How far we’ve regressed. According to an annual report by the FBI, hate crimes have been on the rise in this country for the past few years. In fact, in 2020, more than 10,000 people claimed to be victims of hate crimes because of their ethnicity, sexual orientation, gender, religion, or disability—an increase from the year before. Last year’s rise in hate crimes against Asians illustrates this ugly trend.

We need to do better, to teach our children better. And that starts at home. In this month’s issue, Shannon K. Evans’ article, “Helping Children Face Racism,” is about raising a child of color in an uncertain world. “My task in raising a Black son is to help him cultivate racial identity and pride,” Evans writes. “He deserves to feel proud of the resilient, intelligent, creative, powerful community he belongs to, and it is my joy to assist him.”

We agree. And if you are reading these words, regardless of your skin color, sexual orientation, or gender identity, we’re glad you’re here.

Adapted from Clarence Enzler’s Everyone’s Way of the Cross, these prayers not only perfectly describe my mother’s life, which ended suddenly in February 2021, but also echo a ritual she loved during Lent: the Stations of the Cross.

My family religiously attended “Stations,” as we called it, every Friday during Lent throughout my youth. Honestly, I didn’t get it. The Stations of the Cross—14 scenes marking Jesus’ journey to the crucifixion—felt like a terribly depressing story that always ended the same. What was the point? But I liked that it was only a half hour, and it came with tomato soup and garlic bread in the school cafeteria afterward. My parents, on the other hand, loved the Stations so much that they snagged Enzler’s book from the parish foyer so they could practice outside of Lent. It’s not really stealing, I guess, if it helps you pray.

As I got older, I stopped going to the Stations. I got my degree. I started my career. I moved south. I attended several nondenominational churches. Authors like Thomas Merton and Henri Nouwen resurrected for me rich contemplative practices in Catholicism I had long misunderstood. Still, the Stations remained something yet to be rediscovered on my spiritual walk.

When Mom’s life was ripped from us last year, one of the few things I remember from that week—of awakening day after day in the middle of a nightmare—was gathering in the warmth of my family’s living room on a snowy, Indiana day. We were weary from shock and tears, but Dad, with great strength and humility, took out his and Mom’s worn book and dared to read through Everyone’s Way of the Cross.

It all came rushing back. Why was this form of prayer so beautiful? What was it about the Stations that meant so much to my mother? We never got the chance to ask her.

Prayerful Gaze

Early Franciscans were moved by Jesus’ journey to Calvary as well. St. Francis, St. Clare, and Angela of Foligno all practiced gazing upon the crucifix as a form of contemplative prayer. It’s likely their imaginations were stirred to intimately experience different moments on the road to Jesus’ crucifixion.

Their prayerful stance led to an embodied faith, as they were moved to let the Lord live in them, love in them, and act in them, as receive the stigmata. All of this might be why the word Incarnation is a uniquely Franciscan term. Loving service and humble obedience become increasingly more natural to us when we place our “mind before the mirror of eternity,” as St. Clare encourages.

Perhaps because of St. Francis’ emphasis on the Incarnation, Franciscans began erecting the Stations in different places for prayer. By the 18th century, permission was granted to erect the Stations in churches as long as they were built by Franciscans and approved by a bishop. Today I wonder: What am I building in my own inner sanctuary? Am I erecting sacred statues that inspire a prayerful gaze as I carry my own cross or selfish idols that distract?

14 Steps

As I reflect upon my mother’s life, I’m moved by how she carried her own crosses. I wonder how the Stations may have influenced that journey, perhaps without her even knowing it. Ritual has a way of getting deep in your bones, the truest form of prayer. Mom struggled for decades to “feel anything” at Mass, yet that spiritual desert never stopped her from going, nor from praying the Stations.

Her life was marked by humble obedience and small acts of kindness each day. She took Enzler’s prayer to heart: “Lord, make me realize that every time I wipe a dish, pick up an object off the floor, assist a child in some small task, or give another preference in traffic or the store; each time I feed the hungry, clothe the naked, teach the ignorant, or lend my hand in any way. . . . The kindness I extend to them I really give to you.” A couple weeks before Mom passed away, she caught herself “overhelping,” as she sometimes did, and laughed, “Oh, misguided helpfulness,” a phrase from Enzler’s book.

