Everyday Ignatian is a series written by guest contributors, chronicling their daily lives and experiences through the lens of Ignatian spirituality.
By Jennifer Sawyer
I sank into the couch on a recent Sunday afternoon, settling in to make my family’s grocery list for the week ahead. As I made my way through the dairy and produce categories, I picked up my phone to double check the ingredients I’d need for a recipe, and that’s when I saw it — the familiar rainbow helix icon from my iPhone’s Photos app, complete with a cheerful “you have a new memory” notification.
Quickly ceding to curiosity, I tapped the notification, eager to find out what I was doing “on this day — one year ago.” There, rosy-cheeked, wide-eyed, and looking up to the sky, was a photo of my then-8-month-old daughter. Clad in a ruffly orange-and-blue floral onesie, she sat on a blanket on our deck with her favorite picnic basket toy. She was captivated by something … a bird, maybe. Or someone goofily trying to get her to smile … we did have friends over that day. I sent it to my husband with the “holding back tears” emoji and tapped through to some other photos from that afternoon. A half hour later, my innocent tap had turned into a full summer 2023 deep dive, and I had forgotten all about my grocery list.
Each day, my iPhone serves me up a selection of random photos from my past — a blurry, dance floor group shot from a friend’s wedding, an early carnival date with my now-husband, a particularly photogenic cupcake — and before long, I’m locked in a nostalgia spiral, scrolling through hundreds of photos and getting overwhelmed by memories. Don’t even get me started on those tear-inducing montages set to music!
Often, the photos are an enjoyable distraction — a way to pass the time on my train commute to the office or in line at the post office. But more often than not, the photos bring up a lot of, well, feelings. Disbelief at how quickly my daughter is growing. Joy at seeing so many geographically spread out friends together at a party. Longing for a time when I had a little less responsibility.
Pondering these big feelings, I had an idea. What if I turned to my phone in a more intentional way, honoring the memories behind each photo by praying with them? It did feel like God was inviting me to reflect on just how much my life has changed in the past couple years and the people, places and experiences that have shaped those transitions.
Drawing on inspiration and techniques from Visio Divina, the examen and imaginative prayer, I decided to follow six steps when praying with throwback photos:
I select a photo.
First, I settle on an image of choice. I personally enjoy the random selections that come from the “memories” and “featured” sections of the Photos app and select a snapshot from there most often, but I’ve also scrolled through my photo roll until a specific image catches my attention.
I reimagine myself in the scene.
Next, I ponder the details of the photo, briefly close my eyes, and place myself back in the scene where it occurred. As I meditate on the photo of my daughter, I allow my senses to take over. I feel the summer sun on my arms; the soft ruffles of her outfit as I place her down on the blanket — I had intentionally selected the summery look for the gathering. I hear my daughter’s gentle babbles, coupled with the laughter of friends sitting around our patio table. I smell the sausage and peppers wafting up from the large foil tray. I notice my friend Joan making exaggerated expressions to get my daughter to smile for a photo. These small details help the memory come to life.
I become aware of feelings.
As I ponder the picture, I become aware of any feelings that rise to the surface. I feel wonder and awe at how much the baby in the photo has grown in the past year, mixed in with sadness that she’ll never be that small again. I feel the peace and relaxation of that easy summer afternoon with friends. The delight in seeing them interact with the newest addition to my family. The communion and connectedness of sharing a meal together.
I think about what God is revealing.
I know that God was present during that late June afternoon one year ago — present in my daughter’s laugh, the stories exchanged between friends, the food shared. But what does God want me to notice, learn or understand by reflecting on this moment? Perhaps it’s a greater appreciation for small moments of joy in the midst of the challenges of raising a toddler. Or a reminder to savor gatherings with friends, which seem to get harder to plan as the years go on. Or perhaps it’s an invitation to slow down and stop the scroll, in favor of deeper reflection time.
I pray in gratitude.
I close my reflection time in prayer, thanking God for the opportunity to relive this moment, for the gift of my daughter’s life, for the blessings of good friends, good weather and good food. I name as many specifics as I can think of, and close with an Our Father.
I take one small action inspired by the photo.
Whenever possible, I try to follow up this time of contemplation with a small action that allows me to keep the memory behind the photo alive. Most times, my action of choice is sharing the photo with someone else who participated in the moment, letting them know I’m thinking about them and reflecting on the particular time we shared. My photo prayers have prompted meaningful catch-up phone calls, donations to local organizations, and more than a few trips to the CVS photo section to print out pictures for the bulletin board or fridge, to serve as a reminder of God’s presence in every moment.
God speaks to us in so many ways — through our imaginations, through art, through our friends and family members, and so much more. Praying with old photos has allowed my tendency toward nostalgia to evolve into a greater appreciation for the way God works through the people and experiences that illustrate my past and shape my future.
Jen Sawyer is editor-in-chief of Busted Halo. She previously produced video for TV and the web, working for the “The Martha Stewart Show,” ABC, Cooking Channel and Yahoo. She is a member of the Writers Guild of America and wrote for “Good Morning America” before kissing freelance life goodbye. She lives in New Jersey.