I was invited into the desert with You, led there by the Spirit into a barren place with no food.
You were tempted to turn stones into bread. You could have done it, but you refused.
If I could have, I would have. Why wait for God to intervene or expect my neighbour to help? It’s the responsible thing to do.
I sat there with You in the wilderness, wondering what it would be like not to offer the solution on the tip of my tongue, not to get up and activate Plan B, but wait a little longer, trust a little more, and let you make the first move.
Rise up, Love! Set me free! For through your guidance… I shall be free to serve Love with a glad and open heart. — Psalm 3:7-8 paraphrased by Nan Merrill, adapted
Credits and References: Stones into Bread by Lawrence OP Detail from a stained window, c.1170-80 in the Victoria & Albert Museum. Creative Commons. Plan A by Esther Hizsa, 2025 Georgia O’Keeffe (1933) by Alfred Stieglitz. Original from The Art Institute of Chicago. Digitally enhanced by rawpixel. Creative Commons.
As Jesus started on his way, a man ran up to him and fell on his knees before him. “Good teacher,” he asked, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?” “Why do you call me good?” Jesus answered. “No one is good—except God alone.You know the commandments: ‘You shall not murder, you shall not commit adultery, you shall not steal, you shall not give false testimony, you shall not defraud, honour your father and mother.’” “Teacher,” he declared, “all these I have kept since I was a boy.” Jesus looked at him and loved him. “One thing you lack,” he said. “Go, sell everything you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.” At this the man’s face fell. He went away sad, because he had great wealth. –Mark 10:17-27 (NIV)
The first time I was in the place of the rich young man who asked about eternal life, I had no money to give to the poor. I didn’t hear a word Jesus said. All I remember is that he looked at me and loved me, and then my hand was in his.
Whenever I met Jesus in this story afterwards, I asked myself what I was holding onto. I saw the treasures holding me back, but I couldn’t imagine living without them. Jesus said, “Just follow me, anyway.”
This week, when the story came to me again, I noticed the young man didn’t ask to follow Jesus. He asked what he must do to be good– good enough to secure a spot in heaven. Jesus heard the question under his question and gave him what he lacked: He looked at him and loved him.
Then Jesus looked at me lovingly, and I remembered that last week, he tricked me into letting go of a few coins from my treasury. My selfishness was exposed, my goodness in question.
It was a sobering moment. But as I stayed in his heavenly gaze, I realized he wasn’t concerned about my selfishness or how I spend my money but about my preoccupation with what I need to do to prove to myself and others that I’m good.
What if I gave that up for Lent? What if, for the next forty days I took on the spiritual practice of noticing how the desire to be affirmed motivated my actions, ignited my fears, and dominated my thoughts.
I looked back into Jesus’ eyes and listened to my heart and began to imagine a new freedom.
Jesus [on the cross] is trying to make us conscious of the power of divine love to integrate our wounded goodness into himself and then, to move from a preoccupation with sin to a focus on grace. –Louis Savary, The New Spiritual Exercises
Credits and References: Christ And The Rich Young Ruler by Johann Michael Ferdinand Heinrich Hofmann (1824-1911). Creative Commons. What Must I Do to Be Good? by Esther Hizsa, 2025. Christ’s Appearance to the Two Disciples Journeying to Emmaus by John Linnell (16 June 1792 – 20 January 1882). Creative Commons. Photo by Lex McKee. Used with permission.
I lace up my shoes and follow
from a safe distance
but it’s bound to happen His eyes will catch mine and I must summon the courage not to look away
for in His loving gaze questions arise memories hopes and fears
and we will carry them all to Jerusalem*
Jesus resolutely set out for Jerusalem. – Luke 9:51
Questions as you begin your Lenten pilgrimage:
What feelings does this poem or these images evoke in you?
What do they tell you about what you are carrying on your Lenten journey?
Credits: Photo of hiking boots and scallop shell on the Camino de Santiago de Compostela from Paulo Coehlo forum. Labelled for reuse. “Pilgrimage of Sight” by Brian Whelan was featured in explore, a magazine from the Ignatian Centre of Jesuit Education in Santa Clara California. The painting is owned by the vicar of Blythburgh Church in Suffolk, UK. Used here with permission.
“Pilgrimage” by Esther Hizsa from Stories of an Everyday Pilgrim, 2015.
By the miracle of medicine and grace, my mother woke from the malaise of dementia. For two days, her quick mind was back. She laughed and shared stories. She hugged me and thanked me for taking care of her.
As I held this gift from out of the blue, I could hear my father’s voice clear and kind, how he wished it had been when he was alive. He said, “Everything I did was for Mom and you kids. When I got angry, I was angry at myself.”
What I had wanted to hear my whole life long has always been true. My father loved me. My mother loves me still.
It’s also true that their love was so hidden, so foreign, so unavailable to me, from a very young age that I believed what I feared: I’m not good enough to be loved.