Mom was never one for deep spiritual or philosophical conversations, but she, like the early Franciscans, modeled an embodied faith, where simple obedience to love’s daily call made her a cultivator of joy. I’m learning in my own darkness and depression that unpleasant feelings do not have to evoke avoidance but can, instead, deepen my values.

During that awful week a year ago, Dad texted my sisters and me a question about Mom’s burial. It was some kind of absurd logistical question you don’t fathom asking until much later in life, when your parents have had the opportunity to become grandparents. Dad misspelled cemetery, which autocorrected to veneration.

It’s silly, but I think about that a lot. As Enzler’s introduction in Christ’s voice invites: “My life was incomplete until I crowned it by my death. Your 14 steps will only be complete when you have crowned them by your life.”

Live, Love, Act

Lord, live in me—
as I dare to pick up my cross
and place one foot after
another.
Lord, love in me—
when my strength fades
and night stretches into
morning.
Lord, act in me—
embolden my will
and embody my being.
Amen.

Racism will never be eradicated. But guiding future generations to face it with courage and steadfastness will make the world a more just and loving place.

Every weekday morning, I zip around town in my minivan to drop my kids off at their respective destinations: The littlest three go to their grandparents’ house for a few hours, while the oldest two shuffle through the halls of our local elementary school. Five children whom I would do absolutely anything to help and protect. Five children who are my heart walking outside my body. Five children: four White, one Black.

My mother and father grew up in the Deep South during the civil rights era and were determined to educate their children about racism when they became parents. From early on, they talked quite openly about the evils of racism with my sister, brother, and me. I will always be thankful that they did not shy away from such a painful topic, but rather taught us in no uncertain terms that all people were created equal. That early exposure to rejecting toxic ideologies enabled me to receive much from the Black community throughout my life: friendships, teachers, music, and, eventually, my first child.

A Massive Reality Check

While preparing for the adoption of our son, my husband and I were instructed by professionals on the importance of diversity and inclusion. When social workers and veteran adoptive parents explained to us that our child needed to see himself represented in the predominately White world we were inserting him into, I bent over backward trying to undo the whitewashing that I suddenly realized marked our lives.

It was a massive reality check. Almost overnight, I could see how nearly everything around us was created for and marketed to White people. From the board books on store shelves, to the characters in television shows, to the people we spent the most time with, everything communicated to my dark-skinned child that he was the odd man out, the exception: not normal. We realized what Black families had long known: If we wanted our Black son to see himself positively and equally represented, we would have to be very intentional about every single lifestyle and media choice we’d make.

From that point on, my husband and I vowed to work conscientiously to help our son construct a positive racial identity—no small undertaking for a Black boy in this country. Then in 2012, when my son was 2, 17-year-old Trayvon Martin was murdered by a neighborhood watch volunteer for wearing a hoodie and looking “suspicious.” And my whole world changed.

_{Image: Zachary Reinhart, PhD}

An Education

It was not that this was the first time an unarmed Black child had been fatally shot by a police officer or someone in a similar position of authority. And yet with the dawn of social media, the news was finally reaching middle-class White women like me. But what rocked my world was not the fact that this single event happened, but rather witnessing half the country rise to the defense of the murderer instead of the victim. I listened as the character of the teenager was dragged through the mud as though made to be something subhuman and unworthy of our sympathy.

It wasn’t his death that broke me; it was White America’s justification of it. In Trayvon, I saw my own son, and for the first time, I was scared for him to grow up. The first time—but not the last.

Less than two years later, it was the death of 12-year-old Tamir Rice in the headlines. Two years after that, it was 18-year-old Michael Brown. I saw my son’s face in each of theirs. I peered into a terrifying future that Black parents all around me had shouldered for generations without my understanding. And we all know the story didn’t end there: Black boys and young men and women continue to suffer from police brutality at disproportionately high rates per population percentage.

For me, the revelation was too long in coming, but I am grateful it came. Through seeking to be educated on the issue, I came to learn that racism is mostly not a personal problem, but rather a deeply systemic one. There are few people in the world who would admit to being racist, and yet we see racial bias and prejudice play out in ways small and large every day. I came to see that it was no longer enough for me to personally be against racism; rather, it was my responsibility to confront the poisonous bedrock of our society—bedrock that was laid on the backs of enslaved people—and the generations of injustice that have ensued.

