The poet and artist Jan Richardson, writing in her “Blessing for Epiphany” — which we will celebrate in just a few days — says: “If you could see / the journey whole / you might never / undertake it; / might never dare / the first step / that propels you / from the place / you have known / toward the place / you know not.”

Such true words. Looking back over our lives, many of us recognize that had we seen the entire path in advance — including the eventual losses, illnesses and other difficulties we all inevitably face — we might have hunkered down and refused to budge. But in hindsight, we can reflect on the difficult moments and marvel at the strength and faith that got us through things we would otherwise consider unimaginable. Often, we also marvel at how those moments shaped us, and our lives, in ways we would not want to erase, even if we wish we could erase the painful parts.

As we prepare for the arrival of the Magi at the crèche in Bethlehem, we often forget what was required of them. They did not have a GPS or comfy hotels or any guarantees they’d find what they were after. But they had a star and a belief in something so powerful that it literally moved them into the unknown. If they had been able to foresee the dangers they would face along the way, they might have come up with any number of reasons to stay put, but they trusted the movement of the Spirit and approached the threshold with curiosity and wonder. Epiphany moments don’t happen in the regrets over the past or worries over the future; they happen in the now.

In her book, “Open the Door,” writer Joyce Rupp says: “Threshold experiences contain tremendous energy. They hold the power to unglue and shake us deeply, to enfold us with a seemingly empty darkness that makes us yearn for relief. They can set an imprisoned spirit free, nurse a wounded heart back to health, and bring peace to a desolate mind.”

As we cross the threshold into a new year filled with things we can’t possibly see from our current vantage point, we have a choice about how we approach what’s ahead. Most of us — because we are human, after all — can’t help but go forward with some trepidation. We may not know the specifics, but we know life is usually not easy. In some ways, that in itself can be freeing. It’s a given that some days will be challenging, so how do we navigate this grand adventure? Step by step.

“There is nothing / for it / but to go / and by our going / take the vows / the pilgrim takes: / to be faithful to / the next step; / to rely on more / than the map; / to heed the signposts / of intuition and dream; / to follow the star / that only you / will recognize,” writes Richardson.

We can only recognize our star if we ground ourselves in God and prayer. There, in the landscape of our souls, the signposts will come into focus, showing us the thresholds we are meant to cross, not with fear and hesitance but with faith and hope, even if they unglue us along the way.

This column originally appeared in the Dec. 26, 2024, issue of The Evangelist.

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It’s not always easy to remain curious and joyful when the body is slowing down or maybe even breaking down, when the world around us is full of suffering and uncertainty and downright madness. But if we are willing to approach all that is before us as a lesson to be learned, not in a punitive way but in a heart-opening way, we find a path that is not necessarily easy but calls us forward just the same. It is an approach that reminds me of a T.S. Eliot poem I often use when leading retreats.

In “East Coker,” part of Eliot’s “Four Quartets,” the poet writes:

I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you/Which shall be the darkness of God…I said to my soul, be still and wait without hope/For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love/For love would be love of the wrong thing; this is yet faith/But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting. Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought: So the darkness shall be the light and the stillness the dancing.

My tattoo.

On the surface, this poem might feel depressing, but on closer inspection these words show us a way to rise up through the mud of this world to the Light that draws us up and out and forward no matter who we are or what we’re facing. To “wait without hope” is not despair, just the opposite. It is to know that when we show up in prayer filled with hope, it is often a hope of our own creation, to suit our own agenda, and achieve a certain outcome. We will be hopeful if all the external criteria are met. When we wait without hope, however, we are fully present before God, allowing God to be God rather than trying to take on that role ourselves, which is what humanity has been trying to do ever since Eve was blamed for the fall.

Our entire spiritual journey is, in a sense, an effort to “get ourselves back to the garden,” as singer/songwriter Joni Mitchell wrote so many years ago. Often, we attempt to do that by trying to force our way through rather than letting the way appear before us according to God’s plans. Especially during difficult times, whether in our personal lives or in the larger world, it can be near-impossible to trust that God has a plan greater than ours and that, in the end, this world is temporary. Our faith gives us the practice of “memento mori,” which means: “Remember you must die.” It’s not meant to be scary or ghoulish, even if it is often accompanied by the image of a skull. It’s meant to ground us in our spiritual reality when this world tries to convince us that what we see in front of us is all that matters.

