One of my favorite Scripture quotes comes from Jeremiah: “For surely I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord, plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future of hope…if you seek me with all your heart, I will let you find me, says the Lord, and I will bring you back to the place from which I sent you into exile.” (Jer 29:11-14)

While I love this quote precisely because it reminds me that God is there, always, waiting for me to come around, sometimes it offers more questions than answers. If we are in the throes of suffering or we are watching others suffer, it can make us wonder what exactly God wants us to do to earn release from our “exile”? When we don’t get a response or a clue, it can leave us feeling ignored and abandoned.

As we look around our world, our country, our communities, and our families, we witness suffering that can seem cruel, perhaps even beyond what humans can be expected to bear. It is in moments like these that God may feel distant, unreachable, maybe even absent. It can cause not only spiritual despair but a doubt so deep that we may begin to question the very foundation of faith that has always shored us up.

“Even a believer can sometimes falter when faced with the experience of pain,” Pope Francis has said. “It is a frightening reality that, when it barges in and attacks, can leave a person distraught, even to the point of shattering his or her faith. The person then is faced with a crossroads: he or she can allow suffering to lead to withdrawal into self-doubt to the point of despair and rebellion; or he or she can accept it as an opportunity for growth and discernment about what really matters in life until the time one encounters God.”

As is often the case, the pope’s wise words are difficult to live. Finding an “opportunity for growth” in the hardest moments of our lives or in the pain of those around us can feel like a pious platitude. So, what can we do if we feel ourselves faltering and cannot see our way clear to approach our suffering in such an enlightened way just yet? We can continue to show up in prayer. Daily. Even when it feels as though our spiritual life is a black hole devoid of God’s presence and our prayers words shouted into the wind.

Paulist Father Tom Ryan, leading a retreat I attended years ago at St. Mary’s on the Lake in Lake George, offered one “non-negotiable” when it comes to prayer. “Be faithful to the rendezvous,” he said, following up with a challenging question: “Can you love the God of consolations when the consolations aren’t there?”

Perhaps that is a question each one of us can ponder not just today but any time a prayer isn’t answered in the way we had hoped or isn’t answered at all (at least as far as we can tell). Can we continue to show up and sit in God’s presence anyway, knowing that if we do — through dark and light, joy and sorrow, abundance and scarcity — God will respond to our hungry hearts in God’s own time and release us from our exile?

This column originally appeared in the Jan. 23, 2025, issue of The Evangelist.

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If we surrender to what is offered to us during Advent and give ourselves permission to slow down, we suddenly find life set to a new rhythm, a sacred rhythm that urges us to savor the preparations for the feast rather than just the feast itself. As we walk step by step toward Christmas, we are continually reminded that the journey is the goal, because this is about so much more than a moment that comes and goes in the blink of an eye. If we are paying attention, this journey will coax us along, reminding us that when the bows and ribbons are discarded later this season and the tree is brought to the curb, the inner place where we dwell in silence and the Person who dwells there with us is eternal. If this season does what it is meant to do, we will be left with an internal glow that shines on long after the ornaments and singing Santas are packed away.

While that sounds nice, we all know it’s not so simple. It can be difficult to keep that light shining through all the challenges and frustrations and annoyances that come our way day in and day out. It’s so much easier sometimes to slip back into dissatisfaction, to take up a poor-pitiful-me position and wonder why God (and everyone we encounter) can’t make it easier for us to be prayerful and patient and peaceful. But that’s not the way life works, and what merit is there in being prayerful if its power only sticks when times are good, right?

I think it comes down to remembering that rejoicing (today or any day) doesn’t mean we have to be happy all the time, outwardly bouncing around with a smile on our face from one moment to the next. To truly rejoice is to remain inwardly joyful even when times are hard, because our joy isn’t in things of this world; our joy is in God and what God has done for us.

When I was on an Advent retreat several years ago, we sang a beautiful Taize chant:

“Our darkness is never darkness in your sight. The deepest night is clear as the daylight.”

The play of light against darkness is so apparent during this season, when the ever-increasing glow of the Advent wreath stands in stark contrast to the thick cover of night outside our windows. During these turbulent and troubling times, it is especially easy to become so laser-focused on the darkness that we don’t see (or choose to ignore) the light shimmering all around us. We can even get into the bad habit of seeking out the darkness and stewing there. It becomes familiar and comforting, despite being painful and fear-inducing.

Throughout Advent we hear the messengers of Scripture reminding our ancestors in faith — Zechariah, Joseph, Mary — not to be afraid. Because God is with us, not just during Advent, not just on Christmas, but through every high and low of our year and our life. Once we realize there is no darkness with God, everything becomes clear, and we shine like the sun, even at midnight.