As a White mother to both Black and White children, I’ve learned that it’s not enough to “not be racist,” but that what is necessary is to insist on becoming aggressively anti-racist. The future safety of my son may depend on the willingness of people like me to uproot racism from our unconscious thought patterns and demand change from the systems that were built around the disenfranchisement of communities of color: our educational, criminal justice, and political systems, to name a few.

Preparing for an Unbalanced World

My unique task in raising a Black son is first and foremost to help him cultivate racial identity and pride. He deserves to feel proud of the resilient, intelligent, creative, powerful community he belongs to, and it is my joy to assist him. But much more difficult is the task of providing him with information about racism, the still-unfolding history of our country’s horrific treatment of Black people, and the reality of police brutality, all without inciting either fear or shame. It has been a difficult path to navigate, to put it mildly.

Our family is lucky to live in a small university town with low crime, a wholesome atmosphere, and a police department that has a good track record of serving the community with level-headed empathy and peace. While we talk honestly about racism in our family, I hadn’t felt the need to discuss police brutality with my son until the death of George Floyd in 2020 and the national riots that followed, which he and his brother heard about from a young neighbor.

It is much easier to talk to my White son about deadly racism than it is my Black son. I feel grieved explaining to my White child that racism exists, but at least I can present it as something he can take action against. I have the comfort of knowing that the conversation won’t make him personally feel less safe.

But talking about these things with my Black son is incredibly painful, yet I know he can’t afford to be unprepared as he enters his teen years. Like so many Black parents, I will soon have to give my son careful instructions on how to interact with the police or other potentially violent figures—instructions far more meticulous than I will have to give his White brothers, instructions that he and I will both know cannot guarantee his safety. (Just look at the case of Elijah McClain in 2019.)

The reality of facing these conversations with my beautiful, gentle, kind Black boy brings home the importance of opening up dialogue with my White children; and I hope, too, that it serves to remind my White friends to do the same with theirs. If Black children must hear about the dangers that exist because of the color of their skin, then White children are able to hear about it as well. And the only way to dismantle systemic racism is for White people to do the work. The onus of responsibility is not on the Black community. It’s on people like me.

_{Image: Zachary Reinhart, PhD}

The Hard Work of Anti-Racism

As a mother of five kids between the ages of 2 and 12, I’m asking myself the same questions that most White parents are asking these days: At what age should serious conversations about racism begin? How much do I disclose to my children at each developmental stage? By disclosing these systemic problems, will I make them ashamed of themselves for being White? How can I present it in a way that is realistic but not devoid of hope?

Few people are experts in this field, and I am not one of them. But I have sought out enough education to know that avoiding these questions does not serve anyone: not my White children, not my society, and more than anything, not my Black child.

Yes, I “see color.” I must. When White people say we are “colorblind,” we are failing to acknowledge the deep generational trauma and pain that has shaped the Black community and that continues to affect their lives. Being colorblind is simply not an option when the very economy we live in was established by the unpaid labor of Black people; it’s not an option when our policing system began as a slave patrol and then violently upheld segregation and unequal rights; it’s not an option when Martin Luther King Jr. could still be living today. The Black community continues to be painfully affected by a history that is far from ancient, so White people like me don’t get to pretend that the past doesn’t affect the present.

So what can White parents or grandparents do? First, we can acknowledge that anti-racism work is a lifelong journey for us as well as our children—a journey that requires ongoing education and a posture of humility. Simply declaring we aren’t racist is not enough; racism is so interwoven into the fabric of our country’s foundation that we must actively work to extract ourselves from it, or it won’t happen. Thankfully, there is now no shortage of books, podcasts, and documentaries to aid us on our journey. We no longer have the excuse of not knowing where to start. These days, anti-racism resources are everywhere.

Second, we can have hard conversations about race with our White children, knowing that our Black neighbors are having much harder ones with theirs. It’s important to note that this will not be a onetime conversation, but rather a topic that is explicitly integrated into the family’s values at every developmental stage from toddlerhood to teen years. They need us to walk alongside them, communicate clearly, speak honestly, and be a safe space for their questions and confusion as they learn and grow.

Like most other parents who love their children fiercely, I balk at the idea of introducing tragic concepts to the hearts and minds of all my kids. But when I look at one black and four white faces, I know in the depths of my being that God created each and every one of them to make the world a more equitable, kind, and just place for all people. How can they fulfill this calling if I don’t equip them with the facts, language, reasoning, and empathy necessary to do so? Our children need us to help them become the people we imagine when we dream of their future.

