Lessons I Learned About Listening, From My Dog

October 16, 2026/0 Comments/in Animals, Devotionals, Faith, Family Life, Home & Lifestyle/by Kimberly Novak

One of the most important aspects of my work as a spiritual director is the art of being present in listening. I must have ears that can pick up the tiniest subtleties when a directee describes a prayer moment or dialogue with God. If I miss even one cue, it can affect the Holy Spirit’s direction and the session’s outcome. However, I admit that it’s often hard to listen intently, and I am comforted knowing the Holy Spirit will find other ways to direct the session.

Equally important is having a listening presence within the home. Recently, my family and I have found ourselves in uncharted territory. Our nearly fourteen-year-old Poodle Bichon, Shiva the Diva, is dealing with hearing loss. At first, I felt okay with the situation because she follows us around like a shadow anyway. I didn’t have any initial fears, knowing she would always be right behind us. Recently, however, we’ve learned by observing her behavior that it’s not just hearing loss; it’s distorted hearing.

If we cough or sneeze, it sends Shiva into a terrified state, tucking her tail and shivering. Thus, we try to take every precaution and quickly vacate Shiva’s space so that we do not send her into a frightened state. Earlier this week, as I prayed in a quiet room, I noticed Shiva listening intently for any sound. She stared at me, waiting to see if I would move or open my mouth; when I did, she heard my voice as if it were coming from another part of the house and looked in the opposite direction.

Watching Shiva struggle to hear my voice made me reflect on my own struggles in prayer and how difficult it can sometimes be to recognize God’s presence. I can tell you for certain there are times when I listen for His voice just as closely, but other times I give up, wondering why He didn’t show up. Shiva’s experience reminded me that, even when I struggle to recognize God’s presence, I can trust that He is with me.

I also began to wonder whether anything in my life is distorting God’s voice. In the Discernment of Spirits and A Retreat for Daily Life, St. Ignatius names things that take us away from God as “disordered attachments.” This type of attachment can harm us physically and spiritually; it can be something seriously harmful, or it can be as simple as a television show that moves your thoughts away from God. One of my disordered attachments is choosing sleep over prayer. Too much sleep can harm my body, but I feel it affects my spiritual life even more. I love the quiet time I have with God in the early morning, and on the days I sleep too long and can’t fit it in before work, I cringe.

Ironically, not making time for prayer is an obstacle most spiritual directors hear from their directees when asked how their prayer life is going. A commitment to prayer should be easy, but life, and all of its disordered distractions, tend to distort the voice of God calling us toward Him. On the flip side, we’re not only trying to hear God’s voice, but He is also listening for ours.

God waits for us even when we choose sleep over prayer, and constantly listens for our voice calling to Him. I know morning isn’t the only time I can pray, and on days I miss my structured prayer, I slip in brief moments of dialogue to stay engaged. God will send special moments, or “Holy Moments,” letting me know He has heard my voice, and I, in turn, continue to listen for His.

Looking back on Shiva’s fearful morning and considering how God reaches out to me, I am reminded that listening for God simply demands trust in His steady presence. When I quiet my heart and eagerly wait to be with Him, I can rest assured that He will gently call my name.

The Orange Caldero and the Bunny Rabbit

July 16, 2026/0 Comments/in Animals, Fiction, Sacrifice, Short Story/by Mary McWilliams

The Orange Caldero and the Bunny Rabbit

Hot oil popped from the orange pot. Then came the sizzle from the onions and peppers after they slid from the cutting board. Then sage and thyme. The earthy scent wafted from the window to the backyard like a snake’s slithering dance to a slow flute. The bunny rabbit and the squirrel sat with the two finches in the backyard, smelling the aroma of beef stew cooking.

“I wish I could be in that pot,” sighed the bunny rabbit. “It would give meaning to my life.”

“Are you an idiot?” the squirrel questioned, lobbing a nut at the rabbit and hitting his long ear.

