Everyday Ignatian is a series written by guest contributors, chronicling their daily lives and experiences through the lens of Ignatian spirituality. This year, we’re excited to introduce a special theme for 2025: Virtues, or Gifts of the Spirit. Featuring writers Alli Bobzien, Catherine Sullivan and Jennifer Sawyer, along with select guest authors, Everyday Ignatian will highlight stories that explore the quarterly themes of prudence, patience, solidarity, and gratitude — and the impact they have on our lives today.
Recently I began a practice of Lectio Divina with the hope that it would nurture for me a fruitful season of waiting during Lent. My grandmother has been known to quip, “Don’t pray for patience, or you’ll get it.” This warning proved true, because within a few days I realized that Lectio Divina was an exercise in spiritual patience — particularly for me.
Lectio Divina, or “sacred reading,” encompasses the practice of reading a passage of Scripture multiple times in order to meditate on it and listen to its message. In nearly every description of Lectio Divina, the words “slowly read” will be emphasized. This is not a mental gymnastics exercise to fling oneself through and mark it off on the checklist. Praying and meditating with Lectio Divina utilizes the posture of patience to allow Scripture to sink more deeply into our hearts.
Yet, patience is difficult. Holding a posture of patience involves a level of vulnerability and flexibility that often makes me squirm with discomfort. My heart longs for action and answers with sources neatly cited. Creating space to encounter the Spirit in my reading can feel daunting because this asks me to wait and listen rather than act, and I am not promised a tidy answer at the conclusion. My meditation on Scripture often asks me to consider things from a new perspective or to examine my own life with a more critical eye. In essence: reading patiently requires me to grow.
In her book “Busy Lives & Restless Souls,” Becky Eldredge explains the process of Lectio Divina with instructions to, “Notice what arises within you as you read it. Then you read it again, and then again, noticing what words and phrases grab your heart.” This image of Scripture “grab[bing] your heart” emphasized to me the need to reflect with patience and to ground myself in the present moment with the Lord.
However, my penchant for research means that when I come across something that tugs at my heart or mind, I can fall into the habit of immediately turning to commentaries and articles interpreting the passage. Having spent years studying theology in graduate school, my research tendencies are difficult to suppress. I am a bookworm by nature, and the siren song of scriptural indexes calls to me when I encounter a passage that intrigues or confuses.
Lectio has gently invited me to sit with the mystery, to read the sacred words again and again with a curiosity and openness to what the Holy Spirit will reveal to me. I’m often surprised by the phrases that stand out when I allow myself to breathe into the posture of patience, stretching and growing in my meditation.
I am slowly learning to wait, to invite the Spirit into my reading rather than jumping to seek earthly insight from commentaries. Spiritual patience is being present to the work of the Spirit and growing in the waiting. For me, this growth looks like embracing quiet contemplation, patiently waiting as the Spirit works within me.
For instance, spending time reading and rereading John 20:11-18, the beautiful passage of Jesus appearing to Mary Magdalene outside the tomb, caused me to consider the power of Jesus’ single word response to Mary. After Mary weeps and begs the man she presumes to be a gardener to tell her where Jesus’ body has been laid, Jesus replies by simply stating her name. Rather than revealing his identity in words, he calls her by name — and it is then that she knows that he is her savior.
I too need to wait and listen for my savior. My heart beats like Mary Magdalene’s in pursuit of action, but Christ may be calling me instead to patient presence with him. Rather than rushing off to find his body, I need to open my eyes to the fact that Jesus stands in front of me through his word: Waiting for me to recognize him, calling me by name.
Lectio Divina has felt to me like a prayer of grounding, of digging deeply into the practice of patience and allowing my heart to root itself in the word. And as I foster those roots, I find myself basking in the light of Christ’s presence as I wait, listen and grow.
