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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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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Each year, as I plan the talks I will give on retreat and create practices for our group, I go where the Spirit leads, which is always exactly where we are meant to be and not always where I set out to go. That is part of the beauty of any retreat and of the spiritual life in general. If we are so set on where we think we need to be going and what we think we need to be doing, to the point that nothing else is considered, we are following our own spiritual plan, not necessarily God’s plan for us. We often have to get out of our own way and open ourselves up to possibility in order to see the next step on the path.

In this year’s retreat, the ­presentations and practices spanned the Catholic treasury of prayer. We practiced lectio divina (sacred reading) but also visio divina (sacred seeing), using icons, images and even nature. We dug down deep into silent contemplative prayer, something that harkens back to the beginning of our faith tradition, and used methods based on Centering Prayer, which comes out of “The Cloud of Unknowing,” a 14th century anonymous book and, in more recent years, the work of Trappist Father Thomas Keating. We shared how adoration is its own form of contemplation, one that puts us directly before Jesus in the Eucharist, adding a singular beauty and power to this style of prayer. We wrote poetry and created spiritual collages; we did yoga and went for meditative walks or paddles; we ate silent breakfast and sat in silent prayer as community.

But sometimes fear wins out. One person, ahead of the retreat, questioned how this could be a Catholic retreat if it included optional yoga (stretching). And then one person, new to Pyramid, questioned why this retreat was “so Catholic” and said that she didn’t know any Catholics who were talking about adoration, Liturgy of the Hours, lectio divina, or Thomas Merton — a mainstay of the Stillpoint community since my Pyramid experience was forged on the spiritual ground of Merton in the Mountains under the guidance of the wonderful and brilliant Walt Chura.

If one out of 30 people thinks the Stillpoint Retreat is not Catholic enough and one thinks it’s too Catholic, it’s probably exactly where it’s supposed to be. But what struck me even more in both of those instances was the opportunity that’s lost when we make assumptions and close ourselves off to possibility rather than see where the Spirit wants to take us.

When I went on my first silent Merton in the Mountains Retreat at Pyramid 12 years ago, I almost backed out when Walt told me we not only needed to remain silent but were not supposed to read, write or make casual eye contact. I decided to forge ahead, and I am so grateful I did. It opened my eyes to how many obstacles I put between myself and God, and it led me to a part of my spiritual journey I otherwise would have missed.

Don’t shut down wonder. God has so much in store just on the other side of fear. The Spirit is always teaching us, if we are willing to find our still point and just listen.

The next Stillpoint Retreat at Pyramid Life Center will be Sept. 5-7, 2025. What the Events page here for details.
This column originally appeared in the Sept. 12, 2024, issue of The Evangelist.

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Throughout Scripture, we are told over and over to “be not afraid,” but “afraid” comes so naturally to most of us. We move through the world holding tight to what we know, trying to avoid change, and tip toeing around anything that might push us out of our comfort zone and into the unknown.

Then again, many of us tackle incredible challenges with grace and courage over the course of our lives without ever pausing to recognize how brave and bold we were when push came to shove. Whether it’s a serious illness or the death of a loved one, the loss of a job or the struggle of addiction, we are often forced to face things we’d rather not have to face.

Hanging on my office bulletin board is a quote from Eleanor Roosevelt: “Do one thing every day that scares you.” I can’t say I live up to that motto daily, but I often try, even when that little voice in my head suggests I take the easier path, whether it’s something monumental (like leaving a job) or something exciting but less significant (like learning a new skill).

Case in point: I recently had the opportunity to try a stand-up paddle board yoga class. Having never set foot on a paddle board, I came up with a list of reasons against this seemingly fun outing: I’m too old. I’ve got too much work. My family will be in town. On and on the list went. But the morning of the class, I had to admit to myself that the only reason for not going was plain and simple: fear. And while skipping a lakeside class is certainly not a big deal, to me it represented a willingness on my part to be frozen in place by nothing more than my mind telling the rest of me what I can and can’t do.

So off I went to grab my life vest and backup eyeglasses (fully assuming I’d be falling head first into Thompsons Lake). I headed to Thacher State Park with a little knot in my stomach but also with a fiery energy that comes from doing something I knew I was afraid to try but went forward with anyway.

There was a moment, when my paddle board and I were stuck in a patch of lily pads, that I felt panic rising and started to doubt my decision. And then there was the instant when I accidentally sent my anchor sinking back to the bottom of the lake at the precise moment I was supposed to be paddling toward shore. As I came back to my breath and said a little prayer for trust and calm, I found I could do things I had not previously imagined — standing, for example, as well as down dog, three-legged dog and a lot more — all while balancing on a board rocking on the rough surface of a lake on a very windy day. (That’s me with my teacher, Vivian, in the photo above.)