“No,” said the rabbit, wiggling his ear. “I know some rabbits give their lives to nourish humans. It can help keep them alive.”

“He’s right,” affirmed the finch. “We’ve seen it, haven’t we?” The other finch nodded in agreement. “We fly around, and we see hunters trap and skin rabbits and cook them on a stick over the fire. It’s not pleasant to see, let me tell you. I wouldn’t want to be there, but I understand your desire to sacrifice. We’ve talked to deer about it.”

“Yes,” sang the quieter finch. “You’d look so pretty in her pot.” She lifted her wing toward the kitchen window. “We’ve looked inside, and it’s not very deep, so you can see what she’s cooking. The pot is the color of her marigolds, and she puts all the colors of her garden inside. And she is so kind. We’ve seen her come out to cut her herbs and pick the vegetables. She talks to them and pats the leaves. She tells them they are beautiful, and they make her food so flavorful.”

“Yeah, she’s really sweet until she lets out her stupid dog, who chases us,” the squirrel said.

“You’re just still upset because you were too slow that time and he caught you by the tail,” admonished the first finch. “But he listened when she called to him. That saved you.”

“I would have bit him,” the squirrel asserted.

“But you’re not that kind of rabbit,” said the first finch, reminding the others of their original conversation.

“I’m not?” the rabbit asked, concerned.

“No. You’re a bunny rabbit. You’re too cute,” the finch continued. “If you stay alive long enough, she might take your picture, or draw or paint you. Or sew your image onto a tea towel or something like that. But if you stay still that long, the predator will probably get you, and that’s not pretty, depending upon which one takes you: the hawk, owl, cat, or possum. They’re all brutal – just ask the chickens. But that’s probably what will happen to all of us in the end. And she can’t stop it. It’s the wild.

“It won’t happen to me,” asserted the squirrel.

“Yes, it could, even to you, you stupid squirrel,” said the first finch. “Look up in the tree. There’s the hawk now. He’s eyeing us, and you’d make a nice snack for him, filled with all those nuts that you eat.”

They all looked up, then quickly looked away. The hawk was watching them and waiting for the right moment.

“I don’t think I want to be dinner for that ugly beast,” the bunny rabbit said nervously.

“Unfortunately, you don’t have a choice,” the first finch said gently.

“Hah!” the squirrel mocked the rabbit. “So you’ll be food for a human who couldn’t care less about you, but you won’t be food for a hawk. I don’t see any difference.”

“Why do you all assume the hawk will come for me?” the bunny rabbit whined. “I agree with the finches. You’ll be mighty tasty with all those nuts in your tummy.”

They were all considering escape routes.

“I’m too fast for that monster,” the squirrel said nervously, getting ready to run. Just as he said that, they saw the shadow of the hawk’s wings cover them. Fur and feathers flew as the screen door opened quickly, then slammed shut. The lady ran into the yard, finding three running and one left behind.

Image generated by Mary McWilliams in Adobe Firefly Gemini 3.1 (with Nano Banana)

Edited by Paula V. Babadi

Hannah and Hopalot

April 11, 2025/0 Comments/in Animals, Childrens' Books, Short Story/by Tom Medlar

Hannah and Hopalot

Hannah was sitting on the living room floor talking to her doll, Samantha, when Henry came home. Henry was her big brother, and he seemed all excited about something he had in a box.

“What do you got there, Henry?” Hannah asked.

“Oh, it’s great!” Henry said. “I can’t wait to show you.”

“Well, what is it?” Hannah asked.

When he got to the kitchen, Henry said, “I got a frog!”

Mom, Dad, and Hannah all at the same time said, “A frog?!”

Henry opened the box and there was a tiny, green tree frog with big red eyes and long red toes. Hannah looked at the frog and her eyebrows crawled up her face, her nose pinched together, her tongue stuck out, and she shook her head. When she could talk again, she said, “That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen in the world!”

Mom and Dad looked at each other, and Dad asked, “Well, what would you feed him?”