This column originally appeared in the Dec. 8, 2022, issue of The Evangelist.

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Among all those everyday chiaroscuro moments I encounter, my absolute favorites are the glimpses of a glowing light emanating from a stranger’s living room window against a dark winter sky. As I drive or walk down a street, that figurative and literal window into someone else’s world warms my soul—not in a voyeuristic way, but in a from-a-distance appreciation of a freeze-frame moment in time witnessed in passing.

One evening recently, I came home from work and had to take our dog, Jake, out for a walk. I just wanted it done. I was tired and hungry. It was cold and dark. “Let’s get this over with,” I thought, or may have even said out loud to Jake, who sat with his head tilted ever so slightly to the side as if trying to figure out why I was in such a hurry on such a lovely night. I looked up and saw the stars just starting to come out and the thin sliver of a crescent moon hanging by a thread. Then I rounded the corner to find white twinkling lights on the neighbor’s trees and the sight of a family gathering around a dinner table through a brightly backlit window. I could smell the distinct scent of a fireplace burning somewhere, and I was suddenly overwhelmed by the beauty of everyday life in an artistic creation right outside my front door.

As I headed home, so grateful now for the chore I had originally dreaded, the blinking lights of a plane came into view overhead, its flight pattern cutting through the swath of stars and clouds over our house. Rather than feel annoyed by what might seem like a clunky intrusion on my otherwise Normal Rockwell moment, I saw not only beauty but felt awe at the sight of the silent jet racing toward the airport. “What a wonderful world,” was all I could think, the classic song playing in my brain.

At this time of year, with the holidays behind us and a lot more winter ahead, it can be easy to get bogged down in the darkness and drudgery as we trudge back and forth to work or school, bundled up against the cold, heads down against the wind. Our minds are already counting the days to spring and sunshine and warmth, wishing we could fast forward a few months of our lives away. What if, instead, we basked in the density of winter darkness, settled in for the season, and focused instead on the flashes of light and color and warmth that are even more brilliant than usual because of the stark contrast to the world around us?

I don’t know about you, but a glimpse of a fat, yellow moon rising up amid barren tree limbs over a snow-covered yard will bring a smile to my face and a sense of peace to my heart even if I’ve had a rough day. Simple joys hidden in plain sight can make all the difference, if we can learn to stay in—and appreciate—the now of our lives.

Just a few weeks ago, we celebrated the coming of Light into the world. That celebration didn’t end when we packed up the ornaments and put the tree out on the curb (or back into the basement). The Light is there always—around us, inside us. We may walk in darkness, but we have seen a great Light. Let’s not forget that during this stretch of Ordinary Time in our liturgical year. Look up, look around, seek out the light in your world and the Light in your heart.

This column originally appeared in the Jan. 17, 2019, issue of Catholic New York. 

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When I was on silent retreat last month, I sat in the dining room on our final morning, staring out the window at the peaceful, frozen landscape. In the front yard of the Dominican Retreat and Conference Center in Niskayuna (yes, this place is becoming a perennial favorite in my posts) amid the many barren trees and evergreens was one lone tree still covered entirely in leaves — dead, brown leaves hanging ever-so-delicately yet ever-so-resiliently from its sprawling limbs. 

As I sat there, mesmerized by this tree and its odd determination to fight nature, a breeze kicked up outside. The leaves started to flutter, at first just the tiniest bit and then more and more intensely, as if the tree was breathing.  I guess because the leaves were so dry and light they fluttered in a way that was unlike hardy, green leaves. Their twisting and turning made the entire tree appear to be covered in small brown butterflies, flapping their wings quickly and in unison.

I couldn’t help but smile, especially considering the fact that the previous night’s talk had been about reconciliation and butterflies and new life. In fact, each of us was given a small foam butterfly to take home for our sacred space as a reminder of the freedom that is ours when we forgive others, forgive ourselves, and let go of our burdens in confession.

Suddenly that tree and its dead branches became a symbol hope and a sign that even when our soul is entrenched in the deepest winter, the Spirit is fluttering through our darkness offering light and new life. The Spirit beckons us to see the possibility for renewal and transformation even when everything around us convinces us we are stranded in a barren wasteland.

Butterflies in winter. Nothing is impossible with God.

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I find comfort in the fact that he carried on, following his path toward God, even when he was thrown off course by his humanness. I look at Merton and see holiness wrapped in weakness, and isn’t that where most of us are?

We’re all called to be saints, but oftentimes our humanity gets in the way. In Merton, we can see ourselves, trudging ever closer to God despite mistakes — some of them pretty major — and confusion and doubt.

Today, on the 46th anniversary of his death in Bangkok, I am taking time to remember and reflect, but Merton is never far from my thoughts because so many of his words are constantly ringing in my ears.

