A DIVINE APPEAL: 2026

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

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

Praying for Souls with Humility and Concern

Divine Appeal Reflection - 89

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 89: "With humility and concern, pray for souls."

Humility, in this Appeal, is not an abstract idea but a lived experience: the moment one realizes the limits of self—unable to fix everything or save everyone, yet still moved to love . It is truth embraced interiorly.That interior breaking is where true prayer begins. Our Adorable Jesus shows this not in power, but in surrender—especially in Gethsemane,(cf. Matthew 26:38–39) where His human will trembles yet yields fully to the Father . Humility is this tension: feeling deeply, yet entrusting completely. In real life, humility appears when a parent stops trying to control a child’s path and instead begins to pray sincerely. It appears when someone fails, falls into sin, or feels spiritually dry—and instead of pretending strength, they turn to God with nothing but need (cf. Psalm 51:17). This is where prayer becomes real. The saints lived this deeply human humility. St. Peter, after denying Christ,(cf. Luke 22:61–62) did not reclaim dignity through argument but through tears that reopened his heart to grace . St. Augustine’s long search for truth ended not in intellectual pride but in surrender. The Catechism (cf. CCC 2559) teaches that prayer arises from the depths of a humble heart aware of its need . Without humility, concern for souls becomes judgment; with humility, it becomes solidarity. You begin to see others not as “worse,” but as fellow strugglers.Humility is where one no longer stands above others, but chooses to kneel among them—entering their reality with compassion rather than judgment (cf. Phil 2:5–7; CCC 544). It is a descent into truth, where love replaces comparison.

Concern for souls is something every human heart already knows in fragments: the quiet worry for a friend, remembering someone in the night, or sensing unease when a loved one drifts . It is love reaching beyond itself. But in Christ, this natural concern is purified—it becomes redemptive, not anxious. Our Adorable Jesus carries souls constantly, (cf. John 17:9, 15) yet He remains in perfect peace because His concern is rooted in the Father . The difference is crucial. Human concern often turns into control or fear. Divine concern becomes intercession. It doesn’t crush the heart—it stretches it, enlarging its capacity to love through tension held in grace (cf. Ps 119:32; CCC 733). What seems like interior strain becomes, in God’s hands, a quiet formation of charity. You cannot force change, but you also cannot stop caring. This is the place where love becomes patient endurance rather than control (cf. 1 Cor 13:7). The soul learns to remain open without domination, present without possession. In this way, God shapes the heart into His likeness: firm in truth, yet gentle in mercy—able to carry concern without losing peace (cf. Eph 3:17–19). That tension becomes prayer. Or when you see injustice, moral confusion, or even public sin—you feel something stir. Instead of reacting with anger,(cf. 1 Timothy 2:1) concern transforms that reaction into silent prayer . The saints lived this balance. St. Monica did not chase Augustine endlessly with arguments; she accompanied him with years of patient tears and trust in God’s timing. St. Paul carried the struggles of entire communities, yet remained anchored in Christ . The Catechism (cf. CCC 2635) calls intercession an expression of charity that aligns us with Jesus’ prayer . Concern, then, is love refusing to become indifferent. It is the quiet decision: “I will not give up on this soul—even if all I can do is pray.”

When humility and concern converge, (cf. Mic 6:8; CCC 1803) the heart is quietly reoriented—anchored in truth yet expanded in love . Humility roots the soul in reality before God, freeing it from illusion, while concern moves it beyond self toward the good of others. This union mirrors the life of Christ: inwardly surrendered to the Father, outwardly given for humanity . One guards against self-exaltation; the other prevents self-enclosure. In this way, the heart is gradually configured to His. Truth and charity meet, and the soul becomes both grounded and generous—living not for itself, but as a quiet presence of Christ’s love in the world (cf. Eph 4:15). Without humility, concern becomes superiority. Without concern, humility becomes isolation. Together, they form love. Our Adorable Jesus embodies this union perfectly. He kneels to wash the feet of His disciples—an act of radical humility—yet His Heart is deeply troubled for them, (cf. John 13:1–5, 21) knowing their weaknesses and future failures . He does not withdraw from their fragility; He enters it. In daily life, this union becomes very practical. A teacher facing difficult students can become harsh or indifferent—but humility recalls personal limits, while concern opens the path to patience . Authority is then exercised not from superiority, but from shared humanity. A wounded friend can close off or control—but humility softens the heart, and concern preserves love from turning inward . In this way, relationships are healed not by force, but by mercy—a mercy that listens, understands, (cf. Mt 9:13; CCC 1829) and restores rather than controls . It is love that descends in order to raise. St. Vincent de Paul embodied this through humble service, never placing himself above the poor, while St. Catherine of Siena spoke with boldness rooted in deep self-knowledge before God. In both, mercy became concrete: humility grounding the heart,(cf. Jas 3:17) and love reaching outward—transforming relationships from within . In both, humility and concern became concrete love (cf. Jas 2:17). The Catechism (cf. CCC 2565) reminds us that charity animates all prayer . This means prayer for souls must feel something—it must carry real love.A humble and concerned heart does not save the world—but it becomes a place where Christ can.

This Appeal becomes most powerful not in extraordinary moments, but in the unnoticed details of daily life. “With humility and concern” is meant to be lived in traffic, in conversations, in fatigue, in interruptions. It is not about adding more prayers, but transforming the heart behind everything. Imagine scrolling through news filled with conflict or moral confusion. The natural reaction is frustration or numbness. But humility says, “I am not above this broken world,” and concern says, “These are souls.” That shift turns passive consumption into intercession . Or consider moments of personal hurt—misunderstanding, betrayal, or being overlooked. Instead of closing in on oneself, humility acknowledges the pain honestly, while concern dares to offer that pain for the good of others. This is deeply human and deeply supernatural. St. Thérèse of Lisieux lived this in hidden ways—offering small irritations and unnoticed sacrifices for souls she would never meet. St. Josemaría Escrivá taught that ordinary work, done with love,(cf. CCC 901) becomes a channel of grace for the world . Jesus Himself spent most of His life in ordinary hiddenness at Nazareth . That silence was not inactivity—it was preparation, intercession, love. To live this Appeal is not to escape your life, but to live it differently: seeing every moment as connected to the salvation of souls.

The deepest expression of this Appeal is found in the Eucharist, where humility and concern are no longer separate—they are one continuous act of love. Our Adorable Jesus becomes completely hidden under simple appearances, revealing a humility beyond comprehension, and at the same time, He offers Himself entirely for souls, revealing infinite concern (cf. Luke 22:19–20). This is not distant theology—it is intensely human. To receive the Eucharist is to receive a Heart that has chosen to remain vulnerable for love. It is to encounter a God who does not withdraw from human weakness but enters it completely, (cf. Heb 4:15; CCC 470) embracing it from within . In Christ, weakness is no longer a barrier, but a place of encounter. The saints formed by the Eucharist understood this deeply. Faustina Kowalska perceived how Divine Mercy flows into souls through Eucharistic union, while Peter Julian Eymard saw in the Eucharist the continuing presence and mission of Christ for the world. In their witness, the Eucharist is not only adored but received as living transformation: mercy entering the soul and mission flowing outward into daily life . Practically, this means that every Communion is not only reception but mission. Having received Him, the soul is sent to carry His mercy into daily life, (cf. Jn 20:21; CCC 1392) allowing His presence to extend through concrete acts of love . You receive humility—you are sent to live it. You receive concern—you are sent to carry others. Even moments of dryness or distraction can be offered for souls, making them mysteriously fruitful. The Catechism (cf. CCC 1324) teaches that the Eucharist is the source and summit of Christian life . That means it is also the source and summit of praying for souls. To live “with humility and concern” is ultimately to become Eucharistic: quietly present, deeply loving, and entirely given.

