In the rich tradition of Ignatian spirituality, we discover not an esoteric practice reserved for monasteries, but a spirituality woven into the fabric of everyday life. At its core lies a radical proposition: God is present in our world and actively engaged in our lives, not just in moments of transcendence, but in the mundane, and perhaps most powerfully, in our suffering.
Ignatius of Loyola understood something profound about human experience: our imagination is not merely a faculty for daydreaming but a doorway to divine encounter. In his Spiritual Exercises, he invites us to employ all our senses in prayer: to see, hear, smell, touch, and taste the scenes of Scripture until we stand within them.
Consider the women at Jesus’s tomb. Can you imagine their journey? Grief weighs heavily on their shoulders as they carry spices to anoint a body. The dull ache of loss settled in their gut. The physical exhaustion of sorrow makes each step an act of devotion.
Imagine their shock—the stone rolled away, the tomb empty. Then, those bewildering words from heavenly messengers: “Why do you look for the living among the dead?”
This imaginative prayer practice isn’t spiritual escapism—it’s a confrontation with reality at its deepest level. And it offers us a pathway through our difficulties.
Lately, I’ve found myself in what Ignatian spirituality calls “desolation”—those seasons when joy feels far off, and shadows linger close. Words come easily in this space: discouraged, spent, disappointed, numb. Troubled. Uneasy. Bent and broken.
This spiritual state doesn’t just stay in my head; it settles in my body. A heaviness in the gut. A dull, persistent ache that feels both physical and beyond physical. Ignatius would not see this as failure. He would recognize it as part of the sacred journey, where God still meets us.
My daily routine involves an early morning walk around my neighborhood. My final steps home pass in front of two forsythia bushes, which this time of year burst forth like bright lamps guiding me home. Ignatian spirituality also involves recognizing God in the natural world. The shocking yellow of the forsythia and the early sunrise inspired this prayer:
Fire in the sky, light up my bones.
With the same light, I see
In the flaming forsythia.
Burn away the dull ache.
What makes Ignatian spirituality so powerful is its insistence that God is present not just in our consolation but in our desolation. Not just in answers but in questions. Not just in resolution but in the messy middle of problems.
When I bring my prayer life into the hardest parts of my day—the places that feel the most unresolved—I’m reminded of that tomb. The darkness the women walked into didn’t hold what they expected. Instead of death, they found something beyond imagination: the mystery of presence.
Perhaps this is the heart of Ignatian discernment in difficult times: to trust that God may be doing something new right where it seems all is lost. To believe that joy and sorrow are not enemies, but companions. And that faith is not measured by resolution, but by presence.
What a lovely and inspiring reflection! Those yellow forsynthia’s i
I do remember as first sign of spring in Ferry Farms.
What a lovely and inspiring reflection! Those yellow forsynthia’s i
I do remember as first sign of spring in Ferry Farms.