I stumbled on a blog post from songwriter, recording artist, performer and educator Carrie Newcomer that I thought might inspire some of you. Credit to Parker Palmer, author and activist, who shared a link to Newcomer's essay on his Facebook page and described her as a "healer of souls." 
​
Newcomer begins her essay with a quote from Thomas Merton: “No blade of grass is not blessed.” She goes on to write about delighting in the tiniest of miracles that "always, always abound." She concludes with this:

"Go outside and take a few photos of things using a 1 inch frame. Come back, scroll through the images. Did you see something new? Did you notice something new when you looked more carefully?"

I accepted her challenge. I took a photo of the tulip in my yard (pictured above) and discovered the miraculous yellow landing pad hidden inside.

St. Thérèse of Lisieux reminds us in Story of a Soul: “If a little flower could speak, it seems to me that it would tell us quite simply all that God has done for it, without hiding any of its gifts."

What small, miraculous, and ordinary gifts does God have waiting for you?

I thought you might also enjoy Newcomer's "The Point of Arrival" video.​

by Tammy Townsend Denny, TI's Executive Director
I first encountered the Pietà at the Louverture Cleary School in Haiti in April 2017 during Mass at the school’s open-air chapel. The chapel had none of the frills we typically associate with Catholic Churches. There were no statues. No stained glass windows. No icons. A folding table draped with a white cloth served as the altar. The pews were backless wooden benches. There were no kneelers. No candles. No incense. No organ. Not even a piano. Heavy heated air overflowed with the smells of rotting waste. And in the distance, music rattled the sacred silence with a deep thump-thump base.
Sitting amid the sounds and smells of humanity, I looked up from my place on the wooden bench. The Pietà stared back at me. The image was painted on a wall that surrounded the school. I couldn’t stop staring at this beautiful divine woman (Mary) holding the crucified Jesus. In that moment, with Haiti’s harsh poverty seeping into the chapel, Mary looked like she was cradling and protecting Haiti and all the brokenness of our world. I saw love in her eyes, a mother’s love. And a mother’s protection.
A scaled replica of Michelangelo's Pietà sits on my bedroom dresser now, a gift from my husband. There are days when the brokenness of our world draws me to this image of Mary holding her son. I want to curl up in her lap and wrap myself in the folds of her dress. Maybe she would tell me a story or stroke my hair. Maybe she would hum a song as I napped. I can almost feel the warmth of being next to her, snuggled into the divine comfort of her arms and dress.
A more traditional interpretation of Michelangelo's Pietà is that Mary “presents to us the Body of Christ as a path to salvation.” She is offering us her son. Others say “there is a sense that the Madonna is letting go,” creating a dichotomy of pain and peace. Yet, I cannot stop seeing the Pietà as the feminine divine holding the brokenness of our humanity.
As we approach Mother’s Day in this month of Mary, I invite you to join me on Mary’s lap. Bring your brokenness. Bring your hurts, your challenges, your pains. Bring the fullness of your humanity. Let’s wrap ourselves in the folds of her dress and experience the comfort of divine love and protection. 

by Tammy Townsend Denny, Executive Director
​As I write these words, classes started for the Master of Divinity program I am enrolled in at Loyola University Chicago. I’m slowly moving through the program, taking one or two classes each semester as a part-time graduate student, and am about 1/3 of the way through my studies.

This semester I am taking a course on Ignatian Spirituality. The class is focused on elements and principles of Ignatian spirituality including the Spiritual Exercises. In addition to the academic work required for the class, we are being asked to pray an Examen at least once a week. Midway through the coursework, we will create our own Examen. Our final project is to write our spiritual autobiography.