Prayer

Our Adorable Jesus, make our hearts lowly and attentive like Yours. Teach us to carry souls gently in prayer, without pride or judgment. Where we feel helpless, let humility open us to grace. Where we feel burdened, let concern become love. Use our hidden offerings to draw souls into Your mercy. Amen.

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

The Token of Kindness in Pain for Souls

Divine Appeal Reflection - 89

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 89: "Be in My pain for the sake of souls. Give Me this token of kindness. It is an offering for souls."

To hear Our Adorable Jesus say, “Be in My pain for the sake of souls,” is to be drawn into the deepest interior movement of His Sacred Heart—a movement that is at once profoundly human and infinitely divine. His pain is not an abstraction, nor merely a historical memory; it is the living expression of love wounded by indifference, sin, and the refusal of grace . Yet this pain is not closed in upon itself; it is entirely oriented toward salvation, toward drawing souls back into communion with the Father . Thus, when He invites the soul to “be in My pain,” (cf. Col 1:24; CCC 1368) He calls not for emotional imitation but for real participation in His redemptive love . This communion unfolds in ordinary life: unnoticed sacrifices, interior struggles, and fidelity in duty when consolation is absent. A mother rising in the night, a worker persevering despite discouragement, a young person resisting temptation in silence— (cf. Rom 12:1) these become living offerings when united to Christ . In Him, the ordinary is lifted into the mystery of redemption. Scripture reveals this path: Joseph transforms betrayal into mercy (cf. Gen 50:20), (cf. Is 53:5) and the Suffering Servant bears pain that brings healing to many . What seems hidden becomes spiritually fruitful. In this light, suffering is no longer meaningless. It turns into a hallowed space where love is enlarged and purified, silently taking part in Christ's atoning mission for souls.

“Give Me this token of kindness” reveals with striking clarity the humility and tenderness of divine love. The One who holds all creation in being (cf. Col 1:17) asks not for grand achievements, but for a “token”—a small, freely given act that carries the weight of love. This echoes the entire rhythm of the Gospel, where God consistently reveals His preference for what is hidden, simple, and sincere (cf. 1 Sam 16:7; Mt 6:4). The widow’s offering, though materially insignificant, becomes spiritually immense because it expresses total trust and self-gift . In the same way, the daily life of a Christian becomes the arena where these “tokens” are offered: a restrained word instead of anger, a patient listening instead of self-assertion, a moment of prayer when fatigue presses heavily. These acts are deeply human—they arise from real effort, from choosing love in situations that challenge the heart. Yet they are also deeply divine, because charity transforms their value (cf. CCC 1827). The saints teach that holiness is found not in extraordinary deeds,(cf. Lk 16:10; CCC 2013) but in fidelity to love within ordinary life . What matters is not the scale of the action, but the constancy of love that sustains it. There is a deep philosophical truth here: the value of an act flows from the intention that unites it to God, who is infinite Love . Thus, even the smallest act, offered to Christ, participates in eternity. In a world driven by visibility and recognition, this appeal draws the soul into hiddenness. Each quiet sacrifice, each unnoticed act of charity,(cf. Mt 6:4) becomes a real communion with God—silent, yet profoundly fruitful .

“It is an offering for souls” expands the horizon of this appeal into the vast mystery of the Church’s mission. The Christian life is never isolated; it is intrinsically oriented toward others, toward the salvation and sanctification of every person . When Jesus speaks of offering for souls, He reveals that every act of love, every suffering united to Him, enters into the great exchange of grace within the communion of saints (cf. CCC 1475). This gives an immense dignity to daily life. The frustrations, delays, and hidden pains that often seem insignificant can become intercessions of immense value when consciously offered. A moment of anxiety can be given for someone in despair; a physical illness can become a prayer for those who are spiritually distant; a hidden sacrifice can be offered for the needs of the Church. This is not mere symbolism— (cf. Heb 7:25) it is a real participation in Christ’s intercessory mission . Scripture reveals this dynamic repeatedly: Moses stands before God on behalf of Israel (cf. Ex 32:11–14), Esther risks everything for her people (cf. Est 4:16), and Paul pours himself out for the communities he serves . Their lives demonstrate that love takes responsibility for others. This calls for an intentional interior life—beginning each day with a conscious self-offering, then renewing it within the flow of ordinary duties, not as repetition but as deepening union (cf. Rom 12:1; CCC 901). Each moment becomes an altar where the will quietly consents to love.Every encounter is then received not merely as circumstance,(cf. 2 Cor 5:14–15) but as providential participation in Christ’s own mission of mercy . Every circumstance presents a chance to love beyond oneself for the benefit of souls, whether it is accepted or not. The commonplace is therefore internally transformed. Hidden acts, united to Christ, enter into His eternal offering, where nothing is lost but everything is gathered into divine fruitfulness (cf. Jn 15:5; CCC 2011).

The Eucharistic dimension of this appeal reveals its highest theological depth. The sacrifice of Christ, once offered on Calvary, is made sacramentally present in every Mass, not repeated but re-presented in a mysterious and real way . When Jesus invites the soul to “be in My pain,” He is inviting it into this living mystery, where His self-gift is eternally offered to the Father for the life of the world . The altar becomes the place where human life is taken up into divine love. Bread and wine, symbols of human labor and suffering, are transformed into His Body and Blood;(cf. CCC 1368) likewise, the faithful are called to place their own lives within this offering . A person arriving at Mass brings not only intentions, but their whole lived reality—joys, failures, struggles, and hopes. When consciously united to Christ,(cf. Rom 12:1; CCC 1368) all of this is drawn into His redemptive offering . The saints recognized the Eucharist as the source of all apostolic fruitfulness, where love reaches its fullest expression . What is offered there does not remain there—it begins to transform the soul. Even outside the liturgy, this Eucharistic life continues through recollection, prayer, and faithful duty. Christ constantly intercedes (cf. Heb 7:25), and the soul united to Him shares in this ongoing act of love. Thus, life itself becomes quietly transfigured: time is drawn into eternity, and the ordinary takes on a sacramental depth . The call is not only to go to the altar, but to live from it in every moment.