Representation Matters

Take inventory of your children’s world. Are they seeing only white skin tones represented in the people, art, and characters around them? Consider whether they could be seeing greater Black representation in the following areas:

+ friends—both children and adults—with whom you spend time as a family

+ professionals in their life (teachers, dentists, doctors, pastors, etc.)

+ art on the walls of your home and magazines that come in the mail

+ television shows (e.g., PBS Kids Talk About: Race & Racism), movies, and picture books (e.g., The Colors of Us, by Karen Katz)

+ dolls, toys, and action figures

Dos and Don’ts for Navigating Awkward Conversations about Race with Kids

DO normalize different skin colors and ethnicities (i.e., “Yes, I see that her skin is black. Yours is white, isn’t it? God made people in several different colors!”).

DO create a safe space for kids to ask questions. Children are naturally curious and asking questions does not make them prejudiced; they are simply trying to understand the world.

DO intervene in play when necessary. If you overhear or observe problematic things between children of any age while they play, stop and explain why it was wrong.

DON’T hush a child who is asking questions about race. Silencing the conversation sends a message that race is a taboo subject to be avoided, when in reality it is something to acknowledge, celebrate, and seek to understand.

DON’T make excuses for or ignore the racist behavior of others (i.e., “I know you heard what Uncle John said at dinner about Black people. I want you to know that I have told him that was unacceptable to us and that our family will not return to his house if he ever says that again.”).

In a youth-obsessed culture, 30 might seem practically over-the-hill. But this decade can be a time of growth, satisfaction, and renewed faith.

Before turning 30, I worried about my 30s. Now that I’m 35, I’ve noticed the 30s are not so bad. In fact, they’ve turned out to be the most fulfilling years of my life. God’s grace is working powerfully in places I never thought I’d find it. If you haven’t hit your 30s yet, you may have worried about some of the same things that troubled me.

Sitting here writing to you from the other side of the hill, I’d like to discuss seven of the biggest worries I had and the reasons you don’t need to worry about them.

When Will My Ship Come In?

I had ambitions. I planned to be a well-known writer by 30, maybe have a few books published. When I graduated in 2008, the economy was going through the Great Recession. Young adults weren’t finding it easy to land a secure job of any kind, let alone one in their field of choice. According to the 2010 US Census Bureau, only 27 percent of college graduates had a job that matched their major in 2010. I wasn’t among that 27 percent as I bounced around between odd jobs for years. By God’s grace, I was able to get freelance writing and editing gigs with a diocesan newspaper and a local newspaper chain.

Then things started coming together. I got a steady job as editor of a Catholic company’s blog, got married, had a son, bought a house, and became a parishioner at the local parish.

You could say that by 2018 my ship had come in—but then 2020 happened. I had become too comfortable with the good, steady job I had. With 2020, everything was thrown up in the air. My job and almost everything about our family’s future became less secure, less certain.

It took me a while to realize that there is very little in life that is certain, and most of the certainty I did have wound up being false certainty. I lost that steady job during the worst economy since the Great Depression, but I’ve learned to see this hardship as an opportunity to strengthen my faith. I can use unpredictable events to gain deeper faith in God because he always pulls us through when we have faith.

In these crazy times, I am turning more intently to God, who speaks to me through Scripture with words like “under his wings you may seek refuge; his faithfulness is a protecting shield” (Ps 91:4). I knew that no matter how crazy life got, God would provide. I’ve found that seeking God’s kingdom first makes everything else fall into place.

I also discovered that providing as a father and husband is not simply about finding a job to support my family. The vocation to provide for a family also means providing wisdom, a good example, courage, and many other virtues.

What If I Lose My Friends?

I used to wonder about Christ’s words in Luke: “If anyone comes to me without hating his father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple” (14:26). I began to understand them when old friends started to fade out of my life. It wasn’t just because we were all getting too busy, but also because I was leaving behind the ways of the world to pursue an authentic Catholic family life.

As Christ said, if we are not putting God first in our lives, we need to put aside other relationships for a while to put God first, and that includes friendships. Then, once we find life in God, we can build truly holy relationships based on love of God. I’ve learned that true friends hang on through this transformation, and those friendships become stronger. God also brings new people into your life who have a spirit kindred to your own, and life becomes even more meaningful.

