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Searching for Our Umbrella

My Ignatian Moment: Ignatius and the Donkey. This post was written as a part of Becky Eldredge’s series on Ignatian Spirituality. See more at https://beckyeldredge.com/intothedeep/.

While the baby and I play in the sand, the older kids ride wave after wave into the shore on their boogie boards. My husband stands guard in the shallow water. He shows them and my niece how to watch the waves approach, let the small ones pass, and then ride into shore on the stronger currents. Over and over again, all afternoon. They swim out, wait, and “catch” the waves. 

Every so often, they stand on the sand, their eyes dart around, scanning over the various multicolored umbrellas and E-Z ups. They take in the man pulling a wheeled ice cream cart; pass over the family fully dressed and opening sand toys from a package; ignore the teenagers who brought their puppy to see the ocean for the first time. They are seeking out our “set-up” in the collage of umbrellas and towels dotting the beach. Sometimes they need a drink of water, or just to wipe the sand out of their eyes. They race over to this temporary home just long enough to satisfy their immediate needs. And then the ocean calls them back. 

How could this beach umbrella really be an Ignatian moment? 

Although St. Ignatius of Loyola became a masterful expert in discernment, he did not start out that way. His youth was filled with self-serving choices and his “home base” was not God. As he went out into the world, fought in battles, and cavorted with other soldiers and courtiers, the truth he returned to was the honor and glory of his family and his country. The truth he continued to seek was his OWN comfort, pride, and success. 

After his conversion experience while convalescing in the castle at Loyola, he was energized and ready to give his life over to God. On the road to Jerusalem, he had a disagreement with a Moor over key matters of theology regarding the Virgin Mary. Filled with righteous indignation, Ignatius’s first instinct is to defend Mary’s honor at all cost. Our newly converted Ignatius was considering murdering the Moor over this disagreement. Unsure whether this was TRULY what God was calling him to do, Igntatius let the donkey walking ahead of him make the decision for him. If the donkey took the same route as the Moor, then Ignatius would follow and kill the man. Thankfully, the donkey took the path towards Jerusalem and Ignatius continued on his way.

Instead of relying on the insights in prayerful decision making that God had already begun to reveal to him, Ignatius demanded that God “send a sign” that he was doing the right thing. How often have I done the same thing? When I demand that God send a quick answer, I ignore the voice of God that has already been murmuring in my ear. I block out the invitation to trust, and allow fear to be amplified. I allow the doubt to become a cycle that feeds itself.

My donkey is fear and indecision.  I allow the fear to drive me where it wants to take me. I become caught up in its energy. Once exhausted, I abdicate control. The donkey tramples over grace, barreling through the path God had already prepared for me. The past 18 months of global pandemic has only increased the cycle of doubts. I revisit decisions already made. What instincts can I trust? Did I make the right decision? Hindsight is not 20/20 right now. In hindsight, I find more reasons to doubt myself. 


I am like my children, standing on the sand looking for the right umbrella.  In discernment, I stop and look around me. I take in the cacophony of distractions.  I remind myself of where I have been and where I am trying to go. I retrace my own steps.  God has also come down to the beach. God has set up God’s umbrella, and brought cool water and snacks.

Will I sit down and enjoy this time with God?

Go Deeper

Consider praying with John 21:1-14 //Jesus appears to the disciples on the beach

Get in touch with how God speaks to you.  
Listen for how God might be inviting you to take a step towards greater love.

Photo Credit: Herson Rodriguez on Unsplash
https://unsplash.com/photos/-a0v4owqUUM

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Easter Sunday: Empty Clothes

Empty Clothes 

He went into the tomb and saw the burial cloths there, 

and the cloth that had covered his head, 

not with the burial cloths but rolled up in a separate place.

Then the other disciple also went in, 

the one who had arrived at the tomb first, 

and he saw and believed.

For they did not yet understand the Scripture 

that he had to rise from the dead. – John 20:5-9

“Your memories are like sadness and that keeps you cold. These memories will make you happy and that can make you feel warm.” My seven year old, Paul, lovingly ran his hands along the quilt. Our neighbor had it made out of her late husband’s favorite shirts. It has been just over a year since he died from cancer and my kids are still grieving the loss of this larger than life grandpa figure to them. These empty clothes told a story of adventure, generosity, and family. They told the story that his suffering has ended and that he is at peace now. 

In today’s Easter Gospel, the disciples arrived at the tomb to empty clothes that told a different story. Like my son gently stroking the flannel and cotton, I imagine the disciples touching the empty clothes in front of them. “We just wrapped him in these two days ago… we saw him, we touched him, we felt him in these clothes?” Painful memories of Jesus’ beating and death on the cross would have flooded back, “the memories that make you feel cold inside” as my son Paul said. They “saw and believed” that something good was still coming from this experience. They did not understand fully, but the empty clothes told them that death was not the end of the story. The warmth of hope can begin to replace the cold of our sadness.

In the past year, our relationship with the liturgy became even more detached. We learned about spiritual communion as we participated from afar, via livestream or recordings. Even once Churches reopened a bit more, many of us still found it difficult or perhaps unsafe to return. We continued to watch on a screen, to receive Communion in drive-thru lines or not at all. I had to ask myself the difficult question: does anyone care if I am here or not? Does it matter to anyone if I ever attend Mass? We have proven that we, the Body of Christ, are dispensable when it comes to the celebration of the liturgy. These thoughts can fill me with sadness and regret. 

The empty clothes tell another story, though. Jesus is not bound by time or space. I can be on the altar, in the pew, in my car, or at home on the couch. While I may not be able to physically receive Communion in each of these physical places, I am struck that Jesus has promised his Body and Blood to me in all of them. Death is not the end. Loneliness is not the finale. I have learned in new ways that the physical spaces we create or enter into for prayer are aids to clear our minds and hearts. The community gathered, the collective experiences of grace, are tangible and real ways that the Sacraments come alive. Despite MY struggles to fully enter into these strange spaces for prayer, Christ has no similar difficulty.  

Today I feel like an empty tomb. I am awaiting my own encounter with the Resurrected Lord. I trust that the emptiness within me is a reminder that new life is stirring.  

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Rewind, Fast Forward, Pause

“Tell God to rewind the day. I want to try again.” My four-year-old daughter sobbed uncontrollably in the parking lot of her preschool. After a mishap in the lining up for COVID-safe dismissal, she could not calm down enough to walk out with everyone else. After 20-minutes, one of the Sisters carried her to my car as she continued to cry. We talked about the pajama day and hot cocoa party they had, the special treats for the last day, and finally the incident that had upset her so much. The whole time we were sitting in the now-emptied parking lot, she kept saying she wanted God to rewind her day so she could start over. She wanted her friends (who are now long gone) to come back to school; she wanted to rewind and change the course of the day.

How often have we also wanted to rewind our day? I wish it were that easy. I judged a situation without having all the facts. I reacted angrily instead of listening longer to better understand.  I snapped at my husband and kids because I am tired and stressed. I wish I had been more productive over the weekend. I regret the things I put off in January and February of 2020 that were no longer possible come March. Rewind, start over, try again. 