This appeal touches the deepest reality of the human heart: the longing not to suffer alone, and the mystery that suffering, when shared, is transformed . Even humanly, pain seeks presence. Jesus Himself, in His agony, desired the presence of His disciples, asking them to remain with Him even briefly . This reveals that divine love, though infinite, seeks communion—it desires a response, a shared presence. When He says, “Be in My pain,” He invites the soul into this communion . Suffering is no longer isolation, but relationship—a participation in His own offering. In this union, even weakness becomes closeness. To remain with Him, even without words, is already love responding to Love (cf. Jn 15:4; CCC 618). The Catechism (cf. CCC 1505) teaches that Christ gives new meaning to suffering by uniting it to His own redemptive act . In practical terms, this means that every human experience of pain—misunderstanding, failure, loneliness—can become a place of encounter with Him. A person who feels rejected can unite that experience to His rejection (cf. Jn 18:40); one who feels abandoned can enter into His cry on the Cross . These are not abstract reflections, but real acts of union that transform the heart. The saints discovered that such companionship with Christ brings a deep interior strength and peace, even in suffering. Even figures like Job, who endured profound trials, came to a deeper knowledge of God through them (cf. Job 42:5–6). Philosophically, this reveals the paradox at the heart of Christianity: that suffering, when united to love, becomes a path to communion and transformation . Apostolically, it forms souls capable of carrying others with compassion. Thus, this appeal calls every vocation into a deeper participation in love—one that embraces the Cross not as an end, but as a means of life for souls.

Prayer

Our Adorable Jesus, draw us into the mystery of Your redeeming pain for souls. In every trial, teach us to remain with You and to love. Transform our hidden sacrifices into grace for the world. Unite our lives to Your Eucharistic offering, that many souls may return to Your merciful Heart. Amen.

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

Divine Appeal 89

ON THE EUCHARIST:A DIVINE APPEAL

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

VOLUME 1

“I raise My eyes with tears towards My own.”

“My daughter, pray a great deal and spend these hours with Me. Keep Me company. Implore

mercy for sinners.

You will be My victim. Offer yourself in union with Me. Offer yourself in each moment with the purpose of bringing Me souls. Forget everything. Achieve the grandiose of this grace.

In the Sacrament of My Love it is My desire that many souls may know My clemency. Pray a great deal for souls. I want you to repent. My joy is to forgive and to save souls. The great love for mankind keeps Me day and night a prisoner in the tabernacle.

I am agonising over souls. What a pain for Me to see many among My own... who treat Me as one far away and unable to understand My feelings towards souls that I love so much. I come to call the lost souls back to My sheepfold. Never shall I weary of repentant sinners.

Be in My pain for the sake of souls. Give Me this token of kindness. It is an offering for souls.

In the Sacrament of My Love I am so lonely in the empty churches. Pray to console Me and implore mercy for souls. These are grave moments. Never before has the world needed prayers as at this fragile time. Be gracious to souls.

In the Sacrament of My Love I am so ridiculed and insulted. I raise My eyes with tears towards My own... Receive My share of pain. What more could I have suffered for mankind? Pray and atone. Do not waste any of these precious times.

I am always watching beneath My Sacramental veils, waiting for souls to come to Me.

What a pain for Me to see so many souls on the way to perdition. With humility and concern, pray for souls.”

“I give My blessing.”

3.00 a.m., 18th February 1988

Divine Appeal to All: Jesus’ Love and Mercy

Divine Appeal Reflection - 88

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 88: "My appeal is addressed to all those living in the world: the good, sinners and those consecrated to Me. To those who obey and to those in authority I say: ‘I AM LOVE AND MERCY."

At the deepest level of the human heart—beneath roles, titles, wounds, and even virtues—Our Adorable Jesus speaks a word that is not first a command but a revelation: “I AM Love and Mercy.” This is the same divine “I AM” disclosed in the burning bush (cf. Ex 3:14), now unveiled in tenderness through the Incarnation (cf. Jn 1:14; CCC 456–460). What is striking is that this appeal is addressed to everyone without exception: the good, sinners, the consecrated, the obedient, and those in authority (cf. Rom 3:22–23). This removes every quiet excuse we carry—that we are either “too far” or “already close enough.” The good are reminded that their fidelity is sustained by grace, not self-mastery (cf. 1 Cor 4:7; CCC 2001); sinners are reassured that their story is not finished, that mercy seeks them before they seek it (cf. Lk 15:20; CCC 1847); the consecrated are called to remember that love, not routine,(cf. Rev 2:4–5) is the center . In ordinary life, this becomes very real: a person who prays daily yet struggles with judgment, someone who falls repeatedly but still desires God, a religious who serves faithfully yet feels interior dryness. All are equally addressed. Before the Eucharist (cf. CCC 1374), we are not “categories” but persons—loved, known, and invited. Jesus does not begin by telling us what to fix; He reveals who He is. And slowly, that changes everything, because when a person realizes they are loved like this, they begin to live differently—not out of pressure, but from encounter (cf. 1 Jn 4:10–11).

When Jesus explicitly speaks to those in authority, it feels almost unsettling—because authority often assumes distance from correction. Yet here, it is directly named (cf. Wis 6:1–6). This reveals something deeply human and deeply divine: the more influence one has, the more one’s heart must resemble God’s Heart. Authority in Christ is never about control; it is about responsibility for others’ dignity and growth . We see this clearly in Scripture—Saul, who loses everything by clinging to his own will , and David, (cf. 2 Sam 12; Ps 51) who falls gravely yet returns through repentance and becomes a vessel of mercy . In daily life, authority is not only about presidents or bishops—it is present in parents, teachers, older siblings, supervisors. A parent choosing patience instead of anger , a boss choosing fairness over exploitation, a teacher correcting without humiliating—these are deeply spiritual acts. They reflect whether authority is rooted in ego or in love. The Catechism (cf. CCC 1905–1907) reminds us that authority must serve the common good and respect persons , but Jesus goes further—He calls authority to heal. That means listening, forgiving, guiding, and sometimes sacrificing one’s own comfort for others. Mercy becomes demanding here: it does not allow harshness to hide behind “discipline.” It asks the powerful to become vulnerable in love. In this light, authority becomes something sacred—a place where God’s own way of loving can either be revealed or obscured.

The heart of this appeal becomes especially alive in the Eucharist, where Jesus remains quietly present as both Love given and Mercy receiving (cf. Lk 22:19–20; CCC 1324, 1374). This is not abstract—it is deeply human. The Incarnation itself reveals that God enters real human condition, not an idealized one . Instead of meeting us where we think we should be, grace meets us where we are. Jesus receives us as we are—distracted, tired, joyful, (cf. Mt 11:28; CCC 1385) burdened—and gently begins His work of transformation . His presence is medicine for the whole person, not a reward for the already whole. Thus, every approach to the altar becomes an act of trust rather than achievement. The soul learns that being received by Christ is the beginning of healing, (cf. Lk 5:31–32) not its conclusion . The Catechism (cf. CCC 1324) teaches that the Eucharist is the source and summit of the Christian life , because here Christ unites our lives to His own offering . Think of how this plays out daily: someone going to Mass after a difficult week, carrying stress or regret; a student offering their studies quietly; a worker uniting exhaustion to prayer. These are not small things—they are received by Christ. The Gospel shows this pattern again and again: the prodigal son embraced before he explains himself (cf. Lk 15:20), the woman healed by simply reaching out . Jesus receives first, then transforms. Even when prayer feels empty and distracted, something real is happening because He is truly present (cf. Mt 28:20; CCC 1374). The Eucharist assures us that grace works beyond our feelings, (cf. Is 55:10–11) quietly accomplishing what we cannot see . Saint Teresa of Calcutta reminds us that fidelity in small things is what allows love to grow. A distracted but persevering prayer, humbly offered, becomes a real gift in God’s sight (cf. CCC 2011; 2 Cor 8:12). In the Eucharist,(cf. Jn 6:51; CCC 1380) Jesus shows that love is not intensity but fidelity—remaining, receiving, and giving in silence . Over time, this hidden faithfulness transforms the heart, making it more patient, merciful, and like His .