It seems fitting as we move through the steely gray of late fall, with its chill and encroaching darkness, to wonder how we will ever again find the light to lead us home. As we journey toward Advent, we know from years past that there is a well-worn spiritual path for us to follow, one of expectant waiting, where the light grows day by day, week by week and, with it, our hope.

Mary DeTurris Poust will be leading a free online Advent mini retreat on Friday, Dec. 6, 2-3 p.m. Register here.
This column originally appeared in the Nov. 27, 2024, issue of The Evangelist.

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I’m not one to find meaning in every little thing that happens, but every once in a while, something stops me. This feather certainly did. It felt like it was meant to make me pause, pay attention. And although I don’t often feel my mother’s presence around me — in the 36 years she’s been gone I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve felt her nearness — on that day in that gorgeous square, she was there. I tucked the feather in my bag and put it out of my head for the next few hours. But then. Then, then, then! As I walked down the streets of Rome, I spotted another perfect white feather floating right where I put my foot down. And another and another. I’m not talking the run-of-the-mill pigeon feathers that are all over Rome. These were perfectly white, perfectly shaped, perfectly curled, and no one but me seemed to be noticing them. I lost count when it went over 40 in the next few days. Finally, as we stood outside the duomo in Orvieto, a tiny white feather descended, and my husband caught it and handed it to me.

Right about now, you might be thinking I’ve lost my mind but hear me out. Two of my favorite talented spiritual women writers — Emily Dickinson and St. Hildegard of Bingen — had profound things to say about feathers. Dickinson wrote: “Hope is the thing with feathers. That perches in the soul. And sings the tune without the words. And never stops – at all.” And Hildegard famously said: “I am but a feather on the breath of God.”

Both women remind us that these delicate, fragile, seemingly insignificant natural wonders have something powerful to teach us about trust and surrender, hope and joy. To be a feather on the “breath of God” is to be carried to places we haven’t intended to go but trust in God’s reasons. The tune we sing without words is that deep communication that happens when we let go of the rote prayers that are as familiar to us as our own name and enter into an interior conversation with God in a way that can be all at once beautiful and scary, energizing and paralyzing.

As I tossed all of this around in my heart and soul as we pounded the cobblestone streets of Italy to pray before the remains of saints, we came to St. Mary Major, where our wise Rome guide, Jan, talked to us about the relics housed there: wood believed to be part of the manger in Bethlehem, and relics of St. Matthew and St. Jerome. One of our pilgrims looked at him skeptically and said, “But how do they know that?” Jan went on to say that they do research and can date objects. The he posed a question: “At a certain point, the rest is what? Faith.” He added: “Faith is a decision; you make a decision to believe.”

Like that feather falling from the sky, Jan’s words pulled me up short. I took out my iPhone and jotted them down so I wouldn’t forget. Yes, “hope is the thing with feathers,” but faith is the thing that gives those wings the power to soar.

This column originally appeared in the October 24, 2024, issue of The Evangelist.

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Here are the lyrics and then a YouTube video of her performing the song live from a show in 2009. Enjoy.

Go find a jukebox and see what a quarter will do 
I don’t wanna talk I just wanna go back to blue 
Feed’s me when I’m hungry and quenches my thirst 
Loves me when I’m lonely and thinks of me first 

Blue is the color of night 
When the red sun 
Disappears from the sky 
Raven feathers shiny and black 
A touch of blue glistening down her back 

We don’t talk about heaven and we don’t talk about hell
We come to depend on one another so damn well
So go to confession whatever gets you through
You can count your blessings I’ll just count on blue 

Blue is the color of night 
When the red sun 
Disappears from the sky 
Raven feathers shiny and black 
A touch of blue glistening down her back 
Blue

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