The Desert Mothers, Early Christianity, and My Journey to the Catholic Church

Before I became a Christian and decided to become Catholic, my faith was simple.

In the morning, I meditated, studied, and prayed. Throughout the day, I followed the example of Thích Nhất Hạnh by turning ordinary chores into opportunities for meditation. At the end of the day, like many people, I reflected on how I’d spent my time. Sometimes, I ended the day in meditation, too. It was simple, almost childlike, but it worked for me.

I’ve always been interested in Christianity, so I decided to explore it. Judging by the bookshelves in my living room, I really went for it. I study voraciously sometimes. That’s just my nature.

One of the books I studied was Acts, the story of the early Christian community and the beginnings of the Church. As I read, I came to the conclusion that the early Christians were a bunch of hippies.

They gathered in homes and public places. They brought their faith, their love, and, apparently, plenty of food. They broke bread, prayed, worshipped, shared what they had, and cared for one another. I imagine there were stories exchanged around those tables, along with laughter and the occasional disagreement. They came together to worship, eat, and help one another. They were building a community around a shared faith, and it sounds to me like they understood something about fellowship that we sometimes lose sight of.

Of course, they didn’t have the Roman Catholic Church, Protestantism, Eastern Orthodoxy, Pentecostalism, Baptist churches, Methodist churches, Lutheran churches, Anglican churches, or the many other traditions we recognize today. Those distinctions came later. The early Christian communities were still finding their way, developing their practices, and working out how to live together in this new faith.

Then the Church grew, leadership developed, and things became more organized.

Well.

One of the things that drew me toward Catholicism was something I recognized in my own spiritual life. Before I knew much about Christian monasticism, I had already developed rituals of prayer, meditation, reflection, and attention to the ordinary things of life. When I began reading about the Desert Fathers and Mothers, I found familiar ground. My practices weren’t identical to theirs, of course, but there were enough similarities to make me stop and pay attention.

The Desert Mothers, known as Ammas, were women who sought God through prayer, solitude, discipline, and the daily work of learning to live faithfully. One of the best-known was Amma Syncletica, whose teachings survive in collections of early monastic sayings. Her wisdom, like that of the other Desert Mothers, wasn’t about acquiring status or appearing holy. It was about the difficult, ordinary work of becoming a person whose life reflected her faith.

They understood that religious practices could become empty if they weren’t accompanied by a change of heart. Fasting could feed pride instead of humility. Solitude could make a person self-absorbed rather than compassionate. Prayer meant little if it didn’t influence how you treated other people. Hospitality, forgiveness, patience, and the refusal to judge another person were part of the spiritual life, too.

What struck me was that worship wasn’t confined to a particular place or a prescribed moment. It involved the whole of one’s life. The way you treated a stranger mattered. The way you responded to someone who hurt you mattered. What happened in the quiet hours, when nobody was watching, mattered.

I don’t think the Desert Mothers were unconcerned with experiencing God’s presence. Rather, their teachings remind me that faith can’t depend entirely on what we feel. There will be days when prayer comes easily and days when it feels like we’re talking into an empty room. The practice is to keep returning, to keep showing up, and to keep an honest heart before God.

And somewhere in all that reading, I began to recognize something I’d been searching for without quite knowing how to name it. The spiritual life I’d once practiced so simply wasn’t something I needed to discard. I was discovering another way to understand it, one rooted in the Christian tradition.

Perhaps that was part of what drew me toward the Church in the first place. I was looking for a way to live my faith, not simply a place to belong.

I’m still figuring out what that looks like.

Acts 2:42-47

Romans 12:1-2 

Micah 6:8 

Hiking Photos Just Random Shots

I choose to walk six miles of trail.

The trail begins in the low Sonoran Desert, among giant saguaro cacti, and climbs directly into the high-desert chaparral, among the Emory oaks. In six miles, the landscape changes completely. Desert becomes high desert. Cacti give way to oak. The farther I climb, the more the world changes around me.

I would do it every day if I could, even knowing the difficulty, the ache and pain in my legs, the weight of my pack, and the quickness of my breath as I slowly make my way toward the summit.

The payoff is hearing the birds, finding macro seed pods that look like baby birds with their mouths wide open, spotting iridescent beetles, and feeling the wind cool my skin. It is watching the landscape change beneath my feet, from one kind of desert into another.

There is something about walking alone that brings me closer to God. Maybe it’s because there is nothing to distract me from the quiet. I can walk and pray. I can be silent. I can notice the world around me and remember that I didn’t create any of it, yet I get to walk through it.

I walk in quiet mindfulness, noting each step, each breath. Silence becomes meditation, and the walk reminds me that I am still here.

I don’t have to know what is waiting at the summit. I don’t have to know what is around the next bend. I only need to take the next step.

When I reach the top, I spread my arms out and slowly turn. There it is, stretching out in every direction, an amazing kaleidoscope of beauty that God created. For a moment, I just stand there and take it in.