At other times I just want to fast-forward to when things will be possible again. I want to fast-forward to the end of this never-ending pandemic, the drudgery of working from home with three energetic kids. I look at the mountain of laundry to fold and put away. The same sippy cup seems to be on the counter no matter how many times I wash it. The two hours of remote learning for first grade seems to take five. I can’t tackle this same ToDo list one more time. I want to fast-forward through the constant interruptions, fear, discomfort, and anxiety that made up 2020. Fast-forward to when I can volunteer at the Valentine’s Day parties in my kids’ classrooms, to the long-delayed celebration of my sister’s marriage, to waiting in a long line at Disneyland for my son to see the new Star Wars land (which we were supposed to do for his March 2020 birthday).

This week, the Catholic liturgical calendar moved out of the Christmas season and officially into “Ordinary Time.” We resume the rhythm of our pandemic survival: school, work, virtual Cub Scouts, Zoom ballet classes. From Sunday to Sunday, we put one foot in front of the other. I wake up hopeful and often find myself discouraged throughout the day: one more dish, one more load of laundry, one more email, one more Zoom. I wish I could rewind and do better, fast-forward to the quiet (maybe?) waiting at the end of the day. Both instincts come from the same root: the desire to escape. I want to flee the uncomfortable feelings and the disappointment, in myself and others. Maybe you are feeling this way, too?

Christmas has reminded us that God was born into messiness, fear, and discomfort. God lives not just in the Church buildings and pilgrimage sites, but also in the school parking lot and my laundry room. God joins me as I do the dishes, practice counting to 100, and reminds me that I can’t rewind or fast-forward. When I discover my daughter coloring all over her shoes, I can try to imagine the child Jesus playing alongside her. I am trying to live that call to discipleship, to be guided by Christ, in my own house and in my daily life. 

Discipleship is not just about tending to my own interior world (no matter how important that personal work is). I seek peace and centeredness so I can see beyond my own four walls. God’s people are crying out for hope and healing. Trusting in God’s goodness and provident care does not mean I turn a blind eye to that reality. Rather, it compels me to look more deeply into it and see this moment as an integral chapter in the paschal mystery. 

God is inviting me to do something as a disciple. At the very least, God is softening my heart and purifying my own self-preoccupation. I find myself angry at how willing some are to separate our communities into those deserving and those undeserving of compassion and care. When I see the long lines of cars awaiting meal distribution at our local Churches, I imagine the Holy Family, tired and worn out from their own journey. When I read about massive COVID outbreaks in California jails, I imagine Christ imprisoned alongside these men and women. I am challenged to greater solidarity. To be a disciple of Christ is to allow myself to be shaped by Christ’s dying and rising in my daily life and in the lives of those around me.

Go Deeper:

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Puzzling: Baptism of the Lord

In this way we know that we love the children of God

when we love God and obey his commandments.

For the love of God is this,

that we keep his commandments.

And his commandments are not burdensome,

for whoever is begotten by God conquers the world.  – 1Jn 5:2-4

When I dump out the 500 pieces of a new puzzle, the colors and shapes all jumbled together. Gradually, as I work, the nuances of color, perspective, and texture become more distinct. I enjoy the thrill of seeing chaos take shape. Once I start a puzzle, I cannot rest until I finish it. Unfortunately I don’t get much time to puzzle these days; inevitably pieces get lost or chewed up (by the dog or baby). 

On our Baptism, God does not just give us the first piece of sacramental grace. In Baptism, we receive the entire gift of salvation. Our original sin is cleansed and we are united completely with the community of faith. All the pieces are given to us, but the picture those pieces will form is still fragmented. Whether we are baptized as children or through the RCIA process, God comes more than halfway to meet us and journey with us through the rest of our lives. Baptism is not the first marker in a game of BINGO; we don’t need to move across the board collecting the markers in a row. 

God has already gifted us everything we need. Yet, I exert unnecessary energy trying to make all the pieces of my life’s puzzle fit together perfectly. I cram a piece that is too big in where it does not belong (and then later find myself undoing that whole section in order to start over). I despair as I look at the large gaps. I focus on that one weird misshapen piece that does not seem to fit anywhere. 

I forget that salvation has already been offered fully and completely. So many of us are filled with anxiety about our shortcomings and failures. We grow frustrated at the “Groundhog Day” feel to our confessions, as we struggle with the same vices over and over again.  I know I spend a lot of time questioning how God plans to fit all these pieces of my life and who I am together into anything meaningful.

In the wisdom of the Church, we have a practice of renewing our baptismal promises at various points throughout the liturgical year. (In normal times) we bless ourselves with the water of our Baptism as we enter and leave Church buildings. Like my love of puzzles was passed on to me and my siblings by our mom and aunt, the Church passes these rituals on to us because we realize that we need these reinforcements. The false spirit that pursued Jesus into the wilderness after his baptism tempts us that our pieces can’t be found, or that the baby-chewed piece has ruined it, rather than made it more human and lovely.

Each morning when we wake up, God offers the chance to live into the promises of our baptism in completely new ways: in our work, in our family life, and in the community around us.  The pieces shift, the colors become more distinct, the image reveals itself. 

Can I trust that whatever God is building in me, will be beautiful?

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Rationing Love

Tuesday After Epiphany, January 5, 2021

I think the stuffed animals are reproducing; every time I turn around, there are more of them. They stare at me from under the couch. They hide under the blankets on the beds. They lurk inside every backpack and tote bag. Even before I get out of bed in the morning, they are waiting for me. I am being haunted, not by ghosts but by “stuffies.” 

Unfortunately my loathing of the stuffies is inversely proportional to my children’s love of them. Each stuffy has an elaborate origin story: “Cottonball” the penguin that lives inside a plastic snowball, “Alora” who migrated here from outer space; or the magical Easter bunny that has made it past Christmas and into January. A short drive to Grandma’s involves a backpack and a doll stroller stuffed with “pets”. I once asked, “Do you think we need all this for such a short drive?” To which I got the response: “Grandma would miss them if they did not come.” Fair point. 

Writing this post, I have been interrupted with urgent requests to wrap a baby leopard in a swaddle blanket and tie it up with a pink ribbon. I don’t comply out of concern that the baby leopard is catching a chill, but because caring for this “pet” is a way that my daughter practices giving and receiving love. She thinks about its comfort and imagines its life. I would like her to have one special stuffed animal that she keeps on her bed and then get rid of all the rest. So far she has vehemently rejected my idea. 

At 4-years-old, I already know her mind does not work like mine. What energizes her and gives her life is unique. She is not my “mini me,” but her own person. She comes up a lot in my prayer (and these reflections) because she challenges me to love better. She comes up with responses, suggestions, and ideas that I never could have imagined. She rattles whatever small sense of control I feel over my life. Objectively speaking, I don’t want dozens of stuffed animals crammed in every nook and cranny of my house. They have not been evicted because I see how much joy caring for them brings her. (Down the road, I will probably regret allowing her to hoard them for this long.) The stuffies are one visible reminder of the expansive nature of love. Her loving expands my loving. 

