With Christ, I Die

Posted on April 3, 2026 by Esther Hizsa

For you died, and your life is now hidden with Christ in God.
— Colossians 3:3

In the silence, 
I close my eyes 
and die. 

I release 
all I love, 
all I desire, 
all I wanted to do, 
all I wished to become, 
all that is not resolved. 
My hands open one last time. 
I release my life. 

We breathe our last breaths together, 
yours laboured with every breath ever breathed, 
mine among them. 

I have feared this moment more than any other. 
Now, I am here 
in the valley of the shadow of death. 
You are with me. 

We go into death, 
your heart beating in mine, 
your voice a knowing, 
that pulses, 
beats, 
speaks. 

In me, you have always and will always
live and move and have your being. 
I will never, never, never 
not know who you are. 
In a moment, 
I will take in my breath 
and your soul will come to me 
like a needle to a magnet. 

I breathe my last 
and the illusion 
that we were ever separate 
vanishes. 


From all eternity, God eternally contemplates who you eternally are hidden with Christ in God before the origins of the universe. This is the unborn you that never began, because God never, never, never, never, never has not known who you eternally are, who God eternally contemplates you to be . . . 
Mechthilde of Magdeburg says, God says to her, “Do not fear your death for when that moment comes to, I will take in my breath and your soul will come to me like a needle to a magnet.” See? So, when God inhales and takes us, we go back home, like, lesson learned. We’re on this earth to learn to love. That love [is] in God, in death, so the dead aren’t dead. They’re not annihilated; they’re consummated. And they don’t go anywhere, because in God, we live and move and have our being.
—James Finley, Turing to the Mystics, Introductions for the Practice

Credits and References:
The Crucifixion of Christ by Titian (1490–1576). Wikimedia commons.
Palm 23
Acts 17:28
With Christ, I Die by Esther Hizsa, 2021.
“Extinguished” by Earl. Used with permission.
© Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim, 2026.
Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without permission from Esther Hizsa is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used provided there is a link to the original content and credit is given as follows: © Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim 2013-2026.  http://www.estherhizsa.com

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Another Disguise

Posted on March 27, 2026 by Esther Hizsa

God comes to you disguised as your life.
–Paula D’Arcy

Dust to dust 
is not 
nothing to nothing 
as if dust were not precious, 
as if returning to dust meant our lives didn’t matter,  
as if we could disappear without a trace, 
as if God could ever lose us. 

The dust, the soil, the particles of Earth 
are particles of what once was living 
and now nurtures life. 

If Earth, which is made up of all that was, 
isn’t enough 
to make me feel secure, 
I remember that
all creation came from God in the beginning. 

Today, it’s enough to know that Mother Earth 
is one of God’s disguises. 
Mother Earth/God feeds and cares for me 
providing food, air, water,
trails to walk on, 
beauty to awaken me. 

My father’s ashes 
are in the ground and soon my mother’s will be too. 
Wherever I walk, I am supported and loved
by mothers and fathers from many generations– 
not to mention the parents of animals, birds and other creatures. 
Yes, their essence is with God,
who is in heaven. 
But where is heaven?
Is it not where
God is? 
And God is 
everywhere. 
God is 
in the dust. 

As I walk in the hills 
and enter the silence of now, 
I hear Mother Earth say,
“My child, I’m here for you.” 

I hear my heart respond, 
“I’m here, Mother Earth,
here for You, too.” 

I breathe in 
I am Your child.

I breathe out 
One of Your wonders.

Mother, I am here as a child of yours, as part of the wonders, I am free.
–Thich Nhat Hanh, The Silence Within

Credits and References: 
Village School Cambodia by Bryon Lippincott. Used with permission.
Another Disguise by Esther Hizsa, 2026
Woman admiring nature by by Jenny Uhling. from Pexels, royalty free photos.
© Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim, 2026.
The unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without permission from Esther Hizsa is prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used provided there is a link to the original content and credit is given as follows: © Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim 2013-2026.  http://www.estherhizsa.com

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Room to Be

Posted on March 22, 2026 by Esther Hizsa

“Look at all your plants!” my guest said. 
“They’re so healthy.” 

Before I could stop myself, 
I recounted the story
of my rare cactus who died
because I misunderstood her. 

