference , and to remain with Him is to let love become action .

At its highest level, “Do not leave Me alone” points to eternity, where salvation is communion and separation is the rejection of love freely offered , and heaven is not merely reward but eternal companionship with God fully received (cf. Jn 17:24; cf. Rev 21:3). The mystical tradition teaches that God desires union more than human desire can comprehend (cf. 1 Tim 2:4), and St. Augustine described the heart’s rest in God (cf. Ps 62:1), but here we see something deeper: even God, in Christ, expresses desire not to be left alone in love (cf. Jn 19:28). Eschatologically, every moment becomes decisive (cf. Sir 5:7), and each act of prayer, neglect, attention, or indifference participates in shaping eternal orientation (cf. Gal 6:7–8), as the soul either learns companionship with Christ or habituates distance . The “terrified child” image becomes an urgent spiritual revelation: love is fragile not in itself, but in human response, for God does not impose communion but invites it (cf. Rev 3:20). St. John of the Cross shows that purification is the removal of anything that prevents union (cf. Heb 12:1), and thus every attachment that replaces Christ becomes a subtle leaving of Him alone (cf. Lk 14:26–27). But the final truth is hope: Christ never ceases to remain (cf. Mt 28:20), even when abandoned He stays (cf. 2 Tim 2:13), and thus the call is simple yet infinite—stay with Him in life so you may not be separated in eternity (cf. Jn 6:67–69), for not leaving Jesus alone is the beginning of heaven already entered into time .

Prayer 

O Adorable Jesus beloved of our souls, let us live in constant union with You. When others forget, let our hearts remember. When silence surrounds You, let our love speak. Keep us faithful in every visit, that You may never be alone, but always consoled by our presence. Amen.

Sr. Anna Ali of the Most Holy Eucharist, intercede for us.

The World at the Precipice

Divine Appeal Reflection  - 90

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 90: "These are grave moments. I am agonising over souls. The world advances towards the precipice from one day to the next. Pray a great deal."

At the summit of this appeal, the soul does not encounter a concept but a cry—living, personal, and piercing through every age: “I am agonising over souls.” It is the voice of Our Adorable Jesus, whose Sacred Heart remains eternally open, not in distant majesty, but in vulnerable, self-giving love (cf. Jn 19:34; Rev 3:20). This cry echoes the mystery of the Agony in the Garden, where the God-Man entered the most hidden depths of human freedom, (cf. Mt 26:38–39; Lk 22:44; Heb 5:7–9) standing alone before the weight of every acceptance of grace and every refusal of love . The Catechism unveils that His redemptive offering is not abstract but intensely personal—He gives Himself for each soul as if for that soul alone . His agony, then, is not merely over sin as transgression, but over the distortion of a beauty once radiant—souls created in the image of God (cf. Gen 1:26–27), now dimmed by forgetfulness, inner fragmentation, and disordered longing . St. Catherine of Siena perceived this with luminous depth, recognizing the soul as a mirror of God that becomes clouded when it turns away from its source. This tragedy is not distant; it unfolds quietly in daily life: in the hidden sadness behind outward composure (cf. Prov 14:13), in the tension of a divided will that desires good yet struggles to act (cf. Rom 7:18–25), (cf. Ps 40:12) in the slow erosion of hope through repeated weakness . Yet what is most striking is that Christ does not retreat. His agony is itself a form of nearness—a love that refuses to abandon, that remains present in silence , that waits with patient mercy (cf. 2 Pet 3:9), and that continues to call the soul, even when the soul has grown accustomed to not responding.