At a deeper level, this appeal touches the question many people carry quietly: “Who am I, really?” In a world that pushes achievement, independence, and control, (cf. Gen 1:27; CCC 1700) Jesus reveals something very different—that our identity is rooted in being loved . Sin disrupts this, creating distance, shame, (cf. Rom 5:12; CCC 397–400) and confusion . Mercy, then, is not just about being forgiven—it is about being restored to who we are meant to be. We see this in Peter, who fails dramatically but is gently restored and entrusted with mission (cf. Jn 21:15–19), and in Paul, whose entire life changes after encountering Christ . These stories feel close to our own experiences: moments of failure, regret, or confusion that seem defining—yet are not final. The Catechism (cf. CCC 1999–2003) teaches that grace heals and elevates human nature . This means that even our weaknesses become places where God works most deeply,(cf. 2 Cor 12:9; CCC 2015) because His power is revealed through what is fragile . What we often try to hide becomes, in His hands, an opening for grace. In daily life, this takes simple but concrete forms: admitting a mistake instead of covering it, asking forgiveness rather than defending oneself, choosing humility when pride feels easier . These small acts allow truth to enter the heart. Through this, the soul is quietly transformed. Weakness, accepted and offered, becomes a meeting place with Mercy,(cf. Rom 5:20; CCC 1996) and ordinary moments become occasions of grace . These are small but powerful movements. Jesus’ words “I AM Love and Mercy” remind us that we are not self-made—we are received. And when we begin to accept that, we become freer. Not perfect, but real. Not controlled, but trusting. Slowly, we learn that depending on God is not weakness—it is where true strength begins .

Finally, this appeal is not meant to remain personal—it naturally flows outward into how we live with others. When someone truly experiences mercy, they begin to see people differently. The Church teaches that every baptized person shares in Christ’s mission (cf. CCC 897–900), and that mission is lived in ordinary situations. The Good Samaritan (cf. Lk 10:25–37) is a powerful example—not because he was extraordinary, but because he responded. In daily life, this might mean forgiving someone who hurt you, helping without expecting recognition,(cf. Col 3:23; 1 Cor 6:19–20) or choosing honesty when it costs something . Mercy becomes visible in these simple, often hidden actions. It also becomes present in suffering—when we unite our struggles to Christ,(cf. Col 1:24; CCC 618) they take on meaning and even become a source of grace for others . This is not easy, but it is real. The Gospel does not promise ease,(cf. Jn 16:33; CCC 2015) but transformation through grace . Christ's path is frequently obscure and characterised by constant surrender rather than outward achievement. The world frequently demands strength, achievement, or perfection, but these things are unable to mend the deepest emotional scars. What it truly needs is mercy lived concretely—patience, forgiveness, and humility embodied in ordinary life . In this way, the believer becomes a quiet witness. Not through dominance or achievement, but through a life that reflects the Heart of Christ,(cf. Lk 6:36) where mercy speaks more loudly than strength . A kind word, patience in difficulty, truth spoken gently—these reveal God more than we realize. “I AM Love and Mercy” is not only who Jesus is; it is what He desires to live through us. And so, the appeal becomes a quiet mission: to let our lives, in their simplicity and imperfection, become places where others encounter His Heart (cf. Mt 5:16; CCC 2044). Holiness is lived within ordinary existence, not outside it.This is shown in daily choices—speaking gently in tension, choosing honesty over convenience, (cf. Col 3:12–14) or patience over reaction . In such hidden acts, Christ quietly becomes visible. Saint Francis of Assisi’s life reminds us that the Gospel is preached most deeply through lived witness. Even imperfection, when surrendered, becomes a place where grace works, allowing Divine light to shine through human weakness .

Prayer

O Adorable Jesus, King of Love and Mercy, we place before You all our responsibilities, relationships, and influence. Purify our authority, correct our intentions, and make our leadership reflect Your Heart. May we serve others with justice clothed in mercy and truth filled with charity. Amen.

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

Divine Appeal 88

ON THE EUCHARIST:A DIVINE APPEAL

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

VOLUME 1

“I am Love and Mercy.”

“My daughter, pray and bring Me souls. My appeal is addressed to all those living in the world: the good, sinners and those consecrated to Me. To those who obey and to those in authority I say: ‘I AM LOVE AND MERCY.’

To My consecrated ones I want the need and desire for reparation to be re-awakened and grow among the faithful souls for the world is full of sin. More than ever I am very much abused and blasphemed

in the Sacrament of My Love. The world is full of sin and at present nations are arousing the wrath of My Eternal Father. I want souls back to My sheepfold and peace to prevail. I am agonizing over

souls.

Pray and watch with Me. Do not leave Me! I am like a terrified child begging not to be left alone.

In My Divine Sacrament I am only poor, full of distress even though I remain there day and night. No one will ever understand the depth of My desolation. Adore My love and My hunger for souls.

Adore the supremely delicate manner in which I share My secret thoughts and reveal my desires to you. I desire you to be simple as I am for you. It is My joy to offer gifts in silence.

I am thirsting for souls that I love so much. For the love of souls I remain a prisoner in the tabernacle. I never weary of sinners. I want to rest in souls. What a pain for Me to see so many souls on the way

to perdition. Pray a great deal and share My bitterness. I come here seeking shade and consolation. In My Divine Sacrament I am so lonely in empty churches.

Many entertain Me only when they receive Me in Holy Communion. Share My anguish and the loneliness of My Heart.

Pray a great deal. Do not lose any of these precious times.”

“I leave you prey to anguish. I want you to be ready to console Me with your pains.”

3.00 a.m., 17th February 1988

Relieving the Sorrow of Jesus’ Heart

Divine Appeal Reflection - 87

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 87: "My own... cannot realise how greatly they relieve the sorrow of My Heart by giving Me a place in their own hearts."

There is a quiet, almost unbearable mystery at the center of the Gospel that many souls pass over too quickly: the Eternal Word, through whom all things came into being (cf. Jn 1:3; Col 1:16–17), does not force His way into the human heart, but stands and waits . He who fills heaven and earth (cf. Jer 23:24), before whom angels veil their faces (cf. Is 6:2), freely chooses to remain at the door of His own creature, desiring to be received. This is not poetic exaggeration—it is the lived reality of divine humility revealed in the Incarnation .Our Adorable Jesus, in taking a human Heart, embraced not only the mission to give—grace, truth, redemption—but also the mystery of receiving. He receives attention or neglect, love or indifference, fidelity or forgetfulness. This does not diminish His divinity, for He remains eternally self-sufficient (cf. CCC 202), yet in the order of love, He has willed a real reciprocity . He has made Himself, in a profound sense, “awaited,” so that the relationship between God and the soul is not mechanical but personal, not imposed but freely embraced . The Gospel scenes reveal this with striking realism. He marvels at the faith of a centurion (cf. Mt 8:10), showing that He receives and is moved by trust. He weeps over Jerusalem , revealing a Heart that truly suffers rejection. In Gethsemane, He seeks even the smallest human companionship (cf. Mt 26:38–40), not because He lacks strength, but because love desires presence. Even on the Cross, He expresses thirst—not only physical, but a deeper longing for souls . These are not symbolic gestures; they are real expressions of a Heart that has chosen to be open, vulnerable, and able to receive within the mystery of the Incarnation (cf. Jn 1:14; Heb 2:17).