For the next week, Henry spent all his free time playing with the frog in his room. On Friday after school, Henry came walking out of his room. Hannah looked up from the living room floor where she was sitting and playing, and she saw that the frog was stuck on the side of Henry’s face! Her eyebrows jumped up like they were going to run away, her nose pinched together, her tongue stuck out, and she shook her head. She could hardly even scream enough to say, “That’s so disgusting!”

But Hannah could hear that her parents and Henry were talking about Henry’s plan to spend the night and the next day at his friend’s house.

Henry called, “Yeah, but Hannah can take care of the frog when I’m gone,” as he walked back towards his room.

Hannah marched straight into the kitchen, where Mom was sitting at the table writing checks or bills or something like that, and Dad was making oatmeal cookies. Mom listened while Hannah begged and pleaded with her to get rid of the frog, to not make her take care of it.

Mom said, ““Hannah, do you remember at church last Sunday, we heard that ‘God saw everything that he had made, and behold, it was very good?’”

Hannah nodded.

“It may not always be easy, honey,” Mom continued, “But we should always look for the good in all the things made by God. Taking care of the frog will be a good experience for you. It’s only for one day, and we’ll help you.”

Dad put a cup of raisins in the measuring cup, and then Hannah poured them into the big bowl. Suddenly, Hannah was very glad to be kneeling on the stool because there was the frog, hopping, hopping and hopping all across the kitchen floor! Hannah got down off the stool and walked around the counter to watch where the frog went.

Before you know it, the frog hopped right over to where Mom was sitting, and it popped onto the side of her leg.

Well, you know what happened to Hannah’s eyebrows then.

Mom reached her hand down like a cup beneath the frog and he popped into her hand. She lifted the frog up to the front of her face. Hannah suddenly realized she was standing right next to Mom, leaning against her shoulder and looking right at the tiny frog.

Mom said, “Hannah, do you know he’s warm? He feels warm when he sits in your hand.”

Hannah just looked and looked and looked, and her fingers grabbed the sleeve of Mom’s shirt as she stared at this tiny green frog. Hannah noticed that his little body would get bigger and smaller, bigger and smaller, bigger and smaller.

While she still stared at him, Hannah asked, “Mom, is he breathing?”

“Yes, honey,” Mom said. “Of course he’s breathing.”

Hannah noticed that the frog’s eyes were moving and that he was looking at her, and then he was looking at Mom, and then he was looking at her again.
Now the little frog lifted his little feet with his long toes and started walking up Mom’s hand and onto her arm, where her sleeve was rolled up.

Hannah realized the frog was coming closer to get a better look at her. She leaned her head against Mom’s shoulder and looked closely at the frog and the frog turned its head to the side and looked closely at Hannah.

Mom said to Hannah, “He feels good. Do you want to hold him?”

Hannah looked in Mom’s eyes and then said, “Okay.”

Hannah put out her two hands together and Mom carefully placed the frog on Hannah’s hands. Hannah could tell that the frog was warm, and she could feel its little heart beating in the palm of her hand. All at once, the frog made a little hop from her hands onto her forearm.

But Hannah wasn’t scared, and she giggled.

Smiling, Hannah looked at Mom, and she looked over at Dad, and then, with the frog still on her arm, she walked into the living room.

When Henry came home, Hannah was so proud to walk up to him holding the frog.

She said, “He’s my friend. I took good care of him.”

The next day, after getting home from Mass, Hannah and the frog were playing in the living room and Mom and Dad and Henry were in the kitchen, talking about what to name this frog. Each of them would suggest a name but the others didn’t seem to think it was just right.

Suddenly, with the frog sitting on her head, Hannah came running into the kitchen shouting, “I know! Let’s call him Hopalot!”