“These are grave moments” does not merely describe a period in history; it unveils a threshold within the human soul where time itself becomes weighty with eternity. Each moment is no longer ordinary—it is charged with consequence, a quiet intersection where grace invites and freedom responds . Scripture speaks with urgency, not to instill fear, but to awaken awareness: the heart cannot indefinitely delay its return without becoming less capable of hearing . The Catechism deepens this truth, affirming that freedom is not neutral or static; it is dynamic, oriented toward fulfillment in God, yet tragically capable of turning inward and losing its direction . Philosophically, this reveals the profound drama of human existence:(cf. CCC 1731–1734; 1742) man stands continually between illumination and obscurity, drawn by grace yet resisting through habit, fear, or attachment . St. Ignatius of Loyola penetrated this interior tension, discerning how the soul is subtly influenced—consoled toward truth or disturbed toward illusion—often in ways so gentle they are easily overlooked . These “grave moments” are rarely dramatic. They unfold in the hidden fabric of daily life: the hesitation before telling the truth when it may cost something (cf. Eph 4:25), the quiet struggle to remain faithful in responsibilities that no one notices (cf. Mt 6:4), the fragile decision to rise again after failure instead of surrendering to discouragement . They are deeply human because they involve weariness, doubt, and vulnerability—the feeling of being divided within oneself (cf. Jas 1:6–8). One may feel unworthy of grace, too tired to begin again, or slowly numbed by routine. Yet grace does not withdraw. It remains, often gentle and almost imperceptible, drawing the heart forward . To live this appeal practically is to become attentive—to notice these interior movements, to pause before reacting, to choose truth when it would be easier to avoid it. In this way, eternity is not shaped primarily by extraordinary acts, but by the quiet accumulation of small, faithful “yeses” that, over time, reorient the entire soul toward life.

"The world advances towards the precipice from one day to the next" presents a dismal picture of humanity's collective movement—a gradual amnesia rather than a struggle. The “precipice” here is not merely catastrophe but the existential edge where humanity, detached from God, risks self-destruction through sin, injustice, and spiritual blindness (cf. Rom 1:21–25; CCC 409). It is the accumulation of small refusals of grace that slowly form a collective drift away from truth. Scripture speaks of this slow descent, (cf. Mk 8:17–18; Rom 1:28–31) where hearts become hardened and perception dulled . The Catechism (cf. CCC 1865; 1869) explains that sin, when repeated, forms habits and structures that obscure moral clarity and weaken resistance . Philosophically, this reflects a loss of teleology—a forgetting of the ultimate purpose for which human life is ordered. When God is eclipsed, meaning fragments, and the person becomes disoriented. St. Edith Stein recognized this as a crisis of truth, where the rejection of objective reality leads to interior emptiness. In daily life, this descent is subtle and deeply human: prioritizing productivity over presence (cf. Ps 127:2), seeking validation over authenticity , (cf. Lk 21:34) numbing interior restlessness with distraction . These patterns do not immediately appear destructive, yet they gradually incline the soul toward the edge. Still, the response remains within reach. It is found in concrete acts: choosing silence to listen to God (cf. 1 Kgs 19:12), resisting the impulse to judge (cf. Mt 7:1–5), (cf. Jas 2:14–17)offering time and attention to those overlooked . These acts restore orientation. They re-anchor the soul in truth. The world may drift, but the individual can remain rooted, becoming a quiet point of resistance where grace continues to act.

“Pray a great deal” emerges as both remedy and participation in divine love. Prayer is not merely petition; (cf. Jn 15:4–5) it is communion—entering into the very life of God who sustains and redeems . The Catechism teaches that prayer is a covenant relationship,(cf. CCC 2564; 2591) initiated by God and responded to by the human heart . Philosophically, prayer gathers the fragmented movements of the human heart and orders them toward the supreme good, (cf. CCC 27, 1700; Jas 4:8) restoring interior unity where disintegration had taken root . It is not an escape from reality but a re-centering of the person in truth, where desire is purified and freedom rightly directed . In the tradition of the saints, especially St. John of the Cross, this journey unfolds through obscurity and purification, where the soul passes through nights of sense and spirit into a deeper participation in divine life . Such prayer is deeply human: it does not bypass struggle but enters into it—distraction, dryness, resistance—allowing these very experiences to become spaces where God is encountered and the heart is purified (cf. Rom 8:26; CCC 2729–2731). In this way, perseverance in prayer becomes a concrete act of love, where the soul, though tested and often fragile, is slowly gathered into unity, interiorly strengthened, and gently drawn into deeper communion with God . In daily life, prayer becomes incarnate in simple fidelity: a moment of surrender before beginning work , a quiet turning to God in confusion (cf. Prov 3:5–6), a humble act of repentance at day’s end . Eucharistically, this call reaches its highest expression. Before the Blessed Sacrament, the soul encounters Christ truly present, continuing His offering for humanity . To remain there, even in silence, is to enter into His agony—not as an isolated burden, but as a real communion with His redeeming love (cf. Mt 26:38–40; CCC 618). The soul is gradually conformed from within, beginning to perceive with His light and to love with His own charity (cf. Phil 2:5; CCC 1694). Prayer thus becomes more than refuge; it becomes transformation—a living participation in the Heart of Christ, from which grace quietly flows into the life of the world .