And then, with reluctance, I turn and start the descent.

I know the return to the car will feel longer. My steps will be slower. My legs will ache, but my determination will be stronger. I will return calmer, more balanced, more self-aware, with a sense of pride in knowing that I chose to walk those miles.

And there is never any sameness in it.

The same trail I have walked before is always different. The light changes. The wind changes. The birds change. I change. Every step is new, and every step takes me somewhere I have never been before.

Maybe that’s what faith is for me now.

Not knowing exactly where the trail leads, but trusting that I don’t have to walk it alone.

I am choosing to start living my life.

There was a time when I had children on the trail with me. Their bright laughter, endless questions, and, of course, the “Are we there yet?”

I miss those days.

I miss the days when I shared my path with people I loved.

Now I walk these paths alone.

But being alone on the trail means I have confidence in myself. I am strong. I am capable. I create my own pace. I can take the time to notice what is around me. I can stop and take that picture. And when I need to rest, I can.

I don’t have to prove anything to anyone.

At 67, I might be slower, but I am stronger.

God has not asked me to be who I was at 30. He has given me these feet, this body, this trail, and this day.

So I will walk.

Psalm 18:32-33

“It is God who arms me with strength and keeps my way secure. He makes my feet like the feet of a deer; he causes me to stand on the heights.”

Photos from Dead Horse Ranch State Park

 

Sedona Arizona

 Beautiful Scenery

Chapel of the Holy Cross, Sedona Arizona

Today I visited the Chapel of the Holy Cross in Sedona.

It is a beautiful chapel, but there was something about the place that felt deeply spiritual to me.
A very kind man took me up to the chapel door, and on the way he explained to me how the chapel came to be.

In 1932, sculptor and rancher Marguerite Brunswig Staude looked up at the steel beams of the newly built Empire State Building and pictured them bent into a giant cross. She first tried to build the church in Budapest with Lloyd Wright, Frank Lloyd Wright’s son, but World War II killed that plan.

So she turned to her home state of Arizona instead. With help from Senator Barry Goldwater, she got a special-use permit on Coconino National Forest land. After scouting the Sedona area on foot, by car, and by air, she saw a rock formation where she said she could see a “Madonna and Child” carved into the stone, with two nearby rocks that looked like praying hands, or two nuns in prayer. Then she knew this was where the chapel would be built.

Architects August K. Strotz and Richard Hein of Anshen & Allen designed the chapel, and builder Fred Coukos finished it in just 18 months for about $300,000.

The chapel itself is very small, very quiet, and peaceful. It’s hard to believe that over 2 million visitors a year come to this place. When I went inside, I found a place in the front pew, sat down, and prayed. I ended up sitting there quietly in contemplation for nearly an hour.

You could tell it was a very special place, and I felt something I can’t quite put into words.

As I sat there, I started thinking about my own journey of faith. I have never regretted taking the Rite of Christian Initiation of Adults classes. It was eight months of study, and I had never worked so hard for something before. Even though there were issues that postponed my confirmation, I’m happy to say I was confirmed in May. Something I’m proud of.

Looking back, I realize that my journey into the Catholic faith wasn’t something that happened all at once. It took time, study, questions, waiting, and finally, confirmation. Sitting there in that chapel, I found myself thinking about all of that.

Maybe that’s why the quiet affected me the way it did. There was nothing I needed to do. I could simply sit there, pray, and spend time in contemplation. For once, I wasn’t searching for an answer or trying to understand something. I could just be quiet before God and let myself be in that moment.

For nearly an hour, I sat quietly before the cross. I thought about where I had been, where I am now, and how much this journey has come to mean to me. I left feeling grateful and humbled by the experience.

Click to enlarge photo.

Tent Camping in Sedona Arizona

 There’s something beautiful about being tucked into a tent at dawn, listening to the coyotes and roosters sing their morning duet. It’s very cold. I think the oatmeal can wait, but the book won’t.

Little Siesta

T

his little guy has been my evening entertainment. He has been busy munching on ants, and now he is taking a little siesta on a rock.

Unlike him, I am fighting sleep. I hiked about 7 miles today. Then I walked the Bell Rock Path. When I wasn’t hiking,  I just got out of the car and started walking and doing some window shopping.

It was in the late 80s, early 90s temperature-wise. So, by the time I got back to my campsite 10 hours later, all I wanted to do was figure out a way I could take a shower. I settled for a bird bath.

Tomorrow, I plan to go on the other side of Sedona and hike Devil’s Bridge. If time and temperature allow, I’ll find another trail.