A Poem, an Ornament, and a Choice

January 23, 2024/0 Comments/in Animals, Beauty, Catholic Writing and Publishing, Faith, Humility, Poetry, Prayer, Retreat/by Sarah Pedrozo

A Poem, an Ornament, and a Choice

Even though it is now a few weeks since the official end of the Christmas season (with the exception of those who close out Christmas with the celebration of Candlemas), I still have one ornament up. This particular ornament, called “Snowy Woods,” is always the last one to be packed away, and every year it makes the short journey from the Christmas tree downstairs to the family prayer space, upstairs. It hangs in silence until the end of the month, inviting reflection, contemplation, and most importantly, it asks a single question as we begin the liturgical cycle again: Which path will we choose to follow this year?

The ornament is quite simple and is made of glass, surrounded by a metal frame. A snowy scene is etched on both sides of the glass; two deer walking apart yet aware of each other, in a wintery wood. Every time I look at it, Robert Frost’s poem “The Road Not Taken,” springs to mind.

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost (1915)

(1) Two roads diverged in a yellow woods

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

(2) To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

(3) And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black,

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

(4) I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I —

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

This “Snowy Woods” ornament is a snapshot of the meaning the poem is getting at – how our choices affect our lives. In the ornament, the adult deer is looking back, pausing in mid-step. Has he heard a noise that caused fear? Or is he just taking a breather before continuing the way? Is the fawn following or leading? It all has to do with perspective.

A snowy scene is etched on both sides of the glass; two deer walking apart yet aware of each other, in a wintery wood.

When the ornament is held with the adult deer facing you, it seems as if the deer is looking back, over his shoulder. The shadowy fawn in the background appears to be watching and waiting for the adult deer to make a decision. But turn the ornament around and the positions are reversed. The adult is no longer looking over his shoulder but is gazing into the shadowy world at the small fawn. His steps and his gaze are very much focused on the small deer. The fawn, on the other hand, is looking out, away towards something outside of our vision. Both positions are telling. The fawn waits for the adult deer to make his decision, to take the path “less traveled by,” even though the path that the deer will take is set out by the fawn. The paradox of Christianity.

The adult deer is a perfect example of a Christian. He is solid. He is not shadowy or vague, but entirely painted in. His hooves are firmly rooted on the ground, even being entirely covered by the heavy snow. He is part of the physical, visible world we all live in. He is concerned with the daily struggles of life, poised to flee or fight, while wrestling with the heavy snowfall, the daily crosses of his world. While he is engaged, he is being watched by a small, shadowy figure, a guiding spirit who assists and guides his steps. This spirit might be an angel or even a figure of Jesus himself, always just out of sight, but somehow his presence is felt. The fawn, not the adult, knows the way through the snowy woods. It’s eyes are on something else, something higher and distant, away out of time and space. Unlike the solid white adult deer, the fawn is almost transparent, pointing to a spiritual, unseen aspect.

The two deer in this ornament are in a profound relationship, despite the fact that they are on two different levels. They remind us that no matter what path is chosen, the traveler will not remain in the crossroads. A choice, consciously or not, is always made. St. Catherine of Siena talks about this in her book Dialogue. She writes that “as long as you are pilgrims in this life you are capable of growing and should grow. Those who are not growing are by that very fact going backward.”

Each year, this simple little ornament strikes a chord with me. After all the decorations are done and we are looking forward, preparing to set out again, it beckons and asks, “What path will you follow this year? And will you walk it with Me?”

Photos courtesy of Sarah Pedrozo.

*This ornament was designed by Hallmark artist Robert Hurlburt and is part of the Elegant Ornaments Collection, a group of ornaments often based on archived Hallmark greeting cards.

Three Things I’ve Learned from my Chickens

July 25, 2023/2 Comments/in Animals, Catholic Writing and Publishing, Community, Encouragement for Writers, Family Life, Inspirational/by Sarah Pedrozo

Three Things I’ve Learned from my Chickens

As writers, we know that one aspect of writing well is writing authentically. By that I mean we have to follow the rules of the reality we are writing about, whatever they may be. The rules governing Middle Earth are a little different than those in Narnia, for example. If we are writing about our own world, here on planet Earth, 2023, one practice that can help us write authentically is the habit of being observant of the world around us, so that we can convey those small details in our stories. In fact, being observant might even lead to a new understanding.