This appeal culminates in a mission that is both apostolic and profoundly human. To hear the agony of Jesus is to be drawn into His concern for souls—not abstractly, but concretely, within the relationships and responsibilities of daily life . St. Maximilian Kolbe embodied this by offering his life for another,  revealing that love reaches its fullness in self-gift . The Catechism (cf. CCC 901–913) affirms that every Christian shares in Christ’s mission, called to bring His light into the world through ordinary actions . This mission is deeply human because it unfolds in vulnerability: choosing patience when misunderstood (cf. 1 Cor 13:4–7), offering forgiveness when wounded (cf. Lk 23:34), (cf. Mt 25:21) remaining faithful when unnoticed . These acts do not eliminate the reality of the precipice, but they create paths away from it. They become signs of hope. When one is connected with Christ, even pain takes part in His redeeming work. St. Gianna Beretta Molla demonstrated that holiness is woven into the everyday rhythms of love, sacrifice, and faithfulness rather than being limited to remarkable paths by living this mystery among the simplicity and difficulties of family life. To live this appeal, then, is to stand with Christ at the fragile edges of the world—where suffering, uncertainty, and weakness are most present—not with anxiety, (cf. Jn 19:25; CCC 618) but with a love that remains steady . It is to trust that even the smallest act, when united to Him, carries eternal weight . Nothing offered in love is ever lost before God; (cf. Heb 6:10; CCC 1368) even what seems hidden or forgotten is gathered into His saving work . Grace often moves quietly, beneath what we can perceive, yet it remains truly active and fruitful, accomplishing what God wills . In this way, the soul that offers itself is gradually transformed, and the world, often without noticing, is touched and renewed by that same hidden victory .

Prayer 

O Adorable Jesus, we feel Your sorrow over us and the world. We are weak, distracted, and often indifferent. Yet we come to You. Teach us to pray more, love more, and return more quickly when we fall. May our small fidelity console You and rescue many souls from drifting away. Amen.

Sr. Anna Ali of the Most Holy Eucharist, intercede for us.

Divine Appeal 90

ON THE EUCHARIST:A DIVINE APPEAL

(Revelation to Sr Anna Ali of the Most Holy Eucharist)

VOLUME 1

“Innumerable are the sins committed innumerable the souls that are damned.”

“My daughter, spend these hours with Me. Pray a great deal and cloister souls in your heart.

My great love for mankind keeps Me day and night a prisoner in the tabernacle. What a pain to Me! So many of My own... pour scorn upon Me. They treat Me as one far away from them.

Pray and atone. Innumerable are the sins committed and innumerable the souls that are damned. Pray and implore mercy for souls. I ask you to hide Me in your soul. Do not be tired or fear to be importunate. I remain in the tabernacle full of tenderness thirsting and longing for souls. Bring Me souls in your prayers.

Do not leave Me alone. I am like a terrified child begging not to be left alone.

The ingratitude of My own... continuously pains Me. I am so lonely and afflicted in so many tabernacles of the world. With My voice full of supplication I want to fly to the very ends of the earth saying again and again ‘repent!’

I love mankind. I am never tired of My vigil for sinners. Pray a great deal for souls. Many of them are heading for perdition. With love I call all back to My sheepfold before it is too late.

These are grave moments. I am agonising over souls. The world advances towards the precipice from one day to the next.

Pray a great deal. As I am exposed I will pour my infinite mercy in human souls.”

“I give My blessing.”

19th February 1988

Copyright © 2015 Bishop Cornelius K. Arap Korir, Catholic Diocese of Eldoret, Kenya.  All rights reserved. Reproduced from ON THE EUCHARIST: A DIVINE APPEAL, Volume I by www.adivineappeal.com.