For the past few days I’ve been looking at the numbers on the calendar, growing more and more introspective as we inched closer to August 6. It was 27 years ago today that I learned the baby I was carrying, my second baby, had died 11 weeks into my pregnancy.

With a mother’s intuition, I had known something was wrong during that pregnancy from a couple of weeks before. The day Dennis and I — with Noah in tow — went to the midwife for my regular check up, I didn’t even take the little tape recorder with me to capture the sound of baby’s heartbeat, so convinced was I that I would hear only silence. I went back for the recorder only after Dennis insisted. But somehow I knew. Because when you are a mother sometimes you just know things about your children, even when there is no logical reason you should, even when they are still growing inside you.

When we went for the ultrasound to confirm the miscarriage, we saw the perfect form of our baby up on the screen. I remember Dennis looking so happy, thinking everything was okay after all, and me pointing out that the heart was still. No blinking blip. No more life.

With that same mother’s intuition, no matter how busy or stressed I am, no matter how many other things I seem to forget as I race through my life at breakneck speed, I never forget this anniversary. It is imprinted on my heart. As the date nears, I feel a stillness settling in, a quiet place amid the chaos, a space reserved just for this baby, the one I never to got hold, the one I call Grace.

In the past, I have talked about the ways Grace shaped our family by her absence rather than her presence, and that truth remains with me. I am very much aware of the fact that life would be very different had she lived. She managed to leave her mark on us, even without taking a breath. She lingers here, not only in my heart but around the edges of our lives — especially the lives of our two girls who followed her. I know them because I did not know Grace. What a sorrowful and yet beautiful impact she had on us.

So thank you, baby, for all that you were and all that you have given us without ever setting foot on this earth. The power of one small life.

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Despite my deep and abiding faith, something in me prickled when I tried to convince myself that this could be the real deal. I couldn’t bring myself to go, that is until my most recent — and fifth — visit to the Eternal City. The Holy Stairs were on the itinerary of the pilgrimage I was leading through Italy. When we arrived at the site, I fully intended to stand by and let the other pilgrims proceed, and then my husband, Dennis, volunteered to go first when no one else stepped forward. I immediately joined him, as did our son, Noah.

It is customary to climb the 28 steps on your knees while praying, which is what we did. As the three of us began, all on the same step as we inched our way up, I prayed for all those intentions I had brought with me from people back home and for my family and friends. As we continued, sometimes waiting for those ahead who were having more difficulty navigating the ascent, I began expanding my prayers to include all those who were before and behind me on the stairs, and finally, as my knees started to ache and I felt a twinge in my back, my prayers seemed to encompass the whole world, and there was a feeling of incredible love for all those on the stairs with me. It was for me a version of what Trappist monk Tho­mas Merton described in his “Fourth and Walnut moment,” when he stood on a street corner in Kentucky and saw those around him shining like the sun.

I was deeply moved, not because I suddenly believed without a doubt in the veracity of the claim that the stairs are the stairs, but because none of that mattered anymore. What mattered was that we climbed those stairs out of faith, bound together by a common purpose with our interior prayers swirling around the silence.

That night, as our pilgrimage group gathered for dinner, we began talking about our favorite parts of the day, which, as you might expect on a pilgrimage through Italy, was jam-packed with important spiritual sites. I was so happy to hear numerous people say that the Holy Stairs were the highlight. And that is the blessing and beauty of pilgrimage.

We often think we understand the meaning of the word “pilgrimage,” until we find ourselves in the midst of an actual pilgrim journey with things not going exactly as planned, or on a staircase we had no intention of climbing and discover transcendence and transformation where we least expect it. That is often the case when we are willing to embrace the journey before us rather than the image we’ve created in our minds. To be a pilgrim is not to sit in a café and sip espresso, although that’s lovely; it is to walk the path of those who came before us in hopes that as we do so we will be changed.

Author Mark Nepo writes: “To journey without being changed is to be a nomad. To change without journeying is to be a chameleon. To journey and to be transformed by the journey is to be a pilgrim.”

We do not have to travel far to take up the pilgrim journey. Our very lives can become a pilgrimage, if we can, as St. Catherine of Siena said, recognize that “all the way to heaven is heaven.” God is in our every breath, our every step. All that’s required is our attention and intention.

Mary DeTurris Poust is leading two September retreats in the region: Stillpoint at Pyramid Life Center on Sept. 5-7, and The Journey Is the Goal at Graymoor Retreat Center on Sept. 19-21. For more information, click HERE.

This column originally appeared in the July 24, 2025 issue of The Evangelist.