What does any of this have to do with chickens, you might ask? Doesn’t the title of this article signify something having to do with those small animals? Besides, I’m not saying anything new in that opening paragraph.

Let me begin, then, by saying that I never intended to become “the chicken lady” of my neighborhood. When my husband called from work one day, saying that a colleague had no further need of 4 unhatched baby chicks and did I think we could take them in for a while, I said “Sure” simply because I like animals and couldn’t stand the thought of those little chickies being – literally – thrown away. That was about the extent of my thinking.

Fast forward a year and a half later, and we now have 5 stout ladies who take up a third of our backyard. And they are delightful. I have become thoroughly attached to them. Through observing them closely these past several months, I’ve also learned a few things. Here are 3 of them.

Habits can produce happiness.

My hens follow the same routine every day. They wake up with the sunrise, then run out to munch on the food I give them. It is always the same food, but they are nevertheless excited to see it every morning. They spend the rest of the day alternating between scratching for bugs, chatting with each other and resting. At 7pm each evening, they gather by their gate and call for their nightly visit. I bring them some rice or a little bread and we spend time together. After a few more sips of water, and a little extra scratching, they put themselves to bed at dusk. They follow this same routine every day. They witness to the importance of good daily habits, of doing a little bit consistently over time, every day. I often wonder what I could get done if I was such a creature of routine.

2. Don’t be afraid to try.

Even though my hens are quite content in their pen, that doesn’t mean they don’t look up and notice the green grass and fresh flowers blooming in other parts of the yard. They are always up for new ways to escape their yard to get to greener pastures. (In fact, I am convinced that whoever wrote the script for the movie Chicken Run really did have chickens.) Our Rhode Island Red, Cocoa, makes a point of pushing on the garden gate at least once an hour, just in case it has been left open. Our silver Welbar, Sandy, learned exactly where to stand so that she could fly up and just reach the tip of the fence, push off with her foot, and propel herself into the grass. They also know our habits, and often try to follow the dogs in and out. I think they hope we won’t notice an extra pair of legs. Even though they appreciate their home, they’re never afraid to push on the gate one more time or keep an eye out for another weak spot in the fence. They remind me not to get too complacent, but to keep looking up and trying.

3. Appreciate your community.

My little flock did not choose each other, but they’ve formed themselves into a community nevertheless. Although they are all different types of hens, they get along. Yes, there is certainly a pecking order (Sandy is at the top) but there is still room for everyone, despite their various temperaments. For example, Pebbles, our black Australorp, tends to get broody and take over the nesting box, while Pepper, a light Brahma and the smallest of the five chickens, likes to make up for her small size by being feisty and pecking everyone, including the dogs. Occasionally there are some ruffled feathers but most of the time there are contented, chatty clucks and check-ins, and at the end of the day they all go into the hen house and sleep peacefully together. If I’ve had a hard day with a difficult person, I really notice their ability to not hold a grudge and to let bygones be bygones. It reminds me that I might not always want to spend a lot of time around a certain person or persons, but I don’t have to take everything personally and I don’t have to carry resentment with me every day. (And I’m always somewhat flabbergasted that the hens consider our two pitties part of their community!)

These are a few of the conclusions I’ve come to over the last few months, in the mornings with my coffee watching them greet the new day, and in the evenings as the sun is setting. As I mentioned above, close observation of the world around us helps us to be better writers, and maybe even better people. These five little ladies are speaking to me all the time. Is there something that speaks to you in your life? What do you closely observe? And is it changing you?

Featured image from iStock-chicken (3)

Lessons I Learned About Listening, From My Dog

The Orange Caldero and the Bunny Rabbit

Hannah and Hopalot

Hannah and Hopalot

A Poem, an Ornament, and a Choice

A Poem, an Ornament, and a Choice

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost (1915)

Three Things I’ve Learned from my Chickens

Three Things I’ve Learned from my Chickens

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