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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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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Ours is not a linear path with a neat end point and victory lap, at least not this side of heaven. We’ll never be done. There will always be another step, a new lesson, and occasionally a switchback that makes us feel as though we’re moving in the wrong direction. And while all of that may seem overwhelming at first glance, the truth is that this spiritual reality is completely freeing if we are willing to accept the mystery and majesty of a life lived in the constant presence of God right where we are at any given moment.

How do you approach your private prayer life? Is it a laundry list of words to be said and boxes to be checked? Or is it an ongoing conversation with God that includes not only talking but listening deeply? While the prayers we memorized as children and love as adults are wonderful tools in the vast treasury of our Catholic prayer life, those very same things can sometimes become stumbling blocks to our spiritual growth when we get so hung up on specific requirements that we close ourselves off to the movement of the Spirit.

When I wrote my book Everyday Divine: A Catholic Guide to Active Spirituality, I described it like this: “When you take prayer out of that box and unwrap all the beautiful and varied ways of speaking to God, you begin to realize that prayer does not require anything more than a willing heart…As soon as you feel that desire within to deepen your connection to the divine, as soon as you turn to face God, you have already begun to pray, no matter what words you say or whether you say anything at all.”

And that is where prayer begins, with an intention and a heart and soul hungry for God. When we release ourselves from following specific “rules” and allow an inner conversation to flow, we begin to recognize more clearly and easily that God truly is with us at every moment. We begin to talk to God as we would a best friend, in an open conversation that requires no memorization, no notes, no user manual.

If you don’t believe me, listen to the words of St. Teresa of Avila: “For mental prayer, in my opinion, is nothing else than an intimate sharing between friends; it means taking time frequently to be alone with Him who we know loves us.”

What would it look like if you allowed yourself to share your joys and struggles and worries with God not only in dedicated prayer time but as you go about the tasks of your day — as you drive across town, shovel snow, cook dinner, walk the dog. This is where we learn to pray without ceasing. Our every breath becomes a prayer, and we begin to understand that prayer is not something outside us that we have to achieve; it is our very life.

In The Way of Prayer, Pope St. John Paul II said: “How to pray? This is a simple matter. I would say: Pray any way you like, so long as you do pray…Sometimes it takes courage to pray; but it is possible to pray, and necessary to pray, whether from memory or a book or just in thought, it is all the same.”

So just begin. Right where you are, with words or without. No expectations, no goals, no accomplishment in mind. Just an openness to the journey that will inevitably unfold when you begin a conversation with God.

This column originally appeared in the Jan. 18, issue of The Evangelist.

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my guardian dear,

to whom God’s love

commits me here,

ever this night,

be at my side

to light and guard,

to rule and guide.

This was one of the first prayers I learned as a child, and it holds a special place in my heart, probably because I remember my mother sitting at the side of my bed saying it with me each night. But I have to admit that there came a point in my younger adult life when I felt I had outgrown angels. They seemed stuck in my childhood, a remnant of something long gone. And then came the pop culture angel fad. They showed up on everything from keychains to refrigerator magnets and that just made me like the little chubby winged cherubs of coffee mug fame even less.

But then something happened. I don’t know if was age or wisdom or the sudden realization that I could not protect my children on my own, but angels started making their way back into my life. First through my cursory spiritual nod to them every time we got in the car and eventually through my near-incessant pleading with them to watch out for me, my kids and just about anyone special to me, no matter how near or how far. Now it’s not uncommon for me to have a good long heart-to-heart with the guardian angel of a distant friend who just might need a little extra protection here and there. Frankly, I’m sure the angels are longing for the days when I had no use for them. I love knowing my angel is around, and there have been times in my life when I have sensed my angel nearby.

Having a guardian angel doesn’t ensure that nothing bad will happen to us — as know all too well through ongoing personal experience — but it does mean there is a spiritual being of the highest order hovering nearby, sometimes to ease our way, other times to be a comfort, and, eventually, to lead the way for us when we go home to God.

So today, on this Feast of the Guardian Angels, why not take a moment to reintroduce yourself, if you’ve been out of touch, and maybe say that old prayer — or teach it to your children or grandchildren, if you haven’t already.

The icon at the top of the page was written by Minhhang Huynh, a woman I met when I was on retreat at the Abbey of the Genesee in New York two years ago. This post was originally published  on October 2, 2013.

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A friend and I were discussing the problem of letting our faith remain in our heads rather than letting it settle into our hearts and lives. When we remain too much in our heads, grounded in the news of the day rather than the Word of God, for example, our faith can become reduced to a set of beliefs to which we respond with a yea or nay, rather than expanding into a relationship of complete trust built on a practice of prayer.

“But I don’t know how to pray anymore,” my friend said. Today’s second reading reminds us that we are not the first to struggle with this reality: “. . . we do not know how to pray as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes with inexpressible groanings.”