Hanging next to my desk is this Merton quote:

My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going.

I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following Your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please You does in fact please You. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that, if I do this, You will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it. Therefore I will trust You always though I may seem to be lost in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for You are ever with me, and You will never leave me to face my perils alone.

See what I mean? Comforting and yet challenging. I read those words and think, “Oh, good, Merton had no idea where he was going either.” Then I read a little more and think, “Oh, no, he trusted God completely. Can I do the same?” For me that’s a saintly role model, reminding me that I’m not alone but pushing me to go beyond my typical response and reach for something deeper, truer.

Twice in the last six years I have been blessed to attend a silent retreat called “Merton in the Mountains.” By a lake in the lower Adirondacks, I have had the briefest glimpse into Merton’s way of life. It wasn’t easy either time. In fact, it was downright difficult and more than a little frightening — to give up my voice, to sit and wait for God while trying to throw off the monkeys of worry and doubt and pride and ambition. Merton knew those same feelings, and yet he continued to return to the silence, the solitude because that is where he knew he’d find God.

Another quote from Thoughts in Solitude that rings true for me, maybe truer with every passing year:

To love solitude and to seek it does not mean constantly traveling from one geographic possibility to another. A man becomes a solitary at the moment when, no matter what may be his external surroundings, he is suddenly aware of his own inalienable solitude and sees that he will never be anything but solitary. From that moment on, solitude is not potential — it is actual.

But perhaps the quote that always calls me back, the one that echoes in my head, is the quote below. It’s a constant reminder of my inability to ever know God if I try to make him in my own image:

God approaches our minds by receding from them. We can never fully know Him if we think of Him as an object of capture, to be fenced in by the enclosure of our own ideas.

We know him better after our minds have let him go.

The Lord travels in all directions at once.

The Lord arrives from all directions at once.

Wherever we are, we find that He has just departed. Wherever we go, we discover that He has just arrived before us.

Merton reminds me that I still have a shot, even when I don’t get it right on a pretty regular basis. Merton, with his beautiful and powerful words, gives me something to hold onto when God feels very far away.

Thomas Merton, pray for us.

This post originally ran on NSS on Dec. 10, 2013.

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“At the center of our being is a point of nothingness which is untouched by sin and by illusion, a point of pure truth, a point or spark which belongs entirely to God, which is never at our disposal, from which God disposes our lives, which is inaccessible to the fantasies of our own mind or the brutalities of our own will. This little point of nothingness and of absolute poverty is the pure glory of God in us… It is like a pure diamond, blazing with the invisible light of heaven. It is in everybody, and if we could see it we would see these billions of points of light coming together in the face and blaze of a sun that would make all the darkness and cruelty of life vanish completely…I have no program for this seeing.  It is only given.  But the gate of heaven is everywhere.” – Thomas Merton, Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander

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Back when I was young, my mother would take me over to the chapel at St. Aedan’s Church in Pearl River every Monday night for novena. Although the Mary-centered prayer was part of my young spiritual consciousness, after my mother died and I moved away from home, I packed up my interest in novenas along with my old stuffed animals and Barbie dolls. It felt like something that belonged to my childhood, something I’d outgrown.

Even my devotion to my patron saint waned as I aged. The Rosary was always a challenge for me, and Mary always too perfect to view as a role model. I longed for a stripped-down spirituality where I met God in silence by myself, no helper necessary. And for a long time that’s the way I went forward, loving Mary from afar but not feeling the need to draw her close in prayer.

Becoming a mother changed that for me, at least on a surface level. I needed someone who would have my spiritual back, someone who knew what I was going through, someone who had probably cried more than her fair share of tears over her child, her life, her fears. And since I didn’t have a mother of my own to turn to anymore, Mary and I reconnected on the common ground of motherhood. She slowly began to work her way back into my prayer life, but usually only in times of crisis. The Rosary was the prayer I pulled out when I was panicked, when I was in the proverbial foxhole.

Fast forward to just last week. Dennis sent me an email with a video clip about Mary Undoer of Knots, a devotion that is gaining popularity thanks to Pope Francis, who brought attention to Mary under this title when he was a cardinal in Argentina. The image of the Blessed Mother untying the knots of a long white cord is comforting and beautiful in an understated way, even if the Baroque painting is typically elaborate. Something about Mary Undoer of Knots spoke to me, and yet I still wasn’t quite ready to commit.

Two nights later, I met a friend for dinner and, as we were driving, she said, “I just started a novena to Mary Undoer of Knots.” I wondered what it meant that this unusual devotion had surfaced twice in so many days, but, being somewhat distracted and overwhelmed by life and its responsibilities, I put it out of my head. I returned home that night to find an email from another Catholic writer waiting in my inbox. She wanted to know if I’d be willing to be interviewed for a story on novenas. Now there was no denying the Spirit at work in the background of my life. OK, God, you have my attention.