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As I drove down the New York State Thruway, headed toward what promised to be an inspiring event on the legacy of Trappist Fr. Thomas Keating and the Centering Prayer movement, I was anything but centered or prayerful.

The state of the world and the state of my own interior life felt chaotic, divided, depressing. Despite the welcome sunshine after a stretch of gray upstate weather, I felt smothered in a blanket of melancholy verging on hopelessness. Why am I even going to this event? I wondered as the miles passed by and I listened to Keating’s Open Mind, Open Heart audiobook in an attempt to get my head into the “right” place.

When I pulled up to the Garrison Institute, a former Capuchin Seminary on the banks of the Hudson River, I felt my shoulders relax away from my ears and my breath deepen as the reality of spending the next 36 hours steeped in spiritual riches loosened the grip of darkness and anxiety.

As I unpacked my bags, I could feel a sacred energy moving about the place, a sense that spiritual seekers were beginning to amass, bringing not only their travel essentials but a hunger for the holy. When I settled into contemplation in my room, I moved so quickly and deeply into prayer that I knew it wasn’t anything I had done, but rather the collective of this group and its intention.

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A little more than a year ago, the Sacred Heart started pushing its way back into my consciousness. I wasn’t seeking it; I didn’t really understand why it was suddenly front and center. All I knew was that the Sacred Heart would no longer be ignored. I found myself saying novenas, saving images I found online, and repeating the prayer, “Sacred Heart of Jesus, I place all my trust in you.” I even drove up to O’Connor’s Church Goods in Latham to pick up a few of the plastic covered Sacred Heart badges that my mom and grandfather always had in their wallets. I’ve got one tucked in my wallet now.

Soon after, I was digging through some files at home and pulled out a card with my mother’s handwriting on it. Since she’s been gone for more than 38 years, that’s a pretty moving thing for me. It was her Apostleship of Prayer card, with an image of the Sacred Heart on both sides. The card sits on my desk now, next to a small crucifix, a daily reminder of both my mother and the Sacred Heart that binds us to each other across time and space.

To be honest, after last year’s brief-but-intense period of prayer and interest in the Sacred Heart, it faded into the background a bit, only to re-emerge last month with even stronger force. Obviously, this is not something I am supposed to move to the background. Over and over, the Sacred Heart was front and center everywhere I turned — in a book on spiritual poverty I had been asked to “blurb,” at a workshop someone suggested I attend, in the spiritual reading I picked up for retreat planning. Even as my interest and spiritual curiosity increased, however, I felt something holding me back.

The portrait we had at home.

The old-style devotions to the Sacred Heart often felt cloying or quaint to me, something that didn’t seem to have a place in the prayer practices that feel most powerful for me now. But then I happened upon the medieval Nuns of Helfta during a retreat day at Dominican Retreat and Conference Center and came face-to-face and heart-to-heart with the deep mystical tradition that gave rise to this devotion.

Pope Francis, in his last encyclical, referenced the Nuns of Helfta and focused on the heart of Jesus as it pertains to our contemporary world. “Let us turn, then, to the heart of Christ, that core of his being, which is a blazing furnace of divine and human love and the most sublime fulfillment to which humanity can aspire,” he wrote in ‘Dilexit Nos,’ (He Loved Us). “There, in that heart, we truly come at last to know ourselves and learn how to love.”

As always, it all comes back to love, whether we are praying to the Sacred Heart of Jesus specifically, reading the words of saint and mystics, reflecting on the Gospels, or receiving the Eucharist — Jesus broken and given for each one of us out of sheer love.

“Christ’s love can give a heart to our world and revive love wherever we think that ability to love has been definitively lost,” Pope Francis wrote in 2024.

In a world seemingly “lost” to hate, division and violence, the Sacred Heart shows us the way forward on the path of love. It’s not an easy path, as evidenced by the crown of thorns that surround the Sacred Heart, but it is a path where love always has the final word.

This column originally appeared in the June 11, 2025, issue of The Evangelist.

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When I was in a difficult stretch a few years back, Joan of Arc became my guide and inspiration. I had the image you see here hanging on the door of my former office (now in my home office). I had a statue of her leading the battle charge on my office table (now in my living room). I have socks with her image on them. I have a t-shirt with her image and her famous statement: “I am not afraid; I was born for this.” And I have begun making my own mixed-media interpretations of her in a series I call Joan of Art. (See two images below)

Let us not forget how Joan was treated during her lifetime — accused of witchcraft, heresy, cross-dressing, and more, and eventually burned at the stake. Now the Church celebrates her as a hero and a saint. No matter how she was treated, no matter how many threats, she never wavered in what she believed was her calling. May Joan of Arc inspire us to live out our purpose on this earth, even when others doubt or challenge us. Even when our own Church doubts or challenges us. Who is God calling you to be? Do that, and do not be afraid.