For our first assignment, we have been asked to listen to an episode of the podcast Things Not Seen, produced by our professor Dr. David Dault. In the assigned episode, Dr. Dault interviews Bill Cain, SJ, a Jesuit priest, Peabody Award-winning screenwriter, playwright, and author of the book The Diary of Jesus Christ in which he “reimagines the stories of the Gospels from the point of view of Jesus himself.” While I have not yet read the book (I have it on order), the interview with Fr. Cain is fascinating. Have you ever imagined what it would have been like for Jesus to go back as an adult and see the place of his birth or what Mary’s reaction would have been to hear her son preach?

If you currently practice or are interested in exploring imaginative prayer, you might enjoy listening to this episode: Jesus in His Own Words: in conversation with Fr. Bill Cain, SJ. However, I would like to caution you: you might find portions of the interview spiritually uncomfortable, especially if imaginative prayer is not part of your spiritual practices.

If you are up for the challenge and would like to listen, I’ll extend to you the same invitation that was given to me in my first Master of Divinity class. When you feel spiritually challenged, pause and sit with the discomfort for a bit. Don’t judge it. Just sit with it. Ask yourself what you are feeling. Think about what parts of your belief system are being challenged. Then, try to identify the source of this belief. Did the belief come from your family, your faith tradition, the Catholic sister who taught you in third grade, something you read, your understanding of scripture, a priest, the Catechism, or your own perceptions? I have found that by identifying the origins of my beliefs I am better able to open myself to listening to those with whom I might not agree. 

"I am the LORD, your God,
    who grasp your right hand;
It is I who say to you, 'Fear not,
    I will help you.' "
~Isaiah 41:13

by Tammy Townsend Denny, Executive Director
Sadness may seem like a strange topic during a season when signs of hope, peace, love, and joy are everywhere -- actual signs on churches, on wrapping paper, even in my neighbor’s front yard. We’re supposed to be happy during Advent, right? We’re anticipating the arrival of Jesus. Our hearts should be dancing with joy. 

But, what happens when the joy isn’t there? What if sadness overwhelms the hope, peace, and love?

Through my spiritual practices, I have learned to lean into the uncomfortable feelings of sadness, to embrace them, and to be kind to them. I have learned that our lives need space for sadness as much as our lives need space for joy. 

A few days ago, I was feeling some of that sadness. Nothing was especially wrong. Kids are good. Husband is good. Life is good. When I glanced at the calendar, I realized it was December 7 – Pearl Harbor Day, the day we remember all those killed during the military strike in 1941. Admittedly, I’m a bit too young to have any first-hand, emotional memories about Pearl Harbor, yet the day holds significance in my life. December 7 is my parents’ wedding anniversary. This is my first Pearl Harbor Day without either of them.

When my father died in 2001, my parents had been married 40-some years. My mother passed away in March of this year. 

I have distinct memories from my childhood of the news stories about Pearl Harbor that would remind Dad it was time to buy Mom a box of chocolate-covered cherries for their anniversary. He didn’t get the fancy candy store chocolates. Nope, my dad always gave her the inexpensive, grocery store variety – those cheap chocolate-covered cherries in the red box. And my mom loved them, saying they were her favorite, though I never understood why. In my mind, Pearl Harbor and cheap, chocolate-covered cherries are forever linked. 

While the memories are joyful, the sadness is real. And that’s OK. Father Terrance Klein, in a 2020 Advent reflection for the Jesuit magazine America, says, “Advent begins as an admission. It is okay to be sad, to lament.” In my lamenting, I believe God has my right hand, even on those days when I forget to ask for help. 

For those who have lost children, spouses, siblings, parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and friends this past year and for those who mourn loved ones who have died in years past (mourning has no expiration date), I pray that you find moments of peace during this Season of Joy. I also invite you to lean into the grief and sadness. Lament! Don’t push the sadness away. Embrace it. Be kind to it. And know that Theresians around the world hold you in prayer.  
I leave you with an excerpt from a poem from Jan Richardson’s book The Cure for Sorrow: A Book of Blessings for Times of Grief:

Do not pass by
the opportunity 
to lament
what is forever gone
from here.
It is an honoring
of what has been…