But I don’t have to believe that fear anymore.
The fears that seem to separate me from You shall be transformed and disappear… they shall be gone as in a dream when I Awaken. –Psalm 63:9-11, Nan C. Merrill, Psalms for Praying
Credits and References: Pink flower by Ester Marie Doysabas esterrestrial, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons “Revelation” by Esther Hizsa, 2025. Free parent holding child’s hand image, public domain CC0.
No one can near God unless He has prepared a bed for you. A thousand souls hear His call every second, but most every one then looks into their life’s mirror and says, “I am not worthy to leave this sadness.” –Teresa of Avila
You are worthy to leave this sadness, I hear God say to me in Teresa’s poem.
A cape of sadness slips from my shoulders and falls to the floor. I watch the trapped air dissipate until my sadness is inert.
I think about what makes me sad, who makes me worry, what feels impossible, unfair, losing battles and deep divides. Walk away from all that sadness, you say. You can trust that I will be there no matter what happens.
I try on trust, run my fingers over the smooth burgundy fabric.
I wrap it around me and read the poem again.
You prepare a bed for me . . . a bed in a room, a room in a house. Your house, my home. I live there with you. I have a place at the table. My chair scrapes the floor as I pull it back. I sit down, inch it forward, and see my reflection in my plate. I pick up my fork, my knife, turn it slowly in my hand. There I am again.
I belong. I belong. I belong. I belong. The words chug along like a hundred car train. I watch each car pass. “You belong” is painted on this car, and the next and the next and the next. My head moves back and forth, and back and forth until the words blur into one long ribbon of fact.
I imagine coming home to you, being greeted at the door, sitting on the porch swing, talking about my day. And you tell me every place is home because you are everywhere. Every community is home because you are in each member. I belong to my church, my neighbourhood, my friends, my family, the earth, the sky, and every living thing. I belong here because here is everywhere you call every second.
What do you call out? Come home. You are worthy to leave the sadness of believing you don’t belong.
Imagine living like you belong here. Now step into what you see. Live like you belong here.
It’s time to own your belovedness. –Sarah Kroger, Belovedness
At that time Jesus went through the grain fields on the Sabbath; his disciples were hungry, and they began to pluck heads of grain and to eat. When the Pharisees saw it, they said to him, “Look, your disciples are doing what is not lawful to do on the Sabbath.” He said to them, “Have you not read what David did when he and his companions were hungry? How he entered the house of God, and they ate the bread of the Presence, which it was not lawful for him or his companions to eat, but only for the priests? Or have you not read in the law that on the Sabbath the priests in the temple break the Sabbath and yet are guiltless? I tell you, something greater than the temple is here. But if you had known what this means, ‘I desire mercy and not sacrifice,’ you would not have condemned the guiltless. For the Son of Man is lord of the Sabbath.” –Matthew 13:1-8 (NRSVUE)
I was hungry, and the wheat was ripe. So, I began picking and eating the chewy grains until I heard,
“What do you think you’re doing?”
My body seized with shame. I clutched the grains tighter, wishing they would vanish like a magician’s trick: when I opened my hands, the evidence would disappear.
I wished I could disappear.
“How can you call yourself a believer and do that?”
The man would have continued, but Jesus stepped between us, casting a cool shadow of safety over me.
“Haven’t you read….?” Jesus said, defending me. “Haven’t you heard…?” Jesus said, supporting me. “If you had known…” Jesus explained. Guilt and shame flew from my body, white doves flapping their wings and taking flight.
Speechless, my accuser went on his way.
Jesus turned to me. Sunlight bathed us in warmth.
“Open your hands,” he said. I did, revealing a few sweaty seeds. He reached out his hands and poured so many plump grains into my cupped hands, I couldn’t hold them all.
I felt the weight in my hands and the weight of what happened.
Then I knew why I was invited into this story, why I experienced it this way.
“You noticed I was bothered by the conversation I had yesterday, didn’t you.”
“Of course,” He said. “You felt judged and accused. You blew it off as nothing, but I didn’t.”
So then, a Sabbath rest still remains for the people of God. –Hebrews 4:9 (NRSVUE)
Credits and References: Disciples plucking grain by Meester van Antwerpen (1485-1491). From Look and Learn, Creative commons . Sabbath Rest by Esther Hizsa, 2025 Hand Through Wild Grass by Lloyd Morgan. Used with permission
Whoever has will be given more; whoever does not have, even what they have will be taken from them. –Mark 4:25 (NIV)
When I heard this scripture one morning, and thought about our generous God, I didn’t hear the word “even.” I heard, “Whoever does not have what they have will be taken from them.”
How is that possible? I wondered. If they have nothing–no sense of God’s love or light– there’s nothing to be taken away. Maybe what they have is blocking love and light? What if that’s what God wants to take away?
