New Book for Lent! . . . And a Reflection on Sunday's Gospel

Hello all! My new book of reflections for Lent is now available!

My co-author is the wonderful Tom Stegman, S.J.—New Testament scholar and dean of the School of Theology and Ministry at Boston College. We had a great time writing this book together and are excited to share it with you.

The book is available from Liturgical Press in two sizes — the small version is $2 (or $1 each for orders of 50 or more).

The large print edition is $6. And it’s available in both sizes in Spanish!

We look forward to being with you this Lent!

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"To open this book is to embark on a quiet and intimate Lenten journey with two friends. The distinct but interwoven voices of the authors—one a priest, the other a married mother of four—invite readers into an ongoing dialogue on the daily readings that is both wise and personal. Through the framework of reflections, meditations, and prayers, Ekeh and Stegman offer their readers a rich tool for prayer that is grounded in their own experiences and the incarnate beauty of daily life." 

Mahri Leonard-Fleckman

Assistant Professor of Hebrew Bible,
College of the Holy Cross

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I’ve recently participated in U.S. Catholic’s Sunday Reflection series. The video below corresponds with this Sunday’s Gospel reading (2/20/22). You can read the Sunday readings here and the reflection in full here.

The reflection below is for Sunday, 1/23/20, which was Word of God Sunday. The readings are here, and the reflection can be read here.

You are all in my prayers as Lent approaches!

Blessings!
Amy

This Is Christmas: A Reflection for the Season

Years ago as my family arrived at Mass on Christmas Eve, I told my son Julian to go find Jesus. “He’s up there,” I told him, pointing to the life-sized crèche at the front of the church. He shuffled up to the crèche, but he didn’t exactly linger. Determined that Julian and Jesus should have a prayerful moment, I sent him back. “Tell him happy birthday,” I said. Julian dutifully returned to the crèche. This time he stood before the manger for some time. I was pleased. Surely something special was happening.

But when Julian came back to the pew, he was pretty disappointed. “I told him,” he said sadly, “but . . . he wouldn’t even look at me.” I glanced up at the plaster statue at the front of the church. Julian was right. Baby Jesus was staring straight up, his glassy eyes fixed on the ceiling of the church.

Of course Julian and I both knew this was just a statue. It wasn’t Jesus. And yet I guess we both hoped for a connection, for something special, for the way we feel when loved ones look at each other. It’s only natural to yearn for that gaze.

Scripture is full of the language of looking—of humans looking for God (Ps 121:1), of God looking at us (Ps 33:13), of the intense glance of a lover toward the beloved (Song 4:9). It is this gaze that thrills us when God draws near. This is incarnation, this is Christmas—the uninterrupted gaze between ourselves and the divine—“what we have seen with our eyes, what we have looked at and touched with our hands” (1 John 1:1). This is no glassy-eyed, upward-gazing disconnect. This is the burning-without-hurting, the fullness-while-yearning that is God-with-us. This is Incarnation. This is Emmanuel. This is Christmas.

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Merry Christmas, everyone!

Written for Little Rock Scripture Study 2021

An outdoor creche at Christ the Redeemer Church, Milford, CT

Open Hands

You open your hand and satisfy
the desire of every living thing.
—Psalm 145:16

To describe or even think about God, we rely on our own words and experiences. This means we are limited of course, and yet, what beautiful images we have! And what depth of experiences to draw upon.

The simple image from the psalm verse above—the image of God with open hands, providing for everything that lives and breathes, giving boundlessly to everything that desires—is such an image. I have experienced these outstretched hands. So have you. We’ve seen and touched them. We’ve received the gifts flowing from them, the generosity of God’s open hands.

And we’ve held our own hands open, in imitation of the God we love. We’ve outstretched them to our children, our students, our parishioners, and our coworkers, to friends, family, strangers, and spouses. We’ve kept them open longer than we ever thought we could. We’ve learned from covenants and crosses and stories of prodigal children to give more than was expected, to extend our hands deep into whatever inner stores we’ve kept and share whatever good we can find there. We’ve given till it hurts, and still we’ve kept our hands open.

