My favorite time of day is that first tiny sliver of light—when the darkness slowly gives way and the sky exhales into morning. Coffee in hand, I step into a familiar rhythm: a quiet chair, a prayerful breath, my journal open.

But lately, something’s… off.

What used to be a sacred pause filled with anticipation now feels mechanical. Dry. Like I’m going through the motions of devotion, without actually meeting the One I came to find.

Even as a professional coach—someone trained to notice and name patterns—I sometimes fail to see what’s right in front of me. And often, it’s silence that gently tells me the truth: something has shifted.

Prayer becomes the pin I drop on my soul’s map.
Scripture becomes the voice I strain to hear through the static of distraction.
And slowly, I realize: when the familiar is lost or the routine breaks down, a subtle ache begins to rise.

“They have taken my Lord away, and I don’t know where they have laid him.”
—John 20:13 (Echoed in 1 Peter 5:8–11)

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As I reflect on the Feast of St. Mary Magdalene, I can’t help but recognize the spiritual kinship I feel with her.

She went to the tomb expecting things to be as they were—the stone, the stillness, the body.
But everything had changed. And she was undone by the absence.

“They have taken my Lord away…”
Her ache wasn’t just grief. It was disorientation. She ached for connection, for the familiarity of His presence. She longed for what had grounded her life—the friendship, the mission, the healing voice that once called her name.

And in that moment of desperate searching, she mistook Him for the gardener.

What a beautiful mistake.

Because the Gardener was, in fact, standing right in front of her.
The One who prunes. The One who waits.
The One who whispers her name with resurrected love.

The Ache of Pruning

Pruning doesn’t always come in the dramatic snip of big life transitions. Sometimes it arrives subtly: in the dryness of morning prayer, in the silence of familiar routines that suddenly feel foreign, in the unnamable ache that something’s changed and you’re not sure how to fix it.

And yet, pruning is always purposeful.
As Venerable Fulton Sheen wrote,
“The gardener cuts the green shoots from the root of the bush, not to kill the rose, but to make it bloom more beautifully.”

St. Mary Magdalene offers us an example of authentic evangelization—not from a place of perfection, but from presence. She remained, she searched, she wept. And it was in that holy persistence that she heard the voice of the Risen Christ.

Her witness reminds us that evangelization isn’t just about proclaiming the truth—it’s about accompaniment.
It’s the quiet walk alongside others in their ache, their pruning, their longing to reconnect with what feels lost.

So today, if you find yourself on an unfamiliar path—detoured from what once felt certain—know that the Gardener has not left you. You may have to try a few new rhythms before you rediscover the silence that speaks. You may need to let go of the “doing” to return to the deeper “being” with Christ.

But He’s near.
He knows your name.
And the bloom will come.

If this reflection stirred something in your heart, I’d love to invite you deeper:

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With you in the garden,
Linda