In today’s Gospel, the Apostles look around and see the people hungry and tired. They cannot imagine being able to feed and care for these masses. They feel powerless to solve this problem. Jesus challenges them to look beyond the obvious solutions, to make space for love to enter in and multiply what is already there. Whether it was a miracle of matter or a miracle of heart, somehow there was enough food for all. God’s love is like this: abundant, overflowing, and gratuitous. 

Like the Apostles, I lose my way, wandering around in my overly analytical brain. I question my own decisions. I doubt that the voice I hear comes from God. I struggle to take a step forward in forgiveness. I allow love to be small, to be rationed, so that there is enough leftover for me. 

Sometimes my daughter piles all these dozens of stuffed animals on her bed at once and snuggles into them. Bunnies, dogs, pandas, cats: all of God’s creatures jumbled together. They cover her limbs and she pokes her face out just enough. What if I just dove into God’s love with such reckless abandon? 

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Where Does God Live?

“My God! What a wonderful title and what a beautiful description… Servants of the Poor! It is the same as saying Servants of Jesus Christ, for He regards as done to Himself what is done to them. What did he do on earth but serve the poor?”

–St. Vincent de Paul

Does God live in _____? Our three year old has become fascinated with all the places that God lives. Each day we go through a litany of places where God might live. God lives in our hearts? Yes. Does God live in our mouths? Yes. Does God live in the big trees? Yes. Does God live in the little trees? Also, yes. Does God in the mountains? Yes. Does God live on the streets? Yes. In today’s Gospel, upon recognizing Jesus, the disciples ask him where he is staying so that they might go there and meet him there. Each time my daughter asks if Jesus lives somewhere, my answer is always yes. She takes delight in asking me ridiculous places that God might live– in the street, inside her mouth– she laughs and then tries to think of even more places. 

Today we commemorate St. Elizabeth Ann Seton, a woman religious who founded the Daughters of Charity of St. Vincent de Paul and provided the framework for Catholic education in the United States. In a particular way, she and the Vincentian fathers  recognized Jesus in the poor. To care for and educate the poor (through schools, parishes, Meals on Wheels, social services, etc) is to care for Jesus in the poor, the migrant, the homeless. Does Jesus live on the street? Yes, Jesus lives on the street. 

My cousin (who is a Daughter of Charity) recently shared with me that one of their parishes in San Francisco’s Tenderloin district welcomes the homeless to sleep in the Church during the day. Oftentimes when the school Masses are happening, the homeless are asleep in the pews. “The Eucharist is present on the altar and in the pews,” she says.Just as John the Baptist proclaimed “Behold, the Lamb of God” in the person of Jesus, the Daughters of Charity proclaim “Behold, the Lamb of God” in the lives of the poor they serve. 

When we ask Jesus, “Where are you staying? Where do you live?” what response do we hear? Do I hear Jesus saying to me personally, “I want to live with you”? Do I hear Jesus saying, “Come and meet me in the streets, among the poor, with the forgotten”? 

Where is Jesus inviting me to meet him today?

For a great laugh and a fantastic image of joyful presence among the poor, watch local Daughters of Charity perform “Happy”. 

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Unexpected Epiphany

“Do not love the world or the things of the world.  If anyone loves the world, the love of the Father is not in him.  Yet the world and its enticement are passing away.  But whoever does the will of God remains forever.”
1 JN 2:15, 17

My house is filled with the things of this world… overflowing in fact.  Our kids especially were recipients of the generosity of aunts, uncles, godparents, grandparents and friends. Due to the massively delayed mail, it seems like each day of the Christmas season has brought even more surprises. Since December 24 we have been putting LEGO sets together, riding scooters, and cuddling the multitude of new stuffed animals. 

But today the kids went to tend the grave of a dear family friend who died in February. We had promised the family we would remove a little Christmas tree before the groundskeepers would come to clear the flowers and decorations this week. Our six year old, Paul, had been asking to visit the grave and took his job today very seriously. The sight when we got out of the car was almost overwhelming. Nearly every grave was covered in Christmas decorations: tinsel trees, nativities, poinsettias. One arrangement even included the Grinch.   

Our four-year-old daughter Clare remarked, “it’s like a giant birthday party for all these people in heaven.”

After clearing the grave and replacing the tree with fresh flowers, we prepared to leave. But Paul wanted to stay longer “visiting” our beloved neighbor. Meanwhile, Clare noticed that the recent rain and wind had blown over a lot of the decorations on other graves. Ornaments had scattered into the grass and some had been crushed. She gently straightened and redecorated the trees. The kids imagined the people: who were they, how did they die? Did they have the coronavirus? 

These other families will never know a small child visited their loved one’s grave. Just being there drew out their own sense of compassion and kindness. I’ve already promised them a visit to the Sisters’ plot at another Catholic cemetery. They can’t wait to visit the graves of the Sisters they knew, but also the Sisters they never knew.  I didn’t set out to include a cemetery tour in the Octave of Christmas, but it turned out to be a wonderful gift. 

The wise men brought symbols of both life and death: gold, frankincense and myrrh. We watched other families bury their loved ones today. We looked around at the unique decorations and offerings on the tombs: tangible outpourings of love, grief, and healing. Our offering is small compared to the gifts the wise men carried to present to the newborn king. 

As I journey with the wise men towards the manger, what gift might I already be carrying with me? With whom might God be inviting me to share that gift? 

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Is It You Who Will Build a House for Me?

Fourth Sunday of Advent
“Here I am living in a house of cedar, while the ark of God dwells in a tent!”  – 2 Samuel 7

The jangle of keys, the click of the lock on the front door, the rustle of the laundry basket. Small sounds like these have trained our one-year-old Matthew, “something is happening.” He comes running down the hall, slipping and sliding in his hurry to be involved. “Mama? Maaamaaa?!” Most of his life has been in quarantine. Outings are to the garage to load the washing machine, to the car to do a drive-up order at Target, and sometimes to grandma’s to be babysat while I work. There have been no baby music or tumbling classes. Unlike his older siblings, who had taken flights, gone to Disneyland, visited extended family on the opposite end of the state, Matthew’s life has been moving between the bedroom, the kitchen, the living room, and the most exciting part of the house: the garage. 

In March, I never could have imagined how small our world would shrink and for how long. My little shadow could barely roll over when this started, and now his footsteps thunder around the hallways. Our house doesn’t feel big enough for school, work, Zoom ballet class, and active kids.  The walls begin to feel like they are closing in on us. My world feels small, my house feels small, I feel small. I lament all the things that feel wrong with my house, beyond the endless ToDo lists and constant cleaning. 

In the first reading today, King David is horrified that the ark of the covenant is residing in a tent, while he lives in luxury. Through the Prophet Nathan, God tells David, “Is it you who will build a house for me?” I hear that query and wonder how I could answer.  All I have to offer Jesus is a couch with a sagging cushion and slightly chipped frame, a floor covered in Barbies, and bookshelves filled edge to edge with LEGOs.

What I have to offer Jesus seems so small: kitchen, family room, garage. The sacred space I have is the world that Matthew sees through his little eyes. This year, these four walls (and the people who dwell in them) are the only manger I have for the Holy Family.  It may be crowded, chaotic, and slightly sticky, but I trust it is a place that Jesus will want to come, to visit, to make a home. 

Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

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“Yes, and” or “Yes, but”

“She hears no voice, accepts no correction; In the LORD she has not trusted, to her God she has not drawn near… You need not be ashamed  of all your deeds, your rebellious actions against me.” ZEP 3:2,11

In Improv training, actors are taught the “yes, and” principle: to accept what is happening as reality and build off of that new information. This creativity and receptiveness is part of what makes improv spontaneous and fun. My daughter, on the other hand, takes the “yes, but” approach to any direction, correction, or vain pleading.

Me: “It’s time to clean up the toys.”
Her: “Oh, but the [imaginary] cat is still eating those legos for a snack.” 

Also me: “It’s time for a bath.”

Also her: “Yes, but, I’m Clare the Cat. Clare the kid is on vacation.”

Still me: “Okay, there is no more dessert today. I keep catching you eating chocolate chips out of the baking supplies.”
Still her: “Oh, that was Clare the Cat. I am Clare the Kid again and I have not had any dessert today.”

From an Improv sketch, this might be hilarious. In real life, the whole ordeal is infuriating, pull your hair out, crazy-making, frustration. She is relentless. When St. Ignatius talks about the false spirit wearing you down like a petulant child, this is the scenario he is referring to. It is not overtly evil, blatantly disregarding authority. She looks at me so sweetly, with a hopeful look in her eye, as if to say, “I bet you never thought of that?!” I resign myself to the fact that a four-year-old has already outsmarted me. I give in to her far more than I should because I am just so tired. Her “Yes, but…” closing off listening, cooperation, and co-creation. 

“Yes, and…” she is four. “Yes, and…” she is not an Improv actor. She is learning her ability to imagine, to impact the world around her. It is all necessary and – ultimately – good; but it is hard for the parent calling a daughter to listening, cooperation, and co-creation.

And then in all humility, I realize that I am no better in my conversations with God.  He just doesn’t give in to me the way I relent and give in to her. God is not wearied in the same way I am.

God: “You’ve been coasting along and not really allowing yourself to grow.”

Me: “Yes, but next year.”

Also God: “I know you are frustrated and discouraged right now. What is it that you are needing right now?”

Also me: “Yes but, let me moan and lament all the hard things a little longer. I am not really willing to fix them.”

Still God: “I love you just as you are. There is no need to change. I just want you to enjoy deeper peace, greater life, and gentle hope.”

Still me: “Yes but, that is scary and hard.”

The further we push God away, the more adrift we feel, and the harder it can be to realign ourselves. In the season of Advent, the readings invite us to make greater room to listen and hear God’s voice. When I read the line “She hears no voice, accepts no correction; In the LORD she has not trusted, to her God she has not drawn near…” I felt like I was hearing myself complain about my daughter. But more importantly, a few verses later, the prophet Zephaniah reminds us,  “You need not be ashamed  of all your deeds, your rebellious actions against me.” 

God takes all of Clare’s (and my) excuses, faults, and shortcomings and continues to reply, “Yes, and I still love you.” 

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Beautiful Things

Friday of the First Week of Advent

“One thing I ask of the LORD… That I may gaze on the loveliness of the LORD and contemplate his temple.” – Psalm 27

“I am looking for things that are beautiful.” The eye rolls, the snarky replies, the know-it-all smirks. I get this kind of teenager attitude a lot from my four-year-old daughter. So many of the outfits I suggest for school or pajamas I offer that are seasonally appropriate are considered “not beautiful enough” for her. She even makes up words to reject my suggestions. “That is too harbor-saucy.” I still do not know what that means.  Recently, I discovered her painstakingly coloring her school shoes in with Crayola crayons. “They were too beige.” After a moment of frustration, I found myself gazing on loveliness. I took pictures of the formerly beige shoes to remember this moment in time.  Each day she has proudly worn them, I have smiled at her whimsy and appreciated her unique personality. 

Like her school shoes, I have felt beige, tired, and shabby. I am constantly lacking: at spending quality time with my husband and kids, at keeping the housework under control, at getting Christmas gifts purchased and mailed, and staying on top of important deadlines. Each day is filled with distractions and reminders of my own failures. As 2020 reaches a crescendo, I am tired and worn. I feel just a little too beige.


When I am discouraged by the current state of affairs or tempted to judge other people’s actions, the words of today’s Psalm shift my perspective. “That I may gaze on the loveliness of the LORD and contemplate his temple.” This world around us, even right now, is the place where God is in-dwelling in humankind. It is the world the Christ-child enters into.

I imagine God is looking into humanity: with all its fighting, suffering, illness, and loneliness. I imagine God seeing beyond those challenges to the dignity within each person, to the care between neighbors, to the willingness to go (far) beyond our individual and collective comfort zones for the sake of one another. 

Like my artist of a daughter, God sees the potential waiting to be unleashed- even within me. God looks into my beige heart and sees a myriad of color. “I am looking for something beautiful.” 

What if that something beautiful God is seeking, is me?

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A Stolen Advent

Second Sunday of Advent, December 6, 2020

But the day of the Lord will come like a thief,

and then the heavens will pass away with a mighty roar

and the elements will be dissolved by fire,

and the earth and everything done on it will be found out. – Peter 3:10

The tracking numbers, the phone calls with the post office, emails with the seller. It did not seem possible, but it is official now. Someone has stolen our Advent. 

More precisely, someone stole the awesome, now sold-out Advent kit I ordered.  This kit was going to make our Advent…. So we could really immerse ourselves in the activities, prepare our children for the season when little else they expect is happening.  But instead, Advent was stolen.

Our long standing traditions are cancelled. My preparation for Christmas won’t involve gatherings with my closest friends and family members. There will be no lengthy meals or cross-country flights; no sitting on Santa’s lap or Nutcracker Ballet. I have not even entered a mall to purchase Christmas gifts. Instead I have bought most things online and ended up with fraud on my credit card too… My craft kit, my credit card, and many things I hold dear…. All of them stolen. 

I feel uneasy. If these things can so easily be stolen, if I can be taken advantage of like this, where else is my safety in jeopardy? In today’s  second reading, the false prophets instill doubt in the people. Maybe God isn’t even in control anymore? This is all no longer a part of salvation history.

But like a thief, God has snuck in where I least expected Him.  God has been stealing moments, forcing my eyes to see and my ears to hear. My eyes cannot ignore the long lines of cars backed up on city streets, awaiting the contactless distribution from the food pantry. My ears cannot forget the little boy on my son’s Zoom who casually mentions not having enough to eat. My heart aches for dear friends whose lives are crumbling like a house of cards right now. I feel the loneliness in being helpless. 

Like John the Baptist prepares the way for the Lord, the people around me are directing my attention towards what is still to come. A vaccine, a cure, peace. When tempted to despair, I am reminded  there is hope. 

My Advent was stolen, but not by porch pirates or cyber criminals. What I thought I needed for Advent was taken from me, and I’ve been invited by Jesus to something new. I was captured by the One who opens locked doors and barricaded hearts. 