This is the image I choose this Thanksgiving and Christmas, as these times stretch us and the challenges of the season await us. This is the image I choose—of a God with open hands, endlessly open, boundlessly open. Of me, remembering the times I’ve opened my hands and imitated the God I love. This is the image I choose—to stretch myself, to keep my hands open when I’m tired or disappointed, when what was supposed to be perfect isn’t, when there doesn’t seem to be enough. This is the image I choose—to keep my hands open, to imitate the God I love.

A Short Litany of Open Hands

God of open hands,
You care for the needs of every living thing.
Open my hands to imitate your love.

When there are needs to be met, open my hands.
When there is emptiness to fill, open my hands.
When there is work to be done, open my hands.

When I don’t think I can, open my hands.
When I’m willing but weak, open my hands.
When I’ve given my all, open my hands.

For the love of creation, open my hands.
For the joy of salvation, open my hands.
Without hesitation, open my hands.

God of open hands,
You care for the needs of every living thing.
Open my hands to join in your love.
Amen.

A drawing of open hands by Siobhan Ekeh.

A Prayer When I Feel Pulled in a Thousand Directions

This prayer erupted from within me on a random afternoon. After I wrote it, I recognized it as a prayer that could have been written by many people, saying much the same thing as I have said here. So many of us experience this uncomfortable pulling. Whether it is happening within us or outside of us, the pressure of being pulled in so many directions can make us feel like we are on the verge of falling apart. But something happens when we focus on that “one thing” of the Gospels (Luke 10:42)—the presence, the person of Christ. There is peace in that one thing, enough peace for today.

A Prayer When I Feel Pulled in a Thousand Directions

Lord Jesus,

I feel pulled in a thousand directions today.
I feel it in my mind, making endless decisions.
I feel it in my heart, seeing conflict around me.
I feel it in my hands that don’t know what to do next.
I feel it in my feet, tired of running from place to place.

Jesus, I need peace.
Peace in my mind, heart, hands, and feet.
Peace in my family and world.
Peace in my days, hours, and minutes.
Peace in all the places and people in my life.

I do not need answers.
I do not need an end to the work that awaits me,
the people that need me, or the future you desire for me.
I only need one thing—you.
You and your peace.

 Amen.

A peaceful scene on Pentecost morning in central Minnesota. Photograph by Hans Christoffersen.

My Quiet Day: A Simple Idea for Holy Week

Like many people, I’ve fallen into the habit of sound. To the natural sounds around me, I’ve added all kinds of extra sounds that fill my days. It’s amazing what a phone can do.

But yesterday I had a quiet day. It wasn’t silent, but it was quiet. There were all the sounds that are normal for me and my life—the dishwasher running, the boys playing, Eli at the piano. The wind blew, cars passed, a small plane practiced large circles overhead. People spoke, and I spoke back. But in between the sounds of my ordinary day, I didn’t fill the crevices with headline news, podcasts that would entertain but not change me, or anything else my phone can do. It was amazing how many times I could have—and started to—but didn’t.

Two things felt really good during my quiet day. It felt good to enjoy the natural sounds around me instead of the extras. Even though it wasn’t silent, it still quieted my spirit. It turns out that the birds of spring are so much more interesting—and a million times more soothing—than a news report. No doubt the world still turns; the news will be there tomorrow. It also felt really good to know that I can stop myself from listening to those extra sounds, if I want to. Sometimes we aren’t sure about that—about whether we can stop doing the things we feel compelled to do.

A quiet day was just what I needed, right on the brink of Holy Week. So many people have told me that this year Lent hasn’t felt like Lent—that it seems to have passed before they could even begin to dig in, or celebrate, or commemorate. But we have this one week left. We can still do something simple to prepare for these days of glory.

Why not try a quiet day one day this week? It doesn’t have to be silent. Just don’t fill the extra moments, those little openings that want to be empty. Let your soul rest. It will feel really good, and it might create some sacred space in your heart—or perhaps, more importantly, your mind. These days our minds need rest as much as our hearts—maybe more.

Let’s allow Holy Week to play out—quietly, beautifully. There is still time to dig into these days.

You are all in my prayers!
Amy

Crocuses announce the start of spring during a walk on my quiet day.