Our Adorable Jesus allows Himself to be touched not only outwardly (cf. Mk 5:30), but interiorly—by faith (cf. Lk 7:9), repentance (cf. Lk 7:37–38), and love offered in silence . He remains fully God (cf. CCC 202), yet wills a true reciprocity of love . When this truth enters daily life, everything changes. No action is isolated or insignificant. Each moment is received by Him: delays in grace (cf. 2 Cor 6:1–2), distractions in prayer (cf. Mt 15:8), or refusals to love . Yet equally, every hidden fidelity—trust (cf. Prov 3:5), perseverance (cf. Col 3:23), or quiet sacrifice (cf. Mt 6:6)—becomes something He truly receives and treasures. Every postponed prayer (cf. Eph 5:15–16), every distracted moment in His presence (cf. Mk 14:37–38), every refusal to love concretely is not merely a personal weakness—it is something encountered by Him. And yet, just as real, every small act of recollection (cf. Ps 46:10), every interior turning toward Him, every quiet “yes” in the midst of duty or suffering (cf. Lk 22:42), becomes something He receives with tenderness. The widow’s offering , the hidden fidelity of the just (cf. Mt 6:4), the persevering prayer of the humble (cf. Lk 18:1–8)—all these reveal that what He receives is not measured by size, but by love. Thus, the soul stands before a truth both humbling and immense: the Infinite does not overwhelm the finite but waits upon it. The Heart of God, revealed in Christ , allows itself to be consoled or saddened within this mystery of freedom. To “give Him a place” is not a poetic idea; it is a concrete act lived in time—through attention, through surrender, through love made real in daily choices. And in this hidden exchange, the smallest fidelity becomes eternally significant, because it is received by Him who is Love .

In the Eucharistic mystery, this reversal reaches an abyss of tenderness: the One whom we receive becomes the One who receives us. Truly present in the sacrament , Our Adorable Jesus enters the communicant not as a passive object but as a living Person who perceives, discerns, and receives. He receives the atmosphere of the soul—its reverence or routine, its love or distraction. As in the house of Martha and Mary , He does not merely give Himself; He also receives the quality of our attention. Without this, the encounter remains sacramental but not fully relational. Consider the contrast in Scripture: He is received with joy by Zacchaeus (cf. Lk 19:6), but endured with coldness by others who remain unchanged . In practical terms, this demands a Eucharistic asceticism—preparation before Mass , attentive reception, and prolonged thanksgiving. A hurried Communion gives little for Christ to receive; a loving pause becomes a banquet for His Heart. Even a brief interior act—“Remain in me, Lord”—is gathered by Him. Thus, the Eucharist is not only the gift of Christ to the soul, but the sacred moment where the soul becomes a gift that Christ receives, treasures, and transforms.

At the summit of theological reflection lies a paradox luminous and demanding:(cf. CCC 202) God, in His divine nature, is impassible and lacks nothing , yet in the Incarnate Word, He freely wills to receive from the creature. This is not contradiction but condescension—the kenosis of love . Christ’s receptivity is not born of need but of generosity; He creates a space where human freedom can truly respond and thus participate in divine life (cf. 2 Pt 1:4). His sorrow, then, is not imposed suffering but the chosen vulnerability of love encountering refusal. Scripture abounds with this dynamic: He delights in the obedience of Abraham (cf. Gen 22:12), receives the contrition of David (cf. Ps 51), and treasures the fiat of the Virgin . Each act is not merely observed—it is received. The Catechism (cf. CCC 2001) affirms that grace invites cooperation , and in that cooperation, something real is offered to God. In a modern context marked by autonomy and self-reference, this truth strikes deeply: our lives are not closed systems. Every moral decision, every interior movement is received by Christ and enters into a relational exchange. A hidden act of integrity in the workplace, a silent refusal of sin, a persevering prayer in dryness—these are not lost; they are received by the living Christ. Thus, human freedom becomes sacramental in a broad sense: a visible expression of an invisible offering received by God.

To grasp that Jesus receives is to ignite apostolic life with a new intensity. The question is no longer merely what we do for Him, but what we place into His Heart. The baptized are truly configured to Christ and share in His mission (cf. CCC 1268, 901; Rom 6:3–5), yet this mission does not begin in external activity but in the interior offering that He Himself receives (cf. Heb 13:15; 1 Pet 2:5). Before any visible fruit, there is a hidden exchange: the heart becomes the first altar, where love is consciously given and received. In this light, every vocation is transfigured into a living liturgy . The altar is no longer only external—it is the depth of the soul—and the offering is the concrete reality of daily love, lived in fidelity. Thus, a mother who embraces unnoticed sacrifices (cf. Is 49:15), a priest who celebrates with reverence and interior recollection , a young person who guards purity in a culture of compromise (cf. 1 Thess 4:3–4), a worker who chooses integrity over personal gain (cf. Lk 16:10)—each places before Christ something real, something living, something He receives. These are not abstract virtues but offerings shaped in time, received by Him who sees in secret (cf. Mt 6:4) and who treasures the hidden fidelity of love . This transforms the ordinary into the apostolic. The sorrow of Christ over the loss of souls (cf. Lk 15:4–7) is alleviated when even one life becomes a living offering. The saints insisted that the smallest act, when done in love, carries immense redemptive weight (cf. 1 Cor 13:1–3). In practical terms, this calls for intentionality: beginning the day with an offering (cf. Rom 12:1), renewing it throughout the day, and uniting sufferings to His Cross . When one repents, even failures are received as humility. Thus, apostolic fruitfulness originates from the depth of what Christ receives from the soul rather than from outward success.

At the highest mystical horizon, the soul lives in a state of continual oblation, where everything becomes something Jesus receives. “Abide in Me” (cf. Jn 15:4) becomes a reciprocal indwelling: the soul remains in Him, and He receives the soul’s every movement. This is the spirituality of interior hosthood—the soul as a living host united to the Eucharistic Host. The sorrow of Christ is most deeply linked to forgetfulness (cf. Ps 78:11), while His consolation flows from loving awareness. Thus, the practice of recollection becomes essential: brief glances toward Him, silent invocations, and habitual offering of actions . In daily life, this is profoundly practical: studying with intention, speaking with charity, enduring trials with patience—each becomes a gift placed in His Heart. Over time, the soul itself becomes the gift. No longer offering merely actions, it offers its being—its desires, its will, its love. And Christ receives. He receives not as a distant judge, but as a Bridegroom who delights in the love of the beloved . Thus, the Christian life reaches its summit and deepest simplicity: to live in such a way that every moment becomes an offering Christ can truly receive (cf. Rom 12:1; 2 Cor 2:15). Nothing is wasted, nothing neutral—each thought, word, and action is placed before Him in love, whether in joy or in suffering . And in this mysterious exchange, something greater unfolds: as He receives the soul’s poor but sincere gift, He does not remain only the Receiver—He becomes the Transforming Presence within it (cf. Gal 2:20; 2 Pet 1:4). The soul is gradually conformed to what it offers, shaped into His likeness, drawn into His own Heart (cf. CCC 460). Thus, in giving Him everything, the soul is quietly remade into Him whom it gives.

