Your advice makes sense to me, St. Ignatius.
For I find that when I’m immersed
in the raw materials of His creation,
I’m most open to Him, most likely to pray;
I prefer to imagine a laborer’s wife,
clothed in coarse fabric
whose chafing she hasn’t felt
since the fisherman said her son was taken away.
She fell to her knees,
unable to breathe.
When her son’s pain has ended
she doesn’t know how hers will.
His body wasn’t this long or heavy
the last time she cradled it.
His weight brings hers to the dust, too.
Her frame, stooped from years
of the same household chores,
Hers is the face of righteous rage.
This is the Pietà of my imagination.
Meanwhile, my reason knows
I haven’t found God in all things.
My affection for my own sacred images
shows this to be true.
For God made Calvary, caves, and creatures
and is present in any prison, attic,
or gold-festooned cathedral.
He breathed life into Michelangelo, Caravaggio, and their gifts,
as He breathes life into me and mine.
The architects and adorners of basilicas
accepted the call to express God’s glory
in the grandiosity of their work.
Help my heart
in the motionless constructions of man.
Published on the Ancient Paths Facebook page on July 13, 2019.