Will I Lose Sight of Who I Am?

The words from “Once in a Lifetime” by Talking Heads sometimes ring in my head: “You may ask yourself, ‘How did I get here?’ And you may say to yourself, ‘My God! What have I done?'” I have asked myself these questions, specifically when I felt Christ calling me to something I knew nothing about—for example, working with youth in the high desert of Wyoming. I closed my eyes, took a leap, and when I opened them, everything in my life was different. This has happened several times.

In my 20s, my lifestyle and the surrounding scenery were ephemeral. In my 30s, the changes are much more permanent. You will likely find the truth in the words “you can’t come home again.” It’s one thing to move away from home in your late teens or 20s for college or a new job. In your 30s, though, there is more finality to the move. There’s not just the uncertainty of pulling up roots, but also the necessity of putting down new ones, which can be even scarier.

There is a remedy to this scariness, though. When I was a kid, my mom had this phrase printed on the top of her checks: “Bloom where you are planted.” Something about that advice reminds me that it is not about me. I planted a rosebush in the yard of our new home in late August. I wasn’t sure it would make it, but when roses kept blooming one week after another, I realized how simple, yet wonderful, that bush’s purpose was. God made it to be beautiful, and to provide hope for those who gaze upon it. When we do the same with our lives, we give glory to God. After being uprooted, replanted, and now settled in, I’m glad to finally be living proof of God’s words, “Whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it” (Mt 10:39).

Am I Ready for Family?

Your kids will definitely take time away from you. Does “me time” matter in family life? Yes, but sometimes God’s plan has bigger things in mind, and nothing is bigger than sharing life with the new life you brought into the world. Dying to self is a requirement no matter what vocation you choose. But there is life on the other side.

Family life is not only about raising kids. It also includes taking care of a house and running a household. Broken appliances, bills, and maintenance needs will inevitably happen before you are ready. The best thing to do right now is putter around with stuff. If you know someone who has skills you lack, ask if you could learn from him or her.

The messy shed in my yard is often a cause of worry for me. I let my worry overwhelm me, which causes me to stay away from the shed. This is just plain foolish. We are co-creators with God, who wants us to look at our environment and learn ways to improve and maintain it.

Will I Lose the Vigor of Youth?

Losing the vigor of youth means, among other things, losing your idealism and your will to press on despite the odds. The remedy? Remember Christ’s words, “Whatever you ask in my name, I will do, so that the Father may be glorified in the Son” (Jn 14:13). Remembering that we are children of God keeps the fire of life burning bright in our eyes.

Losing the vigor of youth can also mean losing the will to exercise. But with a family of my own, I’ve found that my will to exercise has doubled because I feel I have to be strong for the ones I love. Now that my life has more direction and structure, exercising is part of an intentional, healthy, holistic, and holy lifestyle.

Sometimes losing the vigor of youth means losing touch with pop culture and current trends. Two words about that: So what? I’ve never been more out of touch with the trends of the day and pop culture, and I’ve never felt more free-minded. So much of the culture around us portrays a negative view of humanity and human dignity. We’ve been working on building a wholesome culture in our household and have found we’re better off leaving the TV off as much as possible.

Losing that youthful vigor may also mean losing the will to go out on the town and have other random adventures. For me, the last of such trips was to Brooklyn for my bachelor party. One of my friends referred to the subway ride as a “buzz killer.” Something much deeper became clear when he said that. The whole party was a buzz killer, not because it was bad but because I knew my future had a more fulfilling kind of joy in store. I wasn’t losing the vigor of my youth; I was being reborn into my vocation. Marriage brings with it a whole new kind of youthfulness. I’ve learned the truth of Christ’s words, “I came so that [you] might have life and have it more abundantly” (Jn 10:10).

What About Money?

You may accrue more debt; you may lose your job; but hang on to faith, and you’ll make it through. Everything we have is on loan from God, and eventually we have to give it all away. We are all in debt, even if it’s just the debt Christ paid for our sins.

Acknowledging how we depend on grace every moment helps us live a life of gratitude. Ironically, living in gratitude also alleviates us from feeling we need to do more things that will put us more in debt. Gratitude shows us God has always, and will always, provide all we need if we have trust.