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What I’ve Been Looking For

And coming forward at that very time, she gave thanks to God and spoke about the child to all who were awaiting the redemption of Jerusalem.  – Luke 2:38

For the past several years we have visited the San Jose “Christmas in the Park” with a close friend (our younger son’s godfather) on the day after Christmas. The 2-acre park in downtown San Jose is covered in animated figures and displays along with hundreds of trees decorated by community or school groups. The trees include handmade ornaments from Girl Scout Troops, tributes to recently deceased people, high school physics projects… you name it, someone has put it on a tree. We are always on the lookout for something truly unique, truly weird, and truly outrageous. This year, the winner was a dinosaur skeleton eating a donut with a nest full of Easter eggs. When I spotted it, I cried out “Dan! We have found the winner!” Each year we don’t know what we are looking for, but we know we will find it. 

In today’s readings, the prophetess Anna has spent years awaiting the Messiah. When Mary and Joseph arrive with the newborn child at the temple, she recognizes the truth before her. The redemption of Israel has come in ways that were unexpected, shocking, and even seemingly ridiculous.  From the very beginning of Jesus’ life, there were people who recognized Jesus for who He was… the salvation of Israel. We can assume that the prophetess was long deceased by the time of Jesus’ public ministry, and yet in her faith she glimpsed what was to come.

The gift of the Christ child makes for a charming Christmas pageant (that my own and so many other children participated in last week). Yet the readings today remind us that he has come to undertake a mission far more difficult, scandalous, and radical than being born to an unwed mother in unsavory conditions. I am tempted to try to understand the meaning of God’s plans, to rationalize the difficult things that have happened or to hold too fast to the gifts I have received out of fear of losing them.  Sometimes wrapping my mind and heart around God’s dreams (for me and others) feels like looking at a Christmas-Easter dinosaur skeleton eating sugary carbs. It makes no sense, it is ridiculous, but I know I can delight in it.

Do I sense God revealing himself to me in unexpected or surprising ways today?

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Unashamed

“He was a righteous man, yet unwilling to expose her to shame…” -Matthew 1:19

My sister recently received a Christmas card from a friend that included the line, “Most days I’m okay,” admitting how difficult the previous year had been for her. Moments of total honesty like this are rare amidst the typical glitter-covered, premium cardstock Christmas greetings filling the mailbox. There is a temptation to only report on the highlights of the previous year (and not the low points). In our annual family photos, we want our children perfectly posed and smiling sweetly. But the daily reality of our lives is messy, boogery, rambunctious chaos. Why sit demurely amidst the Christmas decorations when you could swim through the oversized ornaments with reckless abandon?  Around the family Christmas table (or the office holiday party punch bowl) we can feel pressured to put on a perfect face. To minimize the struggles we face. The fear of shame is greater than the desire for meaningful encounters. 

In today’s Gospel, Joseph tries to do the “right” thing that will save face and avoid scandal, while protecting Mary’s life and dignity. When the angel of the Lord appears to Joseph and confirms the deeper truths around Mary’s circumstances, the Lord is also calling Joseph to drag a scandalous situation into the light and claim it. To air the dirty laundry and take whatever grief may come in doing so.

The gift God has prepared for Joseph is beyond anything he could possibly imagine. Sometimes the righteous response means looking beyond the written law to the spirit, recognizing the deeper truth. Our Catholic tradition is filled with examples of saints, and other holy men and women, who protest unjust laws or practices. Those who face ridicule, arrest, and even martyrdom for standing with the poor, the marginalized, and the disenfranchised. It’s earnestly attempting to connect with the family members with whom we normally have conflict. 

Sometimes wrestling fear is as futile as wrangling a toddler into fancy clothes for a picture. What if we stopped allowing that fear to control us? 

Are there aspects of myself (or my beliefs) that I’m fearful of allowing others to see? What might it look like to live from a place of greater freedom, and less shame? 

Distorted Mirrors

Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com

Three kids, a pandemic, and nearing the “late thirties” stage of not-so-young adulthood… Suddenly, shopping is not as fun as it used to be. Fall has brought a few occasions that require me to ditch my uniform of mom jeans and Ann Taylor Loft T-shirts. The most important of these is my sister’s long-delayed wedding celebration. In the midst of back to school preparations for the kids, my own work schedule, and my husband’s promotion at work, I snuck in a few quick shopping trips.  I  frantically grabbed anything off the rack that might fit me (or the color scheme for the wedding). Everything turned out to be a bad shape, the wrong size, or an unflattering cut. No matter where I looked, I could not find the right fit. I felt discouraged and hopeless. 

It was time for a serious intervention. No more quick browsing when I had an extra 30 minutes between obligations. Enough of the ordering things online that end up looking nothing like the pictures when they arrive. I was done with the picked over racks in a near-empty mall. My best friend and I blocked out an entire afternoon. We left our kids with babysitters and drove 30 minutes away to a bigger, better stocked shopping center. We were committed and we were not leaving without a dress. We spent 4 hours and I tried on dozens of dresses in two stores.  I actually ended up buying the first thing I saw when I walked in the door. What did this experience tell me about Ignatian discernment?

I realized how many similarities there are between a successful shopping trip and the process of prayerful decision making with the Lord. These tools can assist us during an individual discernment that affects our families or livelihoods (a move, a career change, a new ministry opportunity) or a communal discernment that involves more stakeholders. In healthy ministry settings, leaders use these and other techniques to truly listen to the needs of the people involved and assess the gifts and limitations of the staff and volunteers in order to better discern where God might be revealing a response.

So my rules for buying an important dress OR making a major discernment in life…

  1. A Dedicated Time
    When faced with an important decision, it is important to set aside time to allow the key questions to emerge. Oftentimes I find myself “reacting” and grabbing at whatever solutions seem to be available, rather than taking the time to step back and think about what I really want or what my family really needs. By not allowing proper time, I limit myself to whatever ill-fitting dress is on the discount rack rather than choosing what truly works best for me. 
  2. A Safe Place
    The pandemic exacerbated a general feeling of “never being alone” and constantly having my kids hanging on me and clamouring for attention. As I tried to fit dress shopping into our busy schedule, I was only focused on the outcome of getting a dress quickly and cheaply. I did not have the space to process my dissatisfaction with what I was seeing in the mirror or frustrations regarding the lack of options in the stores. In discernment, we require a “space” where we can allow ourselves grief, disappointment, joy, and apprehension. Sometimes our physical space helps facilitate mental and spiritual space. These can include going on a weekend or week-long retreat, taking a day off for recollection and rest,  or just allowing a set time for prayer each day. These types of “safe spaces” make it easier to recognize the voice of God communicating to us. 
  3. A Companion You Trust
    A friend, spiritual director, therapist, or mentor can provide companionship that encourages honest discernment. Oftentimes we are so close to the situation that we either struggle to see clearly what is going on, or encounter resistance to accept the truth in some way. This compassionate listener can be one part of creating a safe environment for discernment. A companion raises questions, reflects back emotions, points out assumptions, and offers support. These individuals offer a sense that “we are not alone” or a reassurance that even if we fail, we are loved. 
  4. A Clear Mirror
    When I finally showed my friend the very first dress I saw, she stared at me in disbelief. “It’s perfect. How did you not see it was perfect? It looks exactly like you.” As I tried on dress after dress, I had begun to doubt what I saw in the mirror. My perception had become warped by disappointment and self-doubt. I did not trust that beauty was reflecting back at me, I only saw the lumps and rolls. My friend provided the encouragement I needed to both make a decision, as well as reconnect with my own instincts. 