When I got back on land, it all felt like a metaphor for life: How often do we shy away from the figurative choppy waters ahead of us and cling to the solidity of an old mindset or comfortable habit? When do we throw down an anchor in the least likely place hoping we can stay put and not face what must be faced? Where are the twisted vines of our own making that hold us down? Are we willing to loosen our grip and let God release us from the stranglehold of our sins and sufferings?

That favorite-but-challenging line from the Gospel of Matthew says: “So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today.” What version of tomorrow keeps you up at night or freezes you in your place? Can you let go of the reins, and trust that God will take you across the rough waters and back to solid ground.

If you’re interested in trying SUP yoga with Vivian and Jai Yoga School, click HERE for info.

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Vengeance takes center stage in today’s readings, just as it often does in our own lives. We might read Jeremiah’s words and feel uncomfortable hearing his in-your-face prayer asking for justice to be brought down on those who mistreat him. But the truth is, we’ve all been Jeremiah at some point. Someone does something to threaten us, and we imagine how sweet it would be not only to be free from the threats but to watch as our enemies get their comeuppance.

Unfortunately, what was once a rarity is becoming the norm. People on all sides seem to have a thirst for vengeance and a willingness to take matters into their own hands. Much like the mob in today’s Gospel, modern-day crowds gather around those considered outsiders and pick up their version of stones. Where are we in this scene? Do we have a rock in hand? Are we in the crowd waiting to watch justice play out? Are we the one who feels threatened? Every one of us has a choice in how we respond. We can choose fear, or we can choose trust.

Do we believe, truly and without hedging, that God is our “rock of refuge,” and we need nothing more? It is only through such deep and abiding trust that we begin to realize we can release ourselves from the snares of the enemy, snares that have no power once we stop giving them oxygen and put everything in God’s hands.

Trust in God, and watch the traps and threats fall away.

From the March 2023 issue of Give Us This Day, www.giveusthisday.org (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2023). Used with permission.
Photo by Astrid Schaffner on Unsplash

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It took an incredible amount of faith — in guidance from the Spirit, in myself, in my experience as a writer and businesswoman, in my intuition. Today, I am here to tell you that following your dreams pays off, as long as you’re willing to risk and work hard. And even as I say that, I know there are no guarantees. Yesterday when I was walking on air due to a couple of nice turns of events, I recognized amid my giddiness that things can change on a dime. So I am basking in gratitude for this moment, even though I know there will inevitably be rough patches of one kind or another. Because, life.

If you are sitting on a dream, putting off your calling, waiting for the kids to move out, or retirement to arrive, or whatever the thing is that provides your ready-made excuse for putting off your truth, your purpose, I urge you to rethink your strategy. That doesn’t mean walking out of a job with no plans or prospects. That would be crazy. It does mean starting to take those incremental steps that will get you where you want to go.

Sign up for a class. Get up early and write, paint, practice, whatever it is you need to do. Make a plan. Do the work of your soul and eventually you will find you are exactly where you are meant to be. But everything leading up to that moment is part of the lesson. Take it all in — the good, the bad, the frustrating, the inexplicable. Sit with each thing, and try to figure out what you are supposed to learn from it. Then take all those lessons and jump into the future that is waiting for you to arrive.

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Jesus understands that the Way can be challenging, which is how we get to the apparent non sequitur: “Foxes have dens and birds of the sky have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to rest his head.” We might read that line, wonder at its meaning and placement, and simply move on, but it has meaning for us today. If we say that we will follow Jesus wherever he leads, do we understand that it will not be easy, that we too may find ourselves with nowhere to rest our heads?

We don’t get salvation without sacrifice, without embracing the radical—letting the safety nets drop away and trusting that God is the only security measure we need.

Mary DeTurris Poust, “Jesus Asks for Radical,” from the June 2022 issue of Give Us This Day, www.giveusthisday.org (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2021). Used with permission.

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Do we imagine it was so cut and dried for the men who went up that mountain? They were fishermen; they were married; they were carrying out the jobs to which they thought they would dedicate their lives. But Jesus calls them to something more, something radical, and they go, without question. Or so it seems. What conversations did the Apostles have—with their families, with themselves? It couldn’t have been easy.

Our call is not nearly so difficult, although at times it can feel that way. Sometimes even the smallest stretch beyond our normal reach makes us anxious and afraid. But Jesus is not asking us to give up our jobs or our families (at least not in most cases); he’s simply asking us to give more, and therein lies the fear factor. We don’t have to give up everything we know. We “just” have to put down our internal baggage and pick up the yoke of Jesus. It’s not as easy as it sounds, but we know from the Twelve that it is the only way that will set us free.

Mary DeTurris Poust, “Fear Factor,” from the January 2022 issue of Give Us This Day, www.giveusthisday.org (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2021). Used with permission.

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