Prayer

O Our Adorable Jesus, Eternal Receiver of love, awaken in us a living awareness that You await our hearts. May every moment become an offering You can receive—pure, faithful, and hidden. Draw us into this sacred exchange, where nothing is withheld, and all is given to console and delight Your Heart. Amen.

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

Divine Appeal 87

ON THE EUCHARIST:A DIVINE APPEAL

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

VOLUME 1

“My heart is wounded by sin and torn by grief.”

“My daughter, pray a great deal. Bring Me souls. I want to forgive. I want souls to know that My heart is overflowing with love and mercy.

My own... cannot realise how greatly they relieve the sorrow of My Heart by giving Me a place in their own hearts. Many accept when I visit them in Holy Communion but few welcome Me when I visit them with My Cross.

What a pain to Me that the world is full of perils. Many souls are dragged towards sin and constantly they need visible or invisible help. Many do not know how much they can do to draw near to Me. My Heart is so much wounded by sin and torn by grief.

I am thirsting for souls. It was My great love for mankind that made Me suffer the most ignominious contempt and horrible tortures.

In the Sacrament of My Love I remain day and night as a prisoner in the tabernacle for love of repentant sinners. Pray a great deal. Do not complain about your sufferings. I desire you to suffer silently. Let Me work in you and save souls silently. Forget everything and above all forget yourself for the sake of saving souls. Many abuse and spit on Me in My Divine and Living Sacrament.

Pray a great deal and cloister souls in your heart.

I am thirsting for souls.”

“I give My blessings.”

16th February 1988

The Wound of Divine Nearness Unreceived

Divine Appeal Reflection - 86

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 86: "I am very near to souls but they reject Me and prefer their own ways. These are grave moments. What grieves Me most is... Many doubt Me even though they have given Me their lives but their hearts remain closed. I call them all back to My sheepfold."

At the summit of revealed Love and within the trembling silence of divine condescension, the Heart of Our Adorable Jesus discloses a mystery both luminous and piercing: infinite nearness rejected by finite freedom. This nearness is not metaphorical but ontological, sustained in being through Christ who upholds all things (cf. Col 1:17; Heb 1:3), and sacramentally intensified in the Holy Eucharist, where He is truly, substantially, and personally present . The tragedy of the Appeal is not divine distance but human indifference within divine intimacy. Philosophically, this is the drama of participated being resisting its Source: the creature sustained by Love yet refusing its final cause (cf. CCC 27–30). St. Augustine’s profound insight into the restless heart reaches its deepest intensity here—the soul remains mysteriously near to God, yet inwardly divided by disordered loves and competing allegiances (cf. Ps 42:1–2; CCC 27, 2541). In daily existence, this fracture becomes visible when believers outwardly profess Christ, yet interiorly organize life around self-fashioned meaning, digital distraction, emotional autonomy, or subtle forms of moral relativism (cf. Rom 12:2; CCC 1730–1733). Even sacramental proximity can coexist with existential estrangement when the interior assent of the heart is fragmented, and grace remains uncooperated with . St. Thomas Aquinas(cf. ST I–II q.110 a.2) teaches that grace perfects nature without coercing it , revealing why rejection remains possible even in nearness. Thus, Christ’s lament is not absence of power but revelation of vulnerable omnipresence—He is near enough to be ignored, loved, or rejected. The Appeal unveils a metaphysical sorrow: Love fully given, yet not fully received, standing at the threshold of the human will.

The Appeal’s second depth discloses the wound of cognitive-spiritual division: “Many doubt Me even though they have given Me their lives.” This is not mere intellectual skepticism but the fracture between consecration and communion. Scripture reveals this interior contradiction in the disciples who walked with Christ yet failed to recognize Him in the breaking of bread (cf. Lk 24:30–32), and in Peter who confessed Him yet feared surrender (cf. Mt 16:16–23). The Catechism affirms that faith is both assent and entrustment of the whole person (cf. CCC 150–153), yet the will may remain partially closed even when the intellect assents. St. John of the Cross describes this as attachment to self-generated lights that obscure divine obscurity. In Eucharistic theology, this becomes especially grave:(cf. CCC 1391–1397) the soul receives the Lord sacramentally yet resists His transformative claim over life . In contemporary practice, this appears in selective discipleship—accepting Christ as comfort but resisting Him as Lord in ethics, sexuality, vocation, or truth. Philosophically, it is the division between “truth known” and “truth lived,” a rupture of the integral act of faith. St. Teresa of Avila warns that prayer without surrender becomes self-referential interiority rather than divine encounter. Thus, Christ’s grief is not over ignorance alone but over divided love. The nearness of Jesus intensifies accountability: to doubt Him while living within His sacramental embrace is to stand within light while refusing vision.

Within the sacred interiority of consecrated souls, the Appeal intensifies into a mystical lament: hearts that have “given Me their lives” yet remain closed. This paradox touches the highest regions of spiritual theology, where vocation does not guarantee union, and function does not ensure communion. St. Catherine of Siena speaks of the “cell of self-knowledge,” where failure to enter results in fragmented devotion. The Catechism teaches that grace may be resisted not through its absence but through the soul’s failure to freely cooperate with its transforming action . Thus, even within religious life, priesthood, or committed lay apostolate, a soul may outwardly belong to Christ while interiorly withholding trust, safeguarding hidden spaces of self-possession where grace is not fully welcomed . This is not formal apostasy but a quiet interior contraction, where love is limited by fear or control. St. Faustina Kowalska’s mystical witness reveals that Divine Mercy desires total openness of the heart, (cf. Ps 81:10; CCC 2091) not a partial or measured reception . In lived reality, this tension emerges when ministry becomes mechanical, prayer reduced to obligation, and spiritual identity shaped more by function than by living communion. Philosophically, it reflects the grave risk of instrumentalizing the sacred—treating divine realities as means to an end rather than as personal encounter with the Living God . St. Ignatius of Loyola cautions that disordered attachments can persist even within structured religious discipline, subtly resisting the full freedom of surrender to God’s will. Yet Christ remains “very near,” sustaining even those who forget Him. His nearness is both consolation and confrontation: He cannot be escaped, only either embraced or resisted. The Appeal therefore reveals a sorrow not of abandonment but of unresponded intimacy, where the Beloved remains present but not fully received in the depths of the heart.