Later, as I walked to church, I noticed how 
I’m quick to balance everyone’s perception of me. 
As if it were a teeter-totter, 
I run from one end to the other to keep it perfectly horizontal. 
Compliment me, and I have to confess a fault.
Comfort me, and I minimize my misery. 

What if I simply received recognition for nurturing beauty 
and acknowledged my sorrow and the weight of it, 
as is, 
without comment 
except, perhaps, a
“Thank You”? 

I walked on, beside my friends– 
the budding trees, the trampled grass– 
annoyed at my propensity for balance 
until
I
sank
deeper. 

I didn’t want balance. 
I wanted room– 
plenty of space 
for beauty and sorrow to co-exist. 

I looked, and I saw, 
around me and within, 
a thriving ecosystem 
of health and decay, 
hope and despair, 
not taking turns being up or down, 
not needing to be balanced, 
but with room for each  
to be
whatever they are
at the same time. 

And wouldn’t you know it? 
A few minutes later, 
a random act of beauty 
ignited a memory, 
tenderness, tears. 

I let grief come, 
felt it prick my heart 
as I walked home. 

I knew then, 
life wasn’t waiting for me to get over this. 
Grief, or should I say love, 
is a perennial.

Take a long loving look at the real.
– Walter Burghardt, SJ

Credits and References:
Old Teeter Totter by Peggy Riley. Used with permission.
Room to Be by Esther Hizsa, 2026
Ecosystem by Scott McCracken. Used with permission.
© Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim, 2026.
The unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without permission from Esther Hizsa is prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used provided there is a link to the original content and credit is given as follows: © Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim 2013-2026.  http://www.estherhizsa.com
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Found

Posted on March 13, 2026 by Esther Hizsa

As I return and rest, 
I feel gentle hands 
unfolding a crumpled part of me, 
smoothing it to the edges. 

Now She’s softening the creases, 
straightening the bent back corner, 
and tracing my words with Her finger. 
I feel Her
reading my thoughts, 
holding the whole story.
I see Her 
closing Her eyes in prayer.

When She opens them again, 
She begins to hum,
folds the paper once, 
twice and again, 
and puts me in Her pocket. 

Now and then throughout the day, 
She pats Her pocket and smiles, 
reassured and comforted, 
as if Her find
were all She ever wanted. 

In the morning, in the evening
When I’m waking, when I’m sleeping
When I’m arriving, when I’m leaving
You will have me in Your keeping.
—Always with Me by Paul Zach

Hey friends, you might enjoy this Living from the Heart podcast interview I did with Jan Evans and Rod Janz last week. Experiencing God’s Love: The Transforming Power of the Ignatian Exercises

Credits and References: 
Crumple by Thomas Levinson. Used with permission.
Found by Esther Hizsa, 2026
Hand in pocket photo by Pexels from Freerange Stock. Used with permission.
© Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim, 2026.
The unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without permission from Esther Hizsa is prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used provided there is a link to the original content and credit is given as follows: © Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim 2013-2026.  http://www.estherhizsa.com

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Making Light

Posted on March 6, 2026 by Esther Hizsa

You are the light of the world.
–Matthew 5:14

We must let go of outcomes. 
Suffering is caused by not accepting things as they are, 
not admitting we are powerless to control the future. 

I’m learning to accept my powerlessness. 
I try to notice when I fixate on how I can get what I want or  
obsess over why I don’t have it now.
Sometimes I can let go.

But I can’t let go of longing 
for this outcome: 
God’s will to be done 
on earth as it is in heaven, 
justice and peace, 
Mother Earth a garden of Eden again– 
the reconciliation of all things 
and one thing in particular. 

The suffering I choose 
is to hope, 
to hope and carry disappointment, 
picture what could be 
and grieve what it’s not, 
bearing unbearable brokenness. 

What else can I do? 
To let go of hope 
is to wed despair 
or sleepwalk through life. 

This suffering 
is not for nothing. 
You say the weight of my hoping and grieving, 
is making its own light. 

You say the weight of my suffering 
is forging something beautiful– 
an energy, a brilliance, a warmth,  
a light that 
lengthens days, 
buds snowdrops,  
and rolls stones away. 