St. Paul’s description is so vivid. We can imagine the Spirit gently working to redirect our daily efforts to sidestep God’s will. With “inexpressible groanings,” the Spirit quietly accomplishes what Jesus describes in the Gospel: pulling away the weeds that threaten to devour us, nourishing the mustard seed of our faith, adding leaven to the yeast of our prayer.

Even if we do not know how to pray as we ought, the Spirit will come to our aid if we are willing to trust in the movement of God in our lives and get out of our own way.

From the July 2023 issue of Give Us This Day, www.giveusthisday.org (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2023). Used with permission.

Photo by Duncan Kidd on Unsplash

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Prayer is both our overarching theme and our underlying foundation during Lent (and during life!). Without it, nothing moves forward or expands outward. So today, even for just five minutes, sit with God in prayer. Don’t just move your lips; open the “ear of your heart,” as St. Benedict instructed. Prayer is not just talking; it is listening for the Spirit to speak to us, but that can only happen when we settle down in silence and pay attention with our very being.

If you’d like to continue this conversation on prayer, listen to the newest Life Lines podcast: “Living on a Prayer: Inspiration for Lent and Beyond” at the link below. And don’t forget to the subscribe to the podcast so you don’t miss any episodes!

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No matter how much I wanted to love the Rosary, I struggled with it. To me, silent contemplation felt like home, where the Rosary felt more like an emergency stop on a dark highway.

A few weeks ago, however, in the middle of the night when I could not sleep, I blindly felt around my nightstand drawer for the strand of purple beads I knew was hiding in the corner. I pulled it close and began to pray. I fell asleep somewhere during the first decade and woke up to find the rosary beads tangled in the bedsheets. The next night, I pulled out the beads again and started praying, knowing I’d likely fall asleep before I could finish five decades or maybe even one. And so it continued, night after night.

I no longer find it strange to search for my beads before bed each night and slip them under my pillow. I have to admit that while I find my conversion somewhat fascinating at this later stage in life, I don’t find it completely surprising. Whenever I talk about the many prayer options in our Catholic tradition, I urge people to remain open to methods that don’t seem to suit them. The Liturgy of the Hours that was so out of sync with life as the parent of small children may provide the perfect rhythm for a life in retirement. The silence that seems deafening in one phase of life can feel like a soothing balm at another.

At night, as I move the beads through my fingers and silently say the words to prayers that are as familiar as my own name, I wonder what caused this shift. Certainly, it did not come from me, and so I welcome it as a gift of the Spirit, an unexpected grace. I don’t know if it will last forever, but for as long as it is here, I will embrace it, open to whatever grows out of this new love for an ancient tradition.

Since taking up the Rosary daily, I am much more aware of just how many rosary beads are constantly visible in my home and office—hanging from the statue of the Blessed Mother on my dresser, strung from the Mexican mirror in my kitchen, sitting on the shelf of my office bookcase. I’ve got a glow-in-the-dark single decade in a purse pocket and rose-scented beads blessed by the pope, a brown knotted strand purchased and blessed in Assisi when I led a pilgrimage in 2014, clear crystal beads given to me by my fifth-grade religion class, and wooden beads my husband laid on the open tomb of St. Catherine of Siena on her feast day and our wedding anniversary when he was in Rome.

And while my many beads are beautiful, each in their own way, it is the prayers themselves that hold the real beauty and power. Even if I had no beads at all and had to count on my fingers, the Our Fathers and Hail Marys would sparkle like diamonds in the darkness and light my way.

This column originally appeared in the July 1, 2021, issue of Catholic New York.

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Not everything is a bed of roses, of course. I do hear from folks who take issue with this or that and some who write to me almost daily as they read through a reflection book and send comments and critiques all along the way. Even those make me smile, because I am making that person think, and that’s never a bad thing. Every once in a while, however, something unusual and anonymous shows up in the mail, signaling from the packaging alone that concern is warranted.

Last week, it was just such a snail mail package that caught my attention. It arrived in my office mailbox, a manila folder fashioned into an envelope and taped up with no return address. It was puffy and said to handle with care. I was intrigued—and a little afraid. I opened it gingerly and saw a long hand-written letter with no signature and a lace chapel veil—mocha-colored with a burgundy bow, wrapped in plastic.

I’ve never worn a chapel veil. I was born the month before Vatican II officially opened and was a CCD child of the late ’60s and ’70s. I sang in my parish folk group, made felt banners and homemade hosts for sunrise Masses. I sang Kumbaya, and not ironically. So, the gift of the chapel veil was interesting to me, and also touching. That someone would purchase and mail me this lovely gift was so sweet. I tried it on and thought that if I ever went back to Italy, I would pack it in my suitcase and take it for a spin over there, because I couldn’t see myself wearing it to church here.