The ecclesial cry—“I call them all back to My sheepfold”—opens the horizon of salvation history itself, where Christ as Good Shepherd gathers fractured humanity into one sacramental and mystical communion (cf. Jn 10:14–16; CCC 754–757). The sheepfold is not merely institutional belonging but ontological integration into the Body of Christ, where unity is both visible and invisible (cf. 1 Cor 12:12–27). St. Cyprian’s ancient insight that the Church is inseparable from Christ finds renewed urgency here: separation from the fold is not simply external wandering but interior dislocation from unity of truth and charity. In philosophical terms, the sheepfold signifies the restoration of unity within multiplicity, where the fragmented self is gathered into ordered participation in divine life, healed and elevated by grace (cf. Eph 1:9–10; CCC 760). In daily life, this call resounds concretely—in reconciliation within wounded families, integrity within workplaces marked by corruption, and steadfast fidelity within parishes burdened by indifference . The saints affirm that entry into the sheepfold is inseparable from humility: St. Ignatius of Antioch’s ardent desire for union with Christ through visible ecclesial communion, even unto martyrdom, reveals that belonging is not abstract but existential and embodied (cf. Jn 17:21; CCC 815–816). Thus, the Appeal takes on an urgently pastoral and sacramental depth: Christ does not gather souls into isolated spiritual experiences but into one visible communion of truth and charity,(cf. 1 Cor 12:12–13; CCC 775) where unity becomes the living sign of divine presence in the world . To reject the sheepfold is to accept fragmentation; to enter is to recover unity of being. The sorrow of Christ is therefore shepherdly—the anguish of Love watching scattered sheep resist the very gathering that restores them.

At its deepest metaphysical level, this Appeal unveils the anthropology of divine indwelling: the soul is structured as a temple of presence , yet retains the tragic capacity to veil that presence through interior resistance. The Catechism affirms that God is closer to us than we are to ourselves , establishing nearness as constitutive of human existence. Yet freedom introduces the mystery of refusal within intimacy. St. Thomas Aquinas articulates that God moves the will without destroying it, (cf. ST I q.105)preserving the dignity of love that can be rejected . Thus, rejection is not spatial withdrawal but relational closure within presence. In mystical theology, this is the hidden sorrow of Love unreceived. Within the great mystical tradition, this interior transformation is illuminated by other luminous witnesses of the Church. St. Catherine of Siena teaches that the soul must pass through the “cell of self-knowledge,” where illusions of self-sufficiency are stripped away and the will is gradually conformed to divine charity . Likewise, St. Francis de Sales emphasizes that true holiness is not found in extraordinary experiences but in gentle,(cf. Mic 6:8; CCC 2013–2014) persevering fidelity to God’s will in the ordinary rhythm of life . This purification is not harsh imposition but the quiet work of grace inviting the soul from resistance into loving consent . In practical terms, every decision—speech, work, silence, digital consumption, forgiveness—becomes a micro-response to divine nearness, where the hidden choices of the day either open the heart more deeply to Christ or subtly close it against His indwelling presence . Christ’s appeal is therefore continuous, not episodic. He is the Shepherd who does not cease calling, even when unheard. The philosophical depth of the Appeal culminates here: Being itself desires communion with its rational creature. Yet this desire is not coercive but invitational love. The sorrow of Jesus is thus the sorrow of infinite patience, waiting within the very heart that resists Him. And yet, this sorrow is already mercy, for He remains near enough to transform every return into resurrection.

Prayer

Our Adorable Jesus, eternally near and infinitely patient, soften every hidden resistance within us. Draw us into full communion with Your Eucharistic Heart. May we never doubt Your presence, nor close our hearts to Your call. Gather us into Your sheepfold, where love is unity, truth, and eternal peace. Amen.

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

Divine Appeal 86

ON THE EUCHARIST:A DIVINE APPEAL

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

VOLUME 1

“Let the callous and indifferent know that I am thirsting for them. I am the source from which water flows inexhaustibly in abundance.”

“My daughter, pray and spend these dark hours with Me.

Help Me by praying and loving. I am thirsting for souls. Bring Me souls. Speak in your own words as they come into your mind.

Give Me your company – I am so lonely in the empty churches. It is My great love for mankind that keeps Me day and night in the tabernacles. I am in agony over souls. Pray a great deal and do not lose a single minute. Time is short for saving souls. Take My pains to help them in your prayers.

Never shall I weary of repentant sinners. In the Sacrament of My love, greater is the welcome. This is why I wish all to know that.

I speak to My... I want him to let the callous and indifferent know that I am thirsting for them. I want to forgive. What pains for Me to see the world buried in sensuality! No longer is its sweetness known.

Pray a great deal and atone; bring Me souls. Offer yourself in union with Me. In the Sacrament of My Love offer Me at each moment to My Eternal Father for the purpose of saving souls. I am waiting for souls as I remain a prisoner in the tabernacle. I am the source from which water flows inexhaustibly in abundance. In your prayers bring souls. I wish them to know that life eternal is at hand if they would accept it.

Here is My mercy. Time is short. I am very near to souls but they reject Me and prefer their own ways. These are grave moments. What grieves Me most is... Many doubt Me even though they have given Me their lives but their hearts remain closed. I call them all back to My sheepfold.

My desire is that souls be saved. As I am exposed I will pour My infinite Mercy in the human souls. These are grave moments. Pray without ceasing. Never before has the world needed prayers than

at this present time. The Chalice is filled. These times demand accelerated action. My pain is immense. I speak to you amid tears. With love I am calling and I would not like anyone to perish.

Pray and cloister souls in your heart.”

“I give My blessings.”

2.00 a.m., 15th February 1988

Uniting All Our Ways to Jesus

Divine Appeal Reflection - 85

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 85: "My Heart is all Love and it embraces all souls. I desire souls to unite themselves to Me in all their ways."

Before this Appeal, the soul does not stand as a student before a lesson, but almost like a tired person who has finally found someone willing to listen without rushing them. It is the Heart of Our Adorable Jesus—not distant, not cold, but alive in a deeply human way: attentive, quietly waiting, never distracted by our distractions. This is a Heart that has known what it is to be left alone in a crowd, to give and not be understood, to grow tired in body and yet continue loving (cf. Jn 1:11; Jn 4:6; Mt 26:40–41; Heb 4:15). There is something disarming in this—God has not remained above our experience; He has entered into it. So when He says His Heart is “all Love,” it is not something polished or distant—it is a Love that has passed through real moments: the simplicity of a poor home, the repetition of ordinary days, the quiet ache of being overlooked, and the weight of suffering that was carried without being shared (cf. Lk 2:7; Mk 6:3; Is 53:3; CCC 516). There is no hesitation in Christ toward these souls. Like Peter, who could not hold together his promises yet still found himself met with a gaze that did not withdraw (cf. Lk 22:61–62), we begin to sense something almost unsettling in its tenderness: we are not avoided in our weakness—we are met there. And not in a general way.