Sometimes we sense that deep down, we have the answers we seek, but we need to wade through the emotions, doubts, and fears in order to arrive at a conclusion. The Ignatian way of discernment can provide helpful tools to break through those barriers, see more clearly, and take a step forward with greater trust in God. In A Friendship Like No Other, William Barry, SJ describes that as we discern with God, “we allow the Spirit to transform us into people who are more like the images of God we are created to be—that is, more like Jesus, who was clearly a contemplative in action.” The Gospels show us example after example of Jesus as a leader who listens to people, hears their fears and concerns, and moves them towards greater life. 

Each day, we are presented with similar opportunities to listen to God’s unique way of speaking to us as leaders in our families and work. The setting could be anywhere: a Board of Directors meeting for a non-profit, the spiritual direction room on a silent retreat, a Zoom screen, a playdate at the park, a department store fitting room.

Go Deeper

Learn more about St. Ignatius and Contemplative Leadership here

Be inspired by Stephanie Clouatre Davis as she tackles her own discernment.

This post was written as part of a series on Contemplative Leadership for the blog Into the Deep.

When the Road Forks: Recalculating Route

This is written as a part of a series for the Ignatian Year on Ignatius’ Cannonball Experience and life transformation. See more at: https://beckyeldredge.com/author/jcoito/

With 650 miles of freeway and 22,000 miles of surface streets, Los Angeles County offers an almost unlimited number of roads to travel. I have been known to miss my exit or get on the onramp heading Eastbound when I want to go Westbound. I do not always plug my destination into the GPS.  I somehow missed the fact that planned construction has condensed 6 lanes down to 1 lane on my intended route… there was probably a detour that was recommended. The road forks, not just once but countless times. There are an unlimited number of roads to travel, and countless ways for me to get lost in my own backyard. In discernment, the question is often: am I truly lost, or just moving at my own pace? Am I still on the way, but just taking a circuitous route to get there?

The Reroute

In his autobiography, St. Ignatius described a pivotal fork in the road on his own journey to Montserrat. After his “cannonball experience” and subsequent recuperation at the castle of Loyola, Ignatius had a disagreement with a Moor on some key points of faith (particularly around the Virgin Mary).  Ignatius had to make the decision to either let the matter rest (and continue on his journey) or follow the man and seek vengeance in defence of Mary’s honor. Not sure what the right answer was, Ignatius allowed his donkey to make the choice for him.  This was perhaps not his greatest moment… Thankfully, the donkey chose the path away from murder and violence, and towards the new life that Ignatius had already begun to imagine for himself. 

Like coming up on an unexpected road closure, some discernments involve a massive recalculation. What would have happened if Ignatius had not been hit with the cannonball? The valiant soldier was probably content with his life. Without such a life-altering injury, he may never have spent time in deep discernment, nor had the courage to forge ahead on this different path. Some of my dear friends have had completely life-altering recalibrations in recent years: a cancelled engagement, leaving a religious order, an unexpected death of a loved one. Each transition involves grieving the loss of the life that was and seeking out alternate roads. 

The “Faster” Route

Sometimes the recalibration our lives need is more subtle. Have you ever had the navigation alert pop up that says “faster route” has been identified? At least in Los Angeles, the vast majority of the time the route does not turn out to be faster. The “better” route involves me making a challenging left turn from a narrow alley across six lanes of traffic. The “faster route” leads me on a wild goose chase to shave mere minutes off of a ninety minute drive.  

Particularly in times of difficulty or desolation, I can feel tempted to seek any route that looks better than the one I am on. If only I was not trying to work across so many time zones…if only my mom hadn’t broken her hand right after we all got vaccinated. If only our school had gone back in person full time instead of staying in a hybrid part-time mode. I keep looking for something external to fix the things that are bothering me. Something outside of me must be able to free up more time, streamline my life, get me faster to where I want to be. I am stuck in gridlock, desperate for a way out that is not coming. 

When the mocking tone on the GPS tells me there is a better route, a faster route, most of the time I realize it is just an illusion of control. There is no faster route in LA. I take these alerts as a warning to settle down and prepare for the long haul…find a podcast to listen to, call a good friend to keep me company while I drive, enjoy the peace and quiet away from my kids. 

The Slow Merge

Usually the impetus for change does not happen instantly. My husband often asks me, “if what you are doing is not working, why do you keep doing it?” Recently he has asked this question about my approach to our son’s distance learning during the pandemic and the purgatory that is cleaning the house up after three little kids. I express frustration with the results (or lack thereof), but without a better solution I stay stuck in my old routines.  

Like Ignatius, something about my current way has ceased to give me life or energize me. I then need time (sometimes a long time) to ruminate about the dis-ease I am feeling. I move to the stage of trying to ignore the changes that are needed, because such a change is difficult, uncomfortable, scary or confusing. If I were Ignatius I would probably have spent a few extra days in bed reading, just so I did not have to force a decision yet. Finally, at some point the desire for change overpowers the desire for comfort and stability. After hanging out between two lanes for a while, I finally make the merge (much to the relief of everyone around me).

It may take a long time. I may need to reroute on numerous occasions. I might take multiple roads before finding the correct one. I may spend time in the slow lane, letting the more confident drivers pass me. As long as I keep my inner GPS oriented to God, I know I will get there someday. For now, I am just “recalculating route”… 

Going Deeper
Here are some other great resources on discernment from the Into the Deep team:

Discernment at Different Stages of Life  by Vinita Hampton Wright

Listening for God When We’re Stuck by Becky Eldredge 

For a guided prayer prompt on identifying your own cannonball experiences:

An Ignatian Pilgrimage Week #2: The Injury That Changed Everything 

The Walking Dead

Fifth Sunday of Lent

“I will open your graves and have you rise from them…I will put my spirit in you that you may live.” –Ez 37:12-14

I have been walking around dead for a while. No, I am not a ghost or a Zombie. But  parts of me have been dead inside for over a year. The part that laughs while meeting up with a friend for coffee, the part that engages in casual conversation, the part that sits at lunch and listens to the wisdom of the older Sisters in the convent. There is a part of me that comes alive in meaningful, spontaneous connections. While the REST of me is so thankful to be alive and healthy, this part of me has been killed by social distancing, Zoom, and isolation. It has been buried under the constant weight of decision making, and the anxiety of making the wrong decisions. 

I recently watched my son run in the backyard with a friend after our first in-person Cub Scout meeting since November. My fully vaccinated aunt and uncle came for dinner. Today, our children will hug their great-grandparents for the first time in over a year. With each of these firsts, a little piece of me is coming alive again. We have all been “managing” and “hanging in there” and “making the best of things.” The family members that have gotten sick have recovered. Many of us are vaccinated now. We are so grateful that we have been safe.

Yet, I am also starting to recognize spontaneous joy in ourselves and in our kids. These little pieces of us that have been missing slowly sliding into place again. I realize that at other times in my life I have lived this way: being “satisfied” with settling. I have accepted the death of my dreams, my hopes, my visions for a better way. They get buried under “making it work” and “the way things are.”  Perhaps as things slowly reopen, we can pause and reassess. Maybe God is calling me to be something new and more fully alive today as well? 