Joan of Art 1 

Joan of Art 2

Mixed media images by Mary DeTurris Poust (do not reproduce)

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“Seeing is believing,” the old saying goes. Yet in today’s first reading and in the Gospel, those who have seen with their own eyes—people hearing the words of the recently converted Paul, as well as disciples who have been at Jesus’ side throughout his ministry—cannot reconcile what they have seen and heard with the larger message. Jesus asks, “Have I been with you for so long a time and you still do not know me, Philip?”

He might ask us the same question, if he were to stand before us today. We have spent years, maybe our entire lives, listening to the teachings of Jesus, receiving him in the Eucharist, professing that he and the Father are one. Still, there are probably days when, like the disciples, we approach Jesus with a bit of spiritual amnesia.

It’s not that we haven’t listened; it’s that we have listened with our ears rather than our hearts. The good news is that we do not always have to fully understand in order to receive the graces that flow from God toward a seeker with a sincere heart. “O God teach me to be satisfied with my own helplessness in the spiritual life,” Thomas Merton writes in one of his early journals. “Teach me to be content with Your grace that comes to me in the darkness and that works things I cannot see.”

Today, let us put aside the need to know it all and let us trust in the mystery beyond all knowing.

Mary DeTurris Poust, “Spiritual Amnesia,” from the May 2025 issue of Give Us This Day, www.giveusthisday.org (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2024). Used with permission.

Photo by Anastasiya Badun on Unsplash

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With the memory of our beloved Francis still fresh in our minds, Catholics opened their hearts anew to Pope Leo XIV, joyful over his backstory and his roots in Chicago, moved by his work as a missionary and bishop in Peru, impressed by the many languages he speaks. As he offered his blessing to those in person and watching via TV or some other screen, we could all feel a sense of awe that the Holy Spirit continues to work so powerfully in our Church, giving us what we need at just the right moment in time.

Of course, within hours, there were critics trying (fairly desperately, it seemed) to “dig up” some dirt on the new pontiff, attempting to tarnish the shine before we even had a chance to soak up the joy of the moment. I remember when Francis was first named pope and I wrote a blog post about my hope and excitement, another writer immediately came after me claiming I was turning a blind eye to his flaws. Our pope — every pope — is human. Of course there will be flaws, but how about we take a breath and watch and listen before we judge and criticize. It’s the American way to tear down, especially on social media these days, but we Catholics would be wise to pause and pray rather than join the fray.

The day Pope Leo XIV was elected, my husband, Dennis, who is executive director of the New York State Catholic Conference, was interviewed on Capital Region television regarding the breaking news. At the end of the conversation, the interviewer asked if he thought Pope Leo was “more of a liberal or a conservative under the umbrella of Catholicism.” He responded with a reminder that Catholics are not so easy to categorize, as we do not fit any label. “The terms ‘liberal’ and ‘conservative’ don’t really work as much when it comes to the Church … We are very liberal on some issues, like immigration, and very conservative on others, like abortion,” he explained. “I think he’ll be a Catholic, rather than a liberal or conservative.”

I loved that statement because it is a reminder that we are not a Church of “sides,” but rather one that is literally “universal” in its reach, its mission, its makeup. We are, in a sense, a Church of both/and, not either/or.

When I think back over the popes of my lifetime, I have loved each one of them for different reasons. Born under John XXIII, I love the fact that I was a child of Vatican II. John Paul II was the rockstar pope of my teens, and when I saw him at Madison Square Garden in 1979, you’d think I was waiting for the Beatles to appear. Pope Benedict XVI was a favorite for entirely different reasons, and if you haven’t read his beautiful and accessible encyclicals, they are worth your time even all these years later. When Francis was named pope, I practically swooned with joy, and I could not imagine another pope would so quickly fill me with hope and excitement for our Church. And then along came Leo XIV, whose first words out on the balcony of St. Peter’s made me declare: It’s a great day to be a Catholic!

We don’t know what’s coming. We never do. But we trust in the work of the Spirit and the wisdom of our new pope to guide us through whatever is ahead. After all, this pope is one of us, and if a kid from the South Side of Chicago can become pope, anything is possible with God.

This column originally appeared in the May 14, 2025 issue of The Evangelist.