Christ’s love seems to notice details we ourselves overlook—the small habits we cannot break, the fears we do not explain to others,(cf. Ps 139:1–3; CCC 2560) the quiet patterns of our days that feel too ordinary to matter. It is as if nothing in us is too small to be seen, and nothing too fragile to be held. What makes this Appeal so deeply human is that it does not demand that we first fix ourselves. It gently interrupts that instinct we have—to clean up, to organize our thoughts, to become “better” before turning toward God. Instead, it meets us in the middle of unfinished thoughts, inconsistent efforts, and even silent avoidance. Like the father who ran toward his son before hearing a full explanation (cf. Lk 15:20), Christ’s Heart moves first. And this changes something quietly but profoundly: the soul realizes it does not have to perform to be received. It only has to stop running. In that moment—simple, unprepared, honest—union begins, not as something dramatic, but as something real.

To “unite in all their ways” reaches into one of the most quietly painful realities of being human: how easily we split our lives into compartments—one version of ourselves that prays, another that works, another that struggles silently where no one sees. We move through the day in fragments, offering God our “good” moments while keeping the rest to ourselves, almost as if He would not understand them. Yet Christ does not stand outside this fragmentation—He steps directly into it and gently gathers it. He does not begin by asking for perfection—He quietly looks for something more real: wholeness. He wants the part of you that feels steady and the part that quietly feels like it’s falling apart, the part that is attentive and the part that keeps drifting . Nothing in you is too inconsistent for Him to receive. In fact, these are not obstacles to union—they are the very places He chooses to enter and remain (cf. 2 Cor 12:9; Jn 1:14).This becomes very concrete in ordinary life. The student trying to focus but losing track again and again, the person navigating relationships that feel complicated and unresolved, the one carrying an inner tension they cannot easily explain—these are not moments where God steps back . They are the moments where He quietly draws closer. He does not wait for clarity or control; He meets us right in the middle of the unfinished. Like Martha, whose love was real but burdened with anxiety, we are not asked to abandon our responsibilities, but to let them become places where Christ is quietly present . And like Mary, we discover that even in the middle of activity, something within us can remain turned toward Him—not perfectly, but sincerely. It is a very human kind of union: imperfect, interrupted, but real.Slowly, this changes how we live ordinary moments. Beginning a task with a simple, interior offering, pausing for a brief and almost wordless prayer in the middle of work, choosing patience when irritation quietly rises, returning to God after suddenly realizing we have forgotten Him—these are small, (cf. Col 3:17; Ps 16:8; CCC 2697) nearly invisible movements of the heart . They often pass unnoticed even by ourselves, hidden within the flow of ordinary responsibilities.

Yet within them lies a depth the world cannot measure. These are not empty gestures; they are real acts of love. And love, even when expressed in the smallest and most fragile ways, carries a true weight before God, who sees what is done in secret . It is not the outward size or recognition of an action that matters, but the measure of love and intention placed within it . When life is lived in this way, something begins to shift quietly but profoundly. The day itself does not change externally—tasks remain, routines continue, interruptions still come—but their meaning deepens from within. Nothing remains merely routine or empty, because everything becomes capable of relationship with God . There is a hidden transformation taking place, often without feeling or visible sign. What once felt disconnected now becomes part of a continuous offering, woven together by intention and love. Within this, there is something deeply Eucharistic, though often unnoticed. Just as simple bread and wine—ordinary elements of daily life—are taken, offered, and transformed into the living presence of Christ,(cf. Mt 26:26–28; Jn 6:56; CCC 1324, 1392). so too the unnoticed details of our lives can be drawn into Him. A routine task, a hidden effort, a moment of patience—when quietly offered—begins to carry His presence from within. And so union with Him does not occur outside the reality of life, but precisely within it: in what is unfinished, imperfect, and deeply human. It is there, in those very places, that love becomes real and God becomes near.

Yet this kind of love is not as easy as it sounds—it quietly asks more of us than we expect. If Christ’s Heart truly holds even those who ignore Him or cause pain, then being close to Him begins to change how we respond to people too (cf. Mt 5:44–45; Lk 6:36; CCC 1825). And this is where it becomes very real. It’s in those moments when you feel misunderstood and want to explain yourself, but choose silence instead—not out of weakness, but out of a quiet trust that God sees what others do not . It is there, in that restrained response, that love begins to take a deeper, more hidden form.When someone is distant, yet you still show kindness. When you feel hurt,(cf. Rom 12:17–21; CCC 2842) but decide not to pass that hurt on . These moments are small, but they are not easy. They touch something deep inside—the instinct to react, to protect, to withdraw. Yet slowly, like Joseph who remained steady without making noise about it, the heart learns a different kind of strength: a quiet, patient love that does not depend on how others respond . It doesn’t feel dramatic. Sometimes it even feels unnoticed. But it is real. And this is where something hidden begins to grow. A gentle response, a decision to stay kind, even a silent prayer for someone difficult—these carry more weight than they seem (cf. Jas 5:16; CCC 2635). They are simple, almost invisible ways that Christ’s own Love begins to move through us. And without realizing it, that Love starts reaching others too.

At the same time, the Appeal enters the hidden struggles within the soul—the places of inconsistency, weakness, and interior conflict. To unite ourselves “in all our ways” includes bringing even our failures into relationship with Him . Many souls unconsciously withdraw from God when they feel unworthy, yet this is precisely where His Heart draws closest. Like the prodigal son, who returned not with strength but with honesty , the soul discovers that union is deepened not by perfection but by trust. There is something profoundly human here: trying again after failing, turning back after distraction, choosing God even when it feels dry. These repeated returns are not insignificant—they are acts of love. The Cross reveals that Christ’s Love remains faithful even when we are not . In everyday life, this can be very simple and very human: offering one’s weakness to God instead of hiding it, quietly resisting small temptations, or choosing to pray even when nothing is felt and everything seems dry (cf. Ps 51:17; Lk 22:32; Jas 4:7–8; CCC 1428, 2728). These moments may seem insignificant, but they are real movements of the heart toward Him. From a Eucharistic perspective, this becomes a place of quiet healing—where one approaches Christ not as strong or put-together, but as needy and open, allowing His presence to slowly, patiently transform the heart from within . The Appeal gently teaches that union grows through perseverance, not perfection.

Ultimately, this Divine Appeal leads the soul into a deeply personal friendship—a quiet, steady awareness that Christ is present in everything. This is not constant emotional intensity, but a simple, real closeness that grows over time . Like the disciples walking with Jesus on the road, often not fully aware yet gradually understanding , the soul begins to recognize Him in daily life: in moments of peace, in challenges, in unexpected graces. This transforms how life is lived. Nothing is wasted—not a struggle, not a small act, not even a moment of weakness when offered to Him. Like the Blessed Virgin, who lived ordinary days with extraordinary union , the soul learns to carry Christ within every situation. Practically, this means returning to Him often—short prayers, silent recollection, faithful reception of the sacraments, and a desire to remain with Him even in simplicity . Over time, this union becomes almost like a second nature—a quiet companionship. The Heart of Jesus is no longer distant; it becomes home. And the soul, living in that Love, begins to reflect it naturally to others, fulfilling the Appeal not in extraordinary ways, but in a life quietly transformed by Love.

Prayer

O Heart of Our Adorable Jesus, so near to us in every moment, draw us into simple, faithful union with You. In our work, struggles, and hidden efforts, teach us to love as You love. Remain with us, transform us gently, and make our lives a quiet reflection of Your Heart. Amen.

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

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ON THE EUCHARIST:A DIVINE APPEAL

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