If money gets tight, you may have to take a job you never wanted. I’ve worked at minimum-wage jobs that tested my patience. If you have to get a similar humbling job in your 30s, consider it a character builder. The wisdom and virtue you learn from these jobs will likely become some of the strongest threads in the fabric of your character.

Concern for money can become a heavy burden, one that may make you let go of the hobbies that bring deeper joy to your life. I used to journal on a daily basis. I haven’t gotten back to journaling consistently for years, but when I do, the catharsis I experience is unparalleled. Never let go of the fervor and ideals of your youth. They are gifts from God, and such gifts never become obsolete. Pick one dream and obsess over it. Even if money gets tight and you have to take odd jobs, you’ll still be able to pursue at least that one dream with the spare time you have, and it will reward you for choosing it.

How Can I Keep My Faith?

Even with a strong foundation, losing faith can happen. Pew Research says 13 percent of US adults are self-proclaimed former Catholics. What can we do to prevent this from happening to us? I’d like to simply say the important thing is getting back up, regaining your footing, and starting to believe again. But that’s not how faith works. People often lose their faith because they lose their focus on God and make faith about themselves, then drown in the worries and influence of the world. Faith is a gift. Put God first always, and he’ll do the rest. Don’t lose your first true love.

I’ve found it easier to hold on to my love of God by having a relationship with Jesus Christ. So often we overlook this obvious aspect of our relationship with God. We forget that God did the hard part by coming down to us so we may be one with him.

Many people believe Christ was a great teacher but not the son of God. They don’t see the value in having a relationship with him. If he is just a great teacher, the ways he can lead you to God are very limited. If he’s just a sage, you may start to see Christ as an idealist who expects too much of us. But if he is the Son of God, that changes everything. I can’t emphasize enough the difference this distinction has made in my life.

No Worries

Everything above hinges on this teaching of Christ: “Do not worry about your life. . . . Look at the birds in the sky; they do not sow or reap, they gather nothing into barns, yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are not you more important than they? . . . Can any of you by worrying add a single moment to your lifespan?” (Mt 6:25‚ 27).

Most of the things I worried about in my 30s actually did happen. I’m not sure if it was all inevitable, or if I have the gift of prophecy. Whatever the case, I was still wrong—not because I thought these things might happen, but because I worried that they would. Like a good father, God does not simply keep us away from the things we fear. Oftentimes, he takes us right into the thick of them, saying, “Don’t worry, I’m right beside you.”

“All manner of things shall be well.” Julian of Norwich’s words and the example of the hermit saints can help us embrace solitude as an opportunity to grow closer to God.

“I’ve had about all the isolation I can stand,” a friend tells me. “At first, distancing for COVID-19 felt kind of heroic, but now that it’s stretching on and the weather’s cold and dark—well, sometimes I’m so exhausted I feel like I can’t take anymore. Much longer, and I’m afraid I’ll start acting like one of those crazy old haggard desert hermit saints.”

As someone who has long studied and written about saints, I smiled at the wisdom in that remark. Though I haven’t become “crazy” or “haggard,” my own COVID-19 experience has been wonderfully supported by the example of just the sort of folks she was alluding to: early Christian desert hermits and medieval anchoresses.

Lessons from Spiritual Loners

What a gift their wisdom offers to us at this exact point in history. These men and women embraced solitude deliberately, reverently. As a widow and one of the 36 million Americans whose immediate household consists only of themselves, in fact, I’ve found it life-sustaining.

Granted, embracing hermit saints as mentors might seem like a bit of a stretch. For one thing, they seem so eccentric—wildly enthusiastic and devout, careless of physical appearance, people who lived in caves or isolated themselves atop pillars. Their asceticism was so strict that it might border, to our contemporary eyes, on pathological self-punishment.

Even deliberately retreating from the world may appear strange to us. From childhood, after all, we’ve been taught that continual sociability is essential for a happy, healthy psychological life. Loners are mistrusted and scorned as losers (think of all those crime shows where the observation that “he’s a loner” is the first clue to guilt). Many among us get nervous when alone, seeking the security of companionship pretty much 24/7.

But these saints understood solitude very differently. They didn’t withdraw because they were deranged or shunned. They embraced isolation gratefully and joyfully, rewriting the inner script of what retreat meant. For them, solitude wasn’t a dreary punishment, but a potentially rich opportunity for spiritual and personal growth.