What in my life has reached an impasse and seems ready to be laid to rest?

What parts of me are yearning for a resurrection? 

How might God be breathing new life into me this Lent? 

Unwashed

Live as children of light, for light produces every kind of goodness and righteousness and truth.  – Eph 5:8-9

Driving slow in the fast lane, noisy chewing, nails on a chalkboard,  blocking the grocery store aisle while talking, incorrect mask usage. We all have things that irritate us and trigger reactions that are over the top. We swear at the offending driver, we post memes online about these irritating people, we complain on a text chain with our friends and family. Our response is a bit overblown to these quirks that irk. Some of us also have things that trigger an above normal level of anxiety. For me it’s small spaces, heights, and my kids getting sick. 

When faced with the pressure to make decisions in these settings, I am paralyzed by fear and over-thinking. I lose confidence in my own instincts.  I do not trust myself to gage whether I am overreacting.  Even before COVID, I had visions of illness sweeping through our family and throwing off all our plans.  I have not embraced the section from St. Ignatius’ First Principle and Foundation: 


“We should not fix our desires on health or sickness, wealth or poverty, success or failure, a long life or a short one. For everything has the potential of calling forth in us a deeper response to our life in God. Our only desire and our one choice should be this: I want and I choose what better leads to God’s deepening his life in me.” 

I am not indifferent to my family’s health nor am I indifferent to my own anxieties. I do not want any of us to be physically or mentally unwell.  I DO desire a stable, balanced reaction to stressors. St. Ignatius and today’s Gospel both remind us that God meets us precisely in these places where we feel lacking. In the Gospel, Jesus heals a man born blind by mixing saliva with dirt to form a clay. He then “smeared the clay on his eyes.” As Jesus, does this the man’s physical impairment is healed and his faith in God is affirmed. 

When I imagine myself in the Gospel scene, I feel like the clay is caked to my eyes and I keep trying to see through it. I sense God’s presence, feel His healing touch, and yet I don’t fully believe in its power. I am still trying to interpret reality and make decisions through a lens that is obscured. I convince myself that if only I can “get over” these insecurities, I will be able to respond better in faith. Once I am “cured” then I can trust more in God’s plan for my life and my family. Yet, Jesus does not wait for me to “be better” or “do better” in order to act. God continues to meet me in these painful places and transforms them.  

What happens if I take a step towards the pool of healing and wash the clay from my eyes? Am I ready for what I might see? 

Driving Out

Thursday of the Third Week of Lent

March 11, 2021

Jesus was driving out a demon that was mute, and when the demon had gone out, the mute man spoke and the crowds were amazed. – Luke 11:14

As soon as we hear the tell-tale rumble coming down the street, we must run out to greet the trash truck. We watch the mechanical arm reach out and grab the cans to dump. Since we live on a cul-de-sac, as soon as the truck finishes, we get to patiently watch for it to loop around and do the same on the other side of the street. The whole ordeal takes less than 5 minutes, but the kids cheer as our cans get emptied and wave to the drivers. The dirty diapers, junk mail, kitchen scraps, and the rest of the mess from the previous week disappears.  Without children, I would never watch my trash get routinely carted away. And yet there is something freeing about the ritual cleansing of the excess in our lives.  

In today’s Gospel, Jesus “drives” out the demon that prevents the man from living his life fully. The crowd is awed by the miracle, but it is another example of how easily Jesus can cure our physical ailments. Our spiritual struggles, the demons that keep us from God, are even more difficult to cast aside.  We put up armor around our hearts, this “hardening” we are warned against in Jeremiah and Psalm 95. In our attempts to stay in control, we shut out God’s voice.  We hoard our coping mechanisms and defenses and are unwilling to relinquish them to make space for something new. The goal is not to fill my trash cans to the brim each week, but rather to use them to rid myself of things that we no longer need. In Lent when we “give something up” or add on a new habit or practice, the sacrifice itself is not the end goal. Like the trash can, sacrifice is a useful tool as we clear space so we can live more freely and fully. 

Some of the excess that needs trimming away right now is not trash, but rather things that have served their purpose in my life and are now ready to move along. Like a worn out sweater, toxic friendship or stale loaf of bread, in Lent we have the chance to clear space for what truly gives us life.  Sometimes our ways of praying have become dry and tasteless, and the longer we hold onto them, the more we miss the chance to encounter God’s generosity in new, dynamic ways. 

So many times I fall asleep discouraged and frustrated with how little I have accomplished, how poorly I responded to my kid’s tantrums, and how hopeless the world seems right now. I keep reminding myself that the same God who drives out the demons that cause blindness and deafness in the Gospels is also driving out my self-doubt, fear, and false sense of control. This week I am going to imagine these demons riding away on the trash truck (along with the contents of the diaper pail) while I stand on the curb waving goodbye. 

Shards of Glass

This post was written as a part of a series on “Praying When It’s Hard” on https://beckyeldredge.com/intothedeep/

Our 1-year-old has obtained the height and just enough dexterity to reach above his head and swipe at things on the kitchen counter.  Surprises come raining down: a sleeve of crackers, a banana, a full cup of water. Most of the time he squeals with delight at his new-found ability. A few weeks ago, he knocked a glass measuring cup to its death. It shattered on the tile around him. Terrified, he cried out and tried to run to me; I desperately coaxed him into standing still and waiting for my help. For several seconds he sobbed amidst the broken pieces of glass. Alone, scared, trapped. I was so close, and yet to him I may as well have been on Mars. 

My prayer has felt this way: alone, scared, trapped. 

Sometimes I can pinpoint a moment of “shatter,” when my faith was recklessly flung off the counter: a betrayal by a close friend, an unexpected loss, senseless death. Although I may have a vague awareness that God is “out there” in the world, my immediate circumstances have isolated me, leaving me raw and broken. Other times, tiny fissures have been forming over time. The integrity of the glass has been slowly compromised.  When something seemingly small happens (a comment from a busybody neighbor, a lost cable for the laptop, a cold that makes its way home from preschool), it can feel insurmountable. It was not one shatter, but thousands of little shards breaking off every day. 

This image of shattered glass captures what living and praying in a state of desolation feels like for me. St. Ignatius depicts desolation as movement away from God, goodness, community and faith. In consolation we sense God walking with us and accompanying us in our sadness and struggles. Even the most stalwart and faithful pray-ers find themselves in moments or states of desolation at some point in life. No matter where you find yourself today- in desolation, in consolation, or somewhere in between- God wants to meet you there.

Like my baby standing amid the sharp pieces of glass, when in desolation I find myself fearful of taking any steps. Any movement- to pray, to make any small change in my life, to seek help from friends or loved ones- risks further injury. If I allow this pain to emerge in prayer, will it become more pronounced, its edges more jagged and damaging? If I name this resentment I feel, will I be unable to ignore it as I go about my day-to-day life? In desolation I am paralyzed with helplessness, not knowing which way to turn. I am still gripping tightly to the very parts of myself in need of healing. 

So what do I do first?