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And yet, we are often disappointed, even on Easter, even when we are offered the promise of eternal life and salvation. We look at prayers unanswered (at least according to our standards) and a world breaking under the strain of division and human suffering, and we struggle to find joy, even when our faith tells us not to be afraid, that nothing on this earth, no matter how awful, can keep us away from what God has promised.

Wherever you find yourself today, whatever your problems and struggles, there is reason to rejoice. Jesus is not dead; he is alive. The cross was not a defeat for him, and it will not be a defeat for us. We do not always understand Jesus’ ways, and like those early disciples, we may stare at the empty tomb — or at some challenge in our own life or the larger world — and wonder, “How can this be?” But Jesus doesn’t ask us to understand; he asks us to trust that things are unfolding just as he told us they would.

If you are struggling to find Easter joy this season, imagine you are Mary Magdalene, bereft after finding the tomb empty. Upon encountering a man whom she does not recognize at first, she is called by name and realizes she is speaking to the resurrected Jesus. He tells her not to be afraid and to go and preach the good news of his resurrection to the other disciples. Her fear disappears in that moment, and she boldly proclaims: “I have seen the Lord.” We, too, are called by name.

In his beautiful book, “Life of the Beloved,” theologian Henri J.M. Nouwen writes, “What I most want to say is that when the totality of our daily lives is lived ‘from above,’ that is, as the Beloved sent into the world, then everyone we meet and everything that happens to us becomes a unique opportunity to choose for the life that cannot be conquered by death. Thus, both joy and suffering become part of the way to our spiritual fulfillment.”

Our lives will always be a mixture of both dark and light, happiness and sadness, but always hope, and possibly even joy in the face of struggle, if we follow Mary Magdalene’s example of complete trust.

As you move through this Easter season, pay attention to physical signs and symbols around you at Mass — the Paschal candle flickering, the powerful fragrance of lilies in bloom, the music bursting with Alleluias, the holy water cool against your skin, a shower of blessings in the most literal sense. It’s beautiful how we use physical things to help us bridge the distance to God, as though we are so hungry to get closer, we pull out all the stops. If only we could keep that fire of love going year-round. The Church gives us a running start by offering us the beautiful 50-day season of Easter. Soak it up. Let it feed your soul and animate the inner joy that is your spiritual birthright. After all, he is risen. Run and tell the others!

This column originally appeared in the April 9, 2025, issue of The Evangelist.

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We can take our cues on how to do this from Jesus himself, who retreated in solitude to a quiet place — a desert, a mountain, a garden — when he needed to replenish his spirit and reconnect with his Father. Or we can look to the desert fathers and mothers, who sought out solitude and simplicity in order to better hear the voice of God.

Of course, we’re not likely to get to a desert anytime soon, so what does this look like for those of us living in the modern world? While it’s always good to take time away with God whenever we can, the Lenten desert journey is not about changing physical locations but interior attitudes. We can be surrounded by people in a bustling city or in the tropics lush with greenery and still experience a desert moment. Because we are not on a pilgrimage that requires walking great lengths but one that is perhaps even more difficult, a journey from the head to the heart.

Most of us on the spiritual path are seeking some sort of transformation, but often we want that transformation on our own terms. We ask for signs, but when something comes along that seems too challenging or outside our comfort zone, we think, “No, this is not my transformation moment. I’d like another, please.” Because transformation on God’s terms is almost never easy. But no transformation that is truly life-changing is going to come without a cost to us personally.

We give up chocolate or wine or social media for Lent and sit back and wait for transformation to arrive, but we know in our heart of hearts that it doesn’t work that way. It has to go much deeper than anything we pour into a glass or scroll by on a screen. And a big part of it starts with us simply becoming aware of this reality and opening our hearts in silence to what God puts in front of us, no matter how challenging or discomfiting. We are called to listen with “the ear of our heart” as St. Benedict taught, and to simply sit, as Jesus did, in the presence of the Father, who knows our hearts without us needing to speak a word.

That’s not an easy thing to do — sitting in silence with God. We tend to go to God with a laundry list of requests, apologies and thank-you prayers. But when we put all the asking aside and simply give our full attention to being rather than doing, we allow the Spirit to move into the open space we create.

As we begin the second half of Lent, can we put aside our big spiritual plans for just a few minutes each day and simply be with God in the silence of souls, where no words or actions are necessary? When we make the commitment to journey into the cave of the heart, we find deep within us a peace untouched by the chaos of the world around us, a peace that will sustain us through Lent and beyond.

This column originally appeared in the March 26, 2025 issue of The Evangelist.

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