The next morning I went to my computer and looked up the novena to Mary Undoer of Knots, a beautiful prayer that weaves meditations on Mary under this title with the traditional prayers of the Rosary. Despite my Rosary aversion, I decided to trust where I was being led.

“With all simplicity and patience, you have given us an example of how to untangle the knots in our complicated lives…” Those words to the prayer composed by Pope Francis remind us that Mary had plenty of knots to untangle in her own life, although we often choose to forget that. We tend to focus only on her role as Queen of Heaven, Mother of God, titles that, while true and important, whitewash the many struggles Mary faced.

Mary, whom we honor during this month of May, knew all too well the harsh realities of life. As our spiritual mother, she is waiting with open arms to comfort us, not just in moments of crisis but during the mundane and sometimes-difficult moments of everyday life.

Why I kept her at arm’s length for so long is a mystery to me.

Mary Undoer of Knots, pray for us.

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My Lent did not go as planned. Again. My long “to do” list of spiritual things that would lead to a holy goal went off track mid-way through, and, due to some extenuating circumstances, I was plunged headlong into a real spiritual desert. When my plans went out the window, my true Lenten journey began. Which is probably how it was for Peter. When he was finally forced to let go of his own plans and ideas and fears, and simply trust in Jesus, he found new strength.

On this Holy Saturday, I am waiting in shadows of my own making, like Peter, longing to be set free. Whether I choose to face the light that is just around the corner really depends on me. Can I forgive myself for my own failings? Can I admit to my own weaknesses? Can I accept God’s mercy? Can I prostrate myself before my God and admit finally that I am not in control, that I never was, and that as long as I continue to try to be in control, I’m going to be in the shadows?

Next to the cross in our family room and also in my sacred space downstairs are roosters, reminders of Peter, reminders that doubt and denial do not block us from salvation but push us deeper down the spiritual path, if we are willing to be embraced by Love, by the One who was willing to die so we might live.

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“Because Grace makes beauty
Out of ugly things

“Grace finds beauty
In everything

“Grace finds goodness
In everything.”  – U2, Grace

Grace is one of those elusive things. We say we want it, we kind of get it in a indefinable sort of way, and yet it can be hard to grasp, like trying to catch a cloud. We all need grace to get through this life, to get through this day, and grace comes from God, an unearned gift just for being God’s beloved. But we kind of have to want it and seek it and watch for it, or we’re very likely to miss it when it’s in our midst.

The words to the U2 song above were new to me when I heard them two days ago. (Thank you, Dennis, for sharing this lesser-known U2 song with me.) Grace seems more urgent to me as I get older. I even wear the word “grace” (over there on the right) around my neck every day (Thank you, Cathy A.), along with my Om symbol (no commentary on that, please) and my alpha and omega cross with the Chi Rho in the middle. For me it’s a lovely trifecta — grace, the mystical sound of the divine, and the reminder that Jesus Christ is our beginning and our end.

As we enter into the high holy days this week, the Triduum that will take us through absolute darkness and desperation to ultimate light and salvation, don’t forget to look for the grace present in your life right now. If you can find grace, you, too, will be able to see beauty in everything, even the cross of Good Friday, even the cross in your life today, whatever it may be.

Here’s one of my favorite lines of this song, a line that can slip by unnoticed (like grace) if you’re not paying attention: “She travels outside of karma…” Contemplate that this morning. Grace travels outside of karma. Grace does not punish or seek an eye for an eye. Grace heals, grace saves, grace loves – always.

“Because grace makes beauty out of ugly things.”

Here’s the YouTube video so you can hear the whole thing:

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If you look around my office prayer space or on my bedroom dresser, you’ll notice one constant: broken conch and whelk shells everywhere. Small and blue-gray, large and sun-bleached, twisting, turning, spiraling in that gorgeous and mysterious way that seashells do. Although I have one perfect channeled whelk shell that I purchased in Cape May, N.J., years ago, my prized possessions are broken shells of every shape and size because, as far as I’m concerned, they are far more beautiful than the ones that are perfectly intact and so lovely on the outside.

I love the way the brokenness lets you see inside, where the true beauty lies. There you discover the magnificent soft turns and intricate work of the Creator typically hidden by the outer shell, details so beautiful you would gasp if a sculptor had crafted them out of marble. Yet there they are, lying on the sand, trampled underfoot, washed ashore and pulled back out by the next tide along with tangled seaweed and discarded cigarette butts, or, every so often, tucked into the pocket of a hoodie by someone hoping for a sacred souvenir, a reminder that even some of God’s most beautiful creations are cracked and dulled and hobbled by the pounding surf of daily life. Read more HERE.

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