Triage the Situation

When we recognize that we are in such a state, whether we arrived there gradually or abruptly, the first step in prayer is often a recognition that Christ alone will heal us. From my vantage point, all I see is shattered glass. In desolation, I remind myself that God has never led me to a dead end before. God has always offered a way forward. Instead of rushing ahead, I may just need to sit with that reassurance for a while. It can be helpful to spend time praying with my own memories of how God has intervened in the past, paying attention to any patterns of how God has worked in my life. Reconnection with my own experiences of God’s love provide the solid ground I need to begin moving forward out of desolation. 


Stop the Clock

I also need to be patient with myself, and with God. Often cracks in my faith life have been forming over time. Any repair is also going to take time. Any pressure to return to “perfection” is coming from me, not from God. Recognizing the source of that desire helps me reorient my gaze on the One calling the shots. Jesus knows my deep desire, however imperfect, and also knows that I may only be capable of receiving a small piece of His response at once. In Mark’s Gospel, Jesus heals the blind man gradually. At first, the images the man sees are hazy and indistinct. Only after Jesus heals him a second time can he see clearly. Oftentimes, as old pains resurface, God brings about deeper, lasting healing.

Bring in Reinforcements

God has created us for community. Each time I have faced significant struggles in my prayer, good friends have supported me. I have been consoled by their faith in God’s promise to me. I have been encouraged by their perseverance in prayer.  Reinforcements have come as Spiritual Directors, faith sharing groups, and mentors. Sometimes the best sounding boards are the friends and family who know me the best, and are not afraid to challenge my way of thinking. Each of these people have reminded me that I am not alone. I have been reassured that the God who loved me yesterday, loves me today and will love me again tomorrow. 


Go Deeper

Identifying what is leading us towards or away from God: First Principle and Foundation of the Ignatian Spiritual Exercises

Am I in Desolation or Consolation? Into the Deep blogger Vinita helps us disciper where we are.

8 Tools for Combating Desolation 

Find a community that helps you grow spiritually. 

Capturing Joy

Let us make three tents: one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” He hardly knew what to say, they were so terrified. Then a cloud came, casting a shadow over them; from the cloud came a voice, “This is my beloved Son.  Listen to him.”
-Mark 9:5-7

We are isolated. Yet our 4-year-old has created an entire “invisible world” where she gets to go places and do the things she misses right now. Recently, she commented that when she goes to the invisible world two of her closest friends get to live with her in the same house and see her all the time. There is no doubt that playing with them in real life would be better than playing with them in the invisible world. She is doing everything she can to capture things that bring her joy. 

In today’s Gospel the Apostles are terrified and amazed as Jesus appears before them alongside Moses and Elijah. In awe, they try desperately to contain the experience before them. They had been experiencing hardships and rejection along the way, and Jesus had begun warning them of his impending death. They are encouraged by this glimpse into Jesus’ glory. Like Abraham in the Old Testament readings, they are reassured that God continues to be with them. When everything we treasure is stripped away, God’s mercy will still provide. God will take care of us tomorrow, just as he has taken care of us for generations. Finally, some good news for poor Peter and the others!  

Our human instinct is often to latch onto these positive memories. We commemorate it on a cave wall, in a tapestry, or in our oral tradition. As a teenager I would have scrapbooked the moment.  Now, I spend time and money taking, storing, and occasionally printing photos. The painting, the antique, the photo and video evidence. The memory itself does not live in these things, they are merely tools to help trigger our interior response to the initial connection. 

I open the drawer to my grandmother’s old desk, rifle through the newspapers my grandfather printed on an old moveable-type printing press, or sit on the sofa that used to be in their den. Each of these objects reminds me of them, but nothing brings back their smell, their touch, the feeling of being with them. I would give anything to sit in the basement in my grandfather’s workshop with him one more time…to make pancakes on the griddle of my grandmother’s 100-year-old gas stove… to visit the giraffes at the San Francisco Zoo with them.  

On my last trip to their nearly-empty house just before it was sold, I was struck by the feeling that as much as I loved that house they were no longer there. Their memory is more present in time spent with my family, both those who knew and loved them and those who have only heard the stories of what they were like. I imagine the Apostles wanting to capture their time with Jesus, Elijah and Moses in this same way, as if the tent would keep the memories safe. 

I suspect that if they did build a shrine for this sacred mystery, it would feel as empty as my grandparent’s vacant house. The miracle of the Transfiguration would remain, but there would be no way of containing it in physical time and space. Like the love my grandparents infused in my family, this gift was meant to be shared through the very being of those who encountered it. 

Has God created such a sacred space for love to dwell within me? 

Whole Hearted

Wednesday of the First Week in Lent
Even now, says the LORD, return to me with your whole heart for I am gracious and merciful. – Joel 2:12-13  

More than two weeks ago, our daughter Clare came home from preschool with a shoebox full of “kindness notes” (also known as Valentines). For two weeks, she has been carrying the box around, taking all the cards out to study over and over again. “This one is from Ella. She is my friend.” “Whose name is on this one? Who drew this?” She has relived memories and recounted stories that we have never heard about school and her friends. I keep expecting her interest to wane. But these little scraps of paper have brought her hours of enjoyment.  

St. Ignatius tells us to return to Scripture passages and experiences of prayer that are fruitful, so that we might gain even more wisdom from them. Particularly in times of desolation, he instructs us to relive those moments where we felt God’s nearness most profoundly. Over the past few weeks, I have continued to be struck by this image of Clare carefully examining her Valentines as if they are precious gifts. In her own intuitive child-like way, she is doing exactly what St. Ignatius has instructed.  

But now we are in Lent and today’s readings are a harsh wake up call to the Ninevites as well as the crowd gathered around Jesus. They are being warned of the consequences of ignoring the commandment, but also of the unimaginable mercy of God. Sometimes we feel as lost as the Ninevites and as clueless at deciphering the Gospel as the early disciples. I question what my small Lenten sacrifices really mean. Will eating less chocolate really return my heart to God? Will my resolve to react less and speak kinder really make any difference? Today I feel like the same old me, with the same old flaws.    

I hold the image of Clare’s sacred Valentines in contrast with the seemingly distant God in the readings. Instead of imagining God somewhere off in the distance, judging my worth, I imagine God sitting beside me at the kitchen table. Together, we open the treasure chest of my prayers and good intentions. We relive the highlights and key moments. The things in need of further healing, we put aside to look at another time. The ones that bring deep peace and joy, we return to the box to enjoy over and over again. We tend to think about redemption as a linear process. Our prayer and our faithfulness hopefully improve over time; but in reality our relationship with God goes through highs and lows, more fruitful times as well as dryer times.  

No matter where I am today, the invitation from God remains: return to me with your whole heart. The whole heart that is bruised and broken; the whole heart that has complex reactions to people. Any Lenten commitment to prayer, fasting, or giving is simply a help on this journey of return. I am comforted that God does not care whether our last “Valentines Day” together was two weeks, two years, or two decades ago. If I genuinely desire a deeper relationship with God, I trust that He will accept my humble offering fully. 

Suggestion for prayer:  
1. Take out crayons, colored pencils or markers.  
2. Imagine what note God might leave in your treasure box.   
3. What note might you write Jesus in return?