Which made me think back to the letter writer’s comments about when she first started wearing the veil her mother gave her. She felt self-conscious and possibly judged, fearing what fellow parishioners might think. But she continued to wear it and found the benefits outweighed the stares. The veil cut down on distractions and helped her to focus, she explained. The veil offered a little protection when she’d had a late night caring for her babies and looked worn out. The veil made her feel feminine and special.

I thought how sad it is that we are so quick to judge one another, that someone wearing a veil knows the eyes on her will likely make a snap decision about who she is and how she worships. And the truth is, I’d probably be one of those people. But we are one, whether we wear a chapel veil or sport Birkenstocks, kneel to receive Communion or accept the host in our hands, find our connection to God in the words of a novena or in the glories of nature.

I am so grateful to my anonymous friend for sending me the chapel veil. She brought joy to my heart with her generosity and reminded me that the many traditions of our faith pave a wide path to heaven, giving us so many ways to bridge the divide between here and there.

She closed her letter with one of my favorite quotes from Dostoevsky: “Beauty will save the world.” Seek out beauty each day and you will find God all around you, maybe even in an unusual envelope in your mailbox.

This column originally appeared in the April 8, 2021, issue of Catholic New York.

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If you go back to the original post that launched this journey, you’ll note that the third thing on our list — after gratitude journaling and creating a sacred space — is making time for silence every day, even if it’s just a few minutes. So let’s talk about that and what it might look like in your busy life. I know making time for silence is usually not easy, even when we have the time and the space, even when we’ve got nothing on our plate but doomscrolling on our phones. Why is it so difficult to sit in silence? Because silence is challenging, especially when we first start — and it’s anything but silent. We might not be saying anything or listening to anything but our mind is screaming with thoughts and memories that demand to be heard.

So, first things first. If you created a sacred space, this is where you should go for your time in silence. If not, find a place where you won’t be disturbed. (If necessary, put a sign on the door or alert family members so they give you some space and peace.) Find a time that works for you — first thing in the morning or just before bed (or both) are the obvious choices, but if you have other times that work better, go for whatever will make you more likely to stick with the practice.

Commit. The hardest part is showing up. Isn’t it funny how we do that to ourselves? We can waste countless hours on TV, social media, shopping, talking or texting, and yet, when it comes to even five minutes of silence on a cushion or in a chair, we suddenly don’t have the time. So commit to showing up, even if it’s only five minutes, even if you say you’ll show up five days each week rather than every day. It gives you a cushion. Although making this a daily practice or twice daily practice — like brushing your teeth or showering — will weave it into the fabric of your life and make it less likely that you’ll shrug it off day after day.

So what do you do once you get to your sacred space and sit in silence. Well, here are the practical/physical tips: You want to sit with a nice straight back, so either sit up on a cushion on the floor (if that’s your style) or sit a chair where you won’t sink back and slouch. If you’re in a chair, you want both feet on the ground. Spine long, crown of the head lifting toward the sky, chin even with the floor of even slightly down so the back of your neck is long. Let your palms rest on your legs. If you’re clenching your jaw or furrowing your brow, relax your face. Soften your heart and belly. Deepen your breath, but don’t force or manipulate it, just gently invite your breath down into your belly rather than breathing shallow from your chest. Close your eyes or lower your gaze so you’re looking at the floor. Now you’re ready. You can set a timer for however long you want to pray, meditate, sit so that you’re not constantly checking your clock (and you will want to constantly check your clock if you’re new to this).

Now what? Now you listen. For the still, small voice, for the Spirit speaking to your heart, for your own inner voice crying out to be heard over the din of the world. Depending on your faith tradition, you might want to begin with a prayer asking the Spirit to guide to you. If you have trouble staying silent and still, find a word or phrase that speaks to you and come back to that, like a mantra. It can be a verse from Scripture or a word that makes you come back to God’s presence, or it can just be your breath. Keep coming back to your breath when you mind wanders, but don’t fight the thoughts that come up. “Monkey mind” is the term Buddhists use for the inability of the mind to quiet its own chatter when we sit in silence or meditate. A spiritual director on my very first silent retreat told me to imagine those thoughts like a leaf or twig floating on a river. Just watch them come and go and let them float away without grasping or attaching in any way. That’s easier said than done, but it will get easier the more you practice. When your timer goes off or you’re done for the day, don’t jump up and grab your phone immediately. Come out of it slowly, maybe with hands in prayer position at your heart. Say a little prayer of thanksgiving if you like or some other prayer, bow your head, and return to life with more gentleness toward yourself and others.

Saying all of this to you inspires me to recommit to my own practice of daily silent prayer and meditation. I often meditate as part of my yoga practice, but I’ve let my early morning silent prayer practice fall by the wayside these days, and I can feel the difference in my life and in my inner peace. Today I will join you in making a plan to sit on my cushion at least five days a week first thing in the morning. Let’s check back next week and see how we do. If you have questions or suggestions or observations, please share in the comment section.

Peace, love, blessings,
Mary

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