Historical accounts suggest that both desert and medieval hermits literally sang God’s praises, celebrating with joyful music that passersby paused to enjoy. One famous medieval anchoress, the mystic Julian of Norwich, emphasized God’s unfailing love in affirmative reflections even now familiar in popular culture. “All shall be well,” was her credo, “All manner of things shall be well.”

Neither did they totally shun contact with others. Over time some desert monks banded into the first, loose monastic communities, and their sayings indicate that getting along charitably with one’s neighboring monks was considered essential to holiness. Pilgrims visited too, seeking advice and inspiration.

Many hermits spent time doing charitable work. Desert fathers and mothers wove reed baskets and sold them for alms; medieval anchoresses made clothing to donate. One desert elder ranked caring for the sick and praying to God as equally virtuous. These hermits’ prayers and mystical experiences in themselves were held to contribute to the broader salvation of the human community.

Nurturing Faith in Solitude

And so these hermits made profound meaning of their lives as solitaries, seeing in their socially isolated state precious opportunities to seek God, tend their own souls, and serve others. I believe that their positive take on isolation has much to teach those who are struggling with the social consequences of COVID-19 today.

True, our “vows” may be unsought and temporary, even resented. And I’m not suggesting that we imitate these early solitaries in the extremes of hermetic asceticism. I’ll admit that somebody like Pelagia—or even Julian—would likely find me severely deficient in rigor, since I confess to considering long, hot baths as a perk of more home time, and a new, cozy sweater comforts me on chilly predawn mornings at the writing desk.

Still, if you’re chafing at the seemingly endless restrictions and feel your resolve slipping and your heart despairing, I invite you to join me in reframing your attitude toward solitude. It’s not too late to reboot. Just imagine how embracing the months immediately ahead as holy opportunities—versus with resentment and sadness—might change your life for the better long after the pandemic ends.

How? Here are some suggestions.

Become More Deeply Aware of God’s Presence

Prayer was the centerpiece of a hermetic life—in fact, given solitaries’ constant openness to God’s presence, it was life. In this period of decreased social interactions, consider adopting your own formal daily prayer practice—perhaps employing the time you’d spend commuting if you now work from home. Pray the rosary or other traditional Catholic prayers with an undivided heart; investigate centering/contemplative prayer. Listening to sacred music such as Gregorian chants can also open prayerful communication. Let your spirit be quieted and soar in the early morning or night hours, feeling God’s presence.

Another way to pray involves wordless celebration of God’s created world as an emblem of divine goodness (the hermit St. Anthony recommended this). Take a walk alone in a park or forest; sit in your backyard or gaze out a window. No music or audiobooks: Be present with open eyes and ears, noting each day a few things that inspire you with joy, affection, or wonder. Make them specific (not “the birds,” but one particular chickadee perched on a sunflower head, bobbing as it picks at seeds and calls). Keep a journal of notes and/or sketches and photographs that lists each day’s particular reminders of the indwelling divine bounty.

Go Inward and Cultivate Your Spiritual Development

Hermits withdrew from the secular world because they believed it distracted them from God and tempted them to grasping, ego, and wrong relationships with one another. In their cells, they strove for insight, humility, and gratitude. This wasn’t necessarily an easy task; many of their sayings record struggles with judgment and scruples, even after years in the desert. Yet they persisted, trusting that, with God’s help, they would grow in faith and purity.

Separated by necessity from at least some of the hustle and bustle of ordinary life, you might imagine yourself afforded a precious opportunity to follow their lead in the pursuit of watchful self-knowledge. It may be useful to systematize the process, choosing a particular focus for each day. Consider using the corporal and spiritual works of mercy as a road map, or the seven virtues. If you’re feeling medieval, you can use the seven deadly sins, though please remember that honesty should lead ultimately to appreciation of grace, not corrosive self-loathing. Pray that you might grow in wisdom and note daily one or two concrete steps toward progress. Give thanks for the chance to seek God in such active ways.

Another way to cultivate spiritual development is by daily study. Focus on a part of the Bible you don’t know well, a subject in Church history or theology that interests you, or a saint you’ve been curious about. Consult reliable faith-based and scholarly Internet resources, read magazines, invest in books, and visit the library. This is your chance to take the perfect short course, no grades or papers required.