It’s been wonderful 

Dead Horse Ranch State Park Cottonwood Arizona

We might be the orphan children up here on the hill, but we have the best view. The tent campsite doesn’t have a bathroom, so the tent campers have to walk down the hill to the RV sites to use their facilities. But us tent campers come prepared and simply thumb our noses at the inconvenience. And enjoy the view

I will definitely will come back to Dead Horse Ranch. I like the location, I like my little spot on the hill, not a huge fan of all the tourists, but I’m a huge fan of the incredible beauty that is here.

Tomorrow is home sweet home and a hot shower.

The Evening Sky Of Cottonwood Arizona

 The rain has slipped away, leaving behind dark gray clouds that you can still see in the evening sky. I sat here this evening, just quietly watching the day turn into night. One by one, the lights of the city below me came on, and I found myself watching this magical part of the evening, that graceful time between light and dark.

I loved watching this, being a small part of it simply by being an observer. The world doesn’t suddenly disappear when the sun goes down. It just becomes a darker version of itself. The colors change, the lights begin to show themselves, and everything seems a little quieter.

There’s a gentle breeze tonight, and I’m sitting here watching the clouds move across the sky. I can feel myself relaxing. This is why I came here.

There’s something about darkness when it comes slowly like this. It isn’t frightening. It feels comforting. Almost like a balm for the soul.

I don’t have to do anything right now. I don’t have to figure anything out. I can just sit here and watch the evening happen. The clouds, the breeze, the city lights coming on below me, the last bit of daylight giving way to night.

And somewhere in all of this, I feel myself coming back to the world a little.

Tomorrow I plan to visit the stupa after my hike and sit in quiet meditation. I want to take full advantage of this amazing place and come home fully restored.

One can hope.

Sedona Arizona Camping

My plans this past month and a half was to take some time for myself and travel. I faced a few interesting challenges that put a stop to my plans.

This morning, I packed my car for a camping trip. Usually, I pack two days ahead, but I was so certain I was going to get a flat tire or have some other car trouble that I waited until the last minute.
After loading the car, I pointed her north toward Sedona and drove.

There was no check-engine light, no tire light, and no mysterious noises, just a peaceful drive - except for Phoenix, because anyone who has driven through Phoenix knows there’s nothing peaceful about Phoenix driving.

When I arrived at my campsite at Dead Horse Ranch, where I’ll spend the next three nights, the sky was beautiful, a high desert blend of blue skies and fluffy white clouds.

I pulled into my campsite, which overlooks the city of Cottonwood, and started the process of setting up my tent.

In a matter of seconds, it seemed the white clouds became gray, then black, and a thunderstorm blew in.
It’s monsoon season, so storms arrive quickly and sometimes fiercely. There is rolling thunder, lightning, torrential rain, and then, almost as quickly as it came, it’s gone.

The storm arrived at the beginning of my setup, and by the time I finished setting up camp, I watched it roll away.

Once my tent was standing, I put some heavy things inside in case the wind got ideas.

Standing by my car and looking at my tent, something shifted in me.

Maybe this is what faith looks like, accepting what is, trusting God, and being willing to see what comes next.

Right now, I’m sitting in my little chair with a near beer and a good book, watching the next storm move in.

And I’m perfectly content to see what happens.

Psalm 73: When Someone Else’s Life Looks Better Than Yours

What Asaph Learned About Comparison, Faith, and Keeping Your Eyes on God

What Asaph Learned About Comparison, Faith, and Keeping Your Eyes on God

I have been reading Psalm 73 about Asaph. Asaph was Israel’s worship leader. He was also a talented musician, songwriter and Prophet who shaped how the nation worshipped. He was struggling with something I think most of us have wrestled with at some point. He was looking around, and what he saw just didn’t make sense. People who didn’t seem to care about God were succeeding — their lives looked easy, they had plenty, they weren’t walking around worried about tomorrow. And Asaph was trying to live faithfully. So, he started wondering: what’s the point?

Have you ever been there? “God, I’ve been trying. I’ve been faithful. I’ve been praying. I’ve been doing my best to walk the right road. So why does it look like the people who don’t even care about You are doing better than I am?”

I love that Scripture doesn’t edit Asaph’s feelings out. He was envious, frustrated, confused — and for a moment, dangerously close to believing that his faithfulness had been for nothing.

But then comes the turning point: “Asaph went into the sanctuary of God.” And that’s where his perspective changed. Not necessarily because his circumstances changed — his circumstances may have looked exactly the same when he walked back out — but because he saw them differently.

And maybe that’s the lesson I’m carrying with me. Sometimes I spend so much time looking at somebody else’s life that I forget to look at God. I see their answered prayer and forget the prayers He’s already answered for me. I see their abundance and forget what I’ve been given. I see their easy season and wonder why mine has been so hard. Comparison has a sneaky way of turning blessings into evidence that we’re somehow being overlooked.

But Asaph finally remembered something bigger than what he could see: “Whom have I in heaven but you?” That’s where the psalm changes everything for me. Not “God, give me what they have,” not “God, make my life look like theirs,” but “God, I have You.” And that is enough.