Ease washed over me. I knew it was true.
For weeks, I was trapped in the fear of making the wrong decision and being taken advantage of.
Then, after I risked asking all my questions and wearing thin someone’s patience, I completed my research, weighed my options, and made a decision to put my life in their hands.
When I did, I experienced such kindness, I wanted to cry.
Suddenly, my world got bigger. I saw more people in it. I found other questions to ask, other ways of thinking to explore.
I trusted someone, and I saw them do something beautiful with that trust.
I saw that they love to do beautiful things just like I do.
From his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace. –John 1:16 (NRSVUE)
My worrier works tirelessly, always watching, bracing for bad news, seeing the possibility of disaster, and pushing the panic button.
This fearful guardian has wearied me for as long as I can remember. But when I discovered, as Dorothy did in The Wizard of Oz, that the one doing all this work was not a formidable figure, my heart went out to her. She was just a little girl.
She stiffened when she heard my footfalls. “It’s only me,” I said softly.
I thanked her for working so hard to keep me safe and asked if she’d like me to take over for a while.
“How would it be if I drew a big circle around you and made sure no bad thing entered without my noticing and dealing with it.”
A stuffed mouse poked its nose out from under her knee. The bear in her hand looked down at the mouse and said, “That sounds wonderful.” Then, the monkey in her other hand swung down from the trees. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” he said.
“If anything comes to mind to worry about, let me know, and I’ll take care of it,” I said.
“She’ll take care of it,” the bear said to the monkey and the mouse.
“Yes, I’ve learned a lot from you. I will do my best to anticipate and prepare for what scares us. I’ll make a plan. You can offer your thoughts and leave it with me.”
“That would be nice,” agreed the monkey, surveying the circle I’d drawn.
“Okay then,” she said, looking at me.
In her eyes, I saw there was much the mouse, bear and monkey have seen and never told anyone, not even me.
In peace I will lie down and sleep, for you alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety. –Psalm 4:8 (NIV)
Credits and References: Photo of girl from PxHere creative commons. A Circle of Safety by Esther Hizsa,2025. Mouse in a teacup by KR Alliance. Used with permission
The master of the banquet tasted the water that had been turned into wine. He did not realize where it had come from, though the servants who had drawn the water knew. Then he called the bridegroom asideand said, “Everyone brings out the choice wine first and then the cheaper wine after the guests have had too much to drink; but you have saved the best till now.”–John 2:9-10 (NIV)
You have saved the best till now.
In their old age, Sarah and Elizabeth gave birth, finally receiving their heart’s desire. Near the end of their lives, Anna and Simeon held God in their arms, their eyes finally seeing Your salvation.
In the midst of life, as it is with disappointments and losses, I gather the gifts You’ve given me in my old age, placing them around me as I did on Christmas morning when I was a child sitting cross-legged on the bed, arms around my knees.
My heart sings with wonder, delight and gratitude. Each gift tells me I’m loved and cared for.
You have turned my water into wine. You have saved the best till now.
See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland. –Isaiah 43:19 (NIV)
Credits and References:: Stained glass, Jesus turns water into wine from Saint James the Greater Catholic Church (Concord, North Carolina) Wikimedia Creative Commons My Heart Sings by Esther Hizsa, 2025. 1 Samuel 1-20, Luke 1:5-25, Luke 2:22-38 Happy by David Robert Bliwas. Used with permission.
I sit down to pray disappointed that I didn’t have a better night’s sleep, frustrated that I still can’t get a handle on this.
Compassion comes out of hiding, slips in beside me, leans her head on my shoulder and strokes my arm.
In the quietness and comfort of her presence, I see the gift in the fears that are only heard at night. They warn me of what could happen or might be happening even now. They want me to do something to prevent this if I can. And, if I can’t, they want me to know that shocks and losses are hard. You don’t get over them easily.
I remember how Jesus slipped through the crowd that threatened to throw him off a cliff, walked right through them as if he parted the sea. But that doesn’t mean he slipped out of the hurt and betrayal without tears and sleepless nights afterwards. The neighbours he grew up with, the friends he played with, the same ones he built furniture for, accompanied in heartache, celebrated weddings and births with would rather kill him than believe he was a good person who was telling the truth.
In the light of day, with compassion beside me, I realize that sometimes the calm I feel in the daytime isn’t trust, it’s amnesia. I am at ease because I believe no big bad thing is happening to me right now and life will carry on this way.
Night fears awaken me to the reality that losses and shocks are coming. I am living, and my body is preparing to die.
“It’s true,” says compassion, squeezing my hand. “But, lo, I am with you always even unto the end of the world.”
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you, and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you. For I am the Lord your God. You are precious in my sight and honoured and I love you. –Isaiah 43: 2-4, adapted (NRSVUE)
An Everyday Pilgrim 