Go Outward and be a Blessing to the World

You think you’re feeling isolated and lonely? Well, I’m betting you can think of others likely feeling even more abandoned. Call some to mind: that elderly person who sits alone on Sundays in the back pew, now isolated at home; that overburdened mother down the block now dealing with her boisterous brood at home all day, every day.

Vow to remind such souls that they are still part of the human family by reaching out to them in the ways now possible, imitating the historical solitaries who made care for others part of their vocation. Write someone an encouraging, admiring note; thank someone for friendship. Invite an acquaintance to a Zoom coffee date, a phone chat, or a pen-pal relationship.

Use your talents in the service of others, as those reed-weaving and needleworking hermit saints did. Make something to brighten another’s day and leave it on a doorstep: cookies, a few potted narcissus bulbs, a simple shawl, a wooden toy, a beaded bracelet. Donate to wider charity, too, as you’re able, perhaps by giving to the food bank money you’d normally spend on restaurant meals or gas.

Above all, remember that this COVID-19 isolation—endless as it seems at this writing—isn’t going to last forever, and eventually we’ll all be called back out into the world’s noise and distraction. Even the great medieval saint Catherine of Siena, after all, heard Jesus ordering her out of her 3-by-9-foot room after three years of solitary contemplation and penance, prepared by that experience to give extraordinary counsel to others, including popes.

Like Catherine, we would do well to frame our presumably once-in-a-lifetime removal from others as a holy opportunity, a calling offering its own distinctive blessings. People spend a lot of money to go on retreats, after all. Why not embrace this found, free retreat as a time for blooming?

You cannot be alive in this century without knowing anger and fear in equal measure. As a nation, we are divided by politics. As a global community, we are still navigating a virus that has redefined “normal.” Even the Church is not immune to scandal and backbiting. I think I’m right in that we are, collectively, tired. 

But after a deep breath, I am reminded that we are better than this. And while being angry may not be the ideal frame of mind when starting the season of Lent, these three quotations help me find a measure of peace. 

“Don’t let the sun go down upon your anger. Forgive each other, help each other, and begin again tomorrow.” (Little Women, Louisa May Alcott) 

Though the March sisters could test a modern reader’s patience, the character of Jo was so contemporary and relatable that she could have her own reality show in 2023. Who can’t relate to the feeling of the world stifling your joy or ignoring your talents? Who hasn’t felt alienated?  Our Lenten journey can feel like that: aggravating and directionless. But Lent isn’t designed to be easy. For every peak there is a valley, and anger only weighs us down. 

My Lenten promise: I will work through my anger instead of allowing it to worsen. 

“I’ve been looking for truth at the cost of living. I’ve been afraid of what’s before mine eyes. Every answer found begs another question. The further you go, the less you know.” (“Five-O,” James) 

I like an itinerary before I do almost anything. But this lyric from my favorite college band articulates the struggle of not being in control of the world around us. A survey of the news at the time of this writing includes the ongoing horrors of the war in Ukraine, the deepening political chasm in the United States, and the challenges of COVID-19 subvariants. Life can be an uneven road, and we don’t always have directions to higher ground. And that’s OK. Not every question has an answer—or the answer we want. The trick is to lean into our issues rather than avoid them. 

My Lenten promise: I will only worry about what I can control. The rest I will leave for God to manage. 

“To be saints is not a privilege for a few, but a vocation for everyone.” (Pope Francis) 

As the 10th anniversary of his papacy nears, I am still in awe of our pope. I am grateful that, in choosing his name, he bolstered awareness of a saint who is both medieval and timeless. St. Francis saw how frail the human condition was in his time. Pope Francis understands our own struggles and asks that we rise above them to rebuild a crumbling Church. Challenge accepted. 

My Lenten promise: While there is virtually no chance of being canonized after I die, that shouldn’t stop me from doing my part to rebuild the kingdom while I’m alive. 

Darkness and Light

Maybe the best we can do is to simply quiet our minds and ready ourselves for the season. Lent, after all, demands patience. But it always seems to start at a time when self-reflection is most needed. Sometimes it helps to have people who can encourage us. 

In Network, Howard Beale wanted to rouse America from its complacency and address our own moral bankruptcy. Prophets, fictional or otherwise, bring light to a world stumbling in the dark. They seek to unite us in the face of bitter division. The easiest (and perhaps hardest) thing we can do is follow them.