See how the sorrow in you
slowly makes its own light…
–Jan Richardson, How the Stars Get in Your Bones

Credits and References:
Not Enough Darkness by weye Used with permission.
Making Light by Esther Hizsa, 2026
Early Rays by Thomas. Used with permission.
© Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim, 2026.
The unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without permission from Esther Hizsa is prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used provided there is a link to the original content and credit is given as follows: © Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim 2013-2026.  http://www.estherhizsa.com

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An Old Story

Posted on February 27, 2026 by Esther Hizsa

Then Jesus was led by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil.
–Matthew 4:1 (NIV)

I know how it happened to Jesus,
human as he was,
just like me.

The tempter came as a thought
in Jesus’ head, in Jesus’ voice,
naming old beliefs
from an old story
passed on from people he trusted,
reinforced by his experience
whenever he encountered hunger, doubt or powerlessness.
Feed yourself; God isn’t coming. 
No one will believe who you are unless you do something spectacular.
Collude with the powerful, and then you’ll have power. 
Turn your enemies into friends, and then you’ll be safe.

Matthew, Mark and Luke don’t spell it out for us
but how could it have been real temptation
unless the tempter got under Jesus’ skin? 

I know how temptation works.

Three times since Lent began
I was invisible.
Three times I had to speak up
to be seen, heard and allowed a voice.
Three times I was tempted
to believe I should sink back into obscurity
or get tangled up in proving 
I wasn’t invisible. 

I didn’t sink.
I got angry
and blamed these people for being so thoughtless.

Seeing my anger and blame tipped me off,
let Spirit in.
She asked,
Why are you so angry?
Why do you blame them for being human, 
for acting unintentionally.
Then I realized
it wasn’t what they did
it’s how I took what they did
as a confirmation of an old belief.
They weren’t telling me this story;
I was telling it to myself, 
and I was tempted to keep believing it.

But I didn’t have to.

Compassion came  
for them and for me.
That’s how the angels comforted me.

You are seen, they said.
Your voice matters,
and we need to hear it. 

Maybe that’s how it happened for Jesus in the wilderness.
No theatrics.
No easy deflection by a man of steel.
No test to pass or fail.

We assume
Jesus didn’t
feel hurt or struggle, 
or need the Spirit, compassion
and time
to resist temptation.

We assume
God expects no less from us.

Perhaps that’s an old belief,
an old story
we don’t have to keep telling ourselves.

Then the devil left him, and angels came and attended him.
–Matthew 4:11 (NIV)

Credits and References:
Christ in the Wilderness by Ivan Kramskoi (1837-1887) Wikimedia. Creative Commons.
An Old Story by Esther Hizsa, 2026 
“Friendship” by  lunamom58. Used with permission.
Today’s post was influenced by this Living from the Heart podcast interview with my friend Pearl Nieuwenhuis. 
© Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim, 2026.
The unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without permission from Esther Hizsa is prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used provided there is a link to the original content and credit is given as follows: © Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim 2013-2026.  http://www.estherhizsa.com

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Return Again

Posted on February 20, 2026 by Esther Hizsa

Return again, return again
Return to the land of your soul
Return again, return again
Return to the land of your soul

Return to what you are
Return to who you are
Return to where you are born and reborn again. 
–Shaina Noll, Return Again

Come home, I say  
to all the parts of me. 
I’m sorry. 
Please, forgive me. 
I love you.
Thank you.

These poor dears 
have taken care of me 
the best they could, 
when I forgot to bring them in at night, 
when I neglected to feed and water,
nuzzle or kiss them.

Their fears unbridled, 
they did what they could
to comfort and sustain me, 
as one wave of stress washed in upon another. 
They carried me through 
but not without cost 
to body and soul. 

And now,
now that life has settled down,
and Lent begins,
I hear a voice calling in the wilderness.
Come home. 
Come home to me. 
Return again 
to the land of your soul.

You sing these songs
to me 
and all my prodigal parts. 
When we return and rest,
moment by moment, 
again and again– 
we are seen,
heard, 
comforted, 
and safe. 

In returning and rest,
I am saved.
In quietness and trust
I find strength 
to want and do 
what is good.

Wild horses calling, 
and the moon wind runs through your hair. 
Your dark eyes are raging 
but your heart will call you home, 
and I’ll be there.
–Ardyth and Jennifer, Calling 

Credits and References:
The Cranes Return by Alice Popkorn. Used with permission.
Return Again by Esther Hizsa. 2026
Quoted in poem:
Ho’oponopono Mantra “I’m sorry. Please forgive me…”
John 1:23
Isaiah 30:15 (The Voice)
Image of wild horses by Zeynep Sude Emek on Pexels. Used with permission. 

© Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim, 2026.
The unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without permission from Esther Hizsa is prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used provided there is a link to the original content and credit is given as follows: © Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim 2013-2026.  http://www.estherhizsa.com

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What Was

Posted on February 14, 2026 by Esther Hizsa

After Mom passed,
sadness drifted in and out of my days 
like a hum in the distance, 
clearer whenever I looked its way. 

It didn’t come from the one
who had mothered my mother, 
nor the one who kept wishing for more. 
It came from the wee child 
who missed her mommy, 
missed her warm body,
her soft voice, 
how she gentled my wayward hair 
back into the fold. 

I don’t have these memories, 
but my child self does. 
She found more throughout my life, 
the way Mom found four-leaf clovers when no one else did.
This child found what was 
in a field of what wasn’t. 

Now our mother is gone 
from touch and sight and sound, 
gone from the smell of her bread in the oven, 
gone from the taste of her apricot jam. 

She was never enough for the one who wanted more, 
but this little one didn’t see what wasn’t, 
only what was, 

and now she closes her eyes 
and remembers. 

You only have to let the soft animal of your body 
love what it loves. 
— Mary Oliver, Wild Geese

Credits and References:
Four Leaf Clover by Mary. Used with permission. 
What Was by Esther Hizsa, 2026
Photo of Sylvia, Harry, Ron, me and our mom going to the beach.
© Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim, 2026.
The unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without permission from Esther Hizsa is prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used provided there is a link to the original content and credit is given as follows: © Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim 2013-2026.  http://www.estherhizsa.com

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Morning Light

Posted on February 9, 2026 by Esther Hizsa

The moment I discovered,  
with the clarity life brings, 
that my idea
was a good idea, 
and I should’ve acted on it, 
a grey cluster of emotions emerged.
I felt its weight in my chest. 

Why did I doubt myself? 
What do I do now?

The sun went down on my regret.

In the morning light, I glimpse
another reality: 
You are here, too.  
You didn’t abandon me 
when I abandoned myself. 

As I act on this good idea 
another one comes: 
Forgive yourself. 

Who is this that appears like the dawn, fair as the moon,
bright as the sun, majestic as the stars in procession?
— Song of Songs 6:10 (NIV)

Credits and References:
Early Morning Light and Early Light by  Tony Armstrong-Sly. Used with permission.
Morning Light by Esther Hizsa, 2026
© Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim, 2026.
The unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without permission from Esther Hizsa is prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used provided there is a link to the original content and credit is given as follows: © Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim 2013-2026.  http://www.estherhizsa.com

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Come In

Posted on January 31, 2026 by Esther Hizsa

It was comical, really.
The day before my mother died,
there was a clatter.
Clear as a bell, my mom, 
who hadn’t eaten or spoken for days, called out,
“Come in!”
“I just dropped something on the floor, ” I said.
“Come in!” she said again
and went back to sleep.

I return to the moment she took her final breath,
enter into the scene like an Ignatian prayer, a repetition.
I picture Jesus welcoming my 92-year-old mother home.
I picture my dad and mom as they were on the day Mom arrived in Canada–
she 19, he 24–in a hesitant and tender embrace.

We watch one joyful reunion after another.
“We” being my six-year-old mother and me.

I have loved this elderly child for two-and-a-half years–
fed her chips and chocolate,
told her stories,
showed her pet videos on YouTube,
held her hand and kissed her.

Now, with her little hand in mine,
we see her mother, her father, everyone she ever knew
who couldn’t love her
the way she needed to be loved,
the way they wanted to 
but now,
now they are whole.
Now, they are free.
Now, she is coming home to the love
that her big heart was too afraid to hope for.

“Mom, you don’t need to say
‘It’s okay’ and ‘Never mind’ anymore.
It was never okay.”
She squeezes my hand 
and the tears that have been locked away
for a lifetime 
roll down her cheeks.

“You see,
it’s different now,” I say. 
“We love you.
We always have 
and always will. “

She wipes her tears on her sleeve
and looks at Jesus.
He has crouched down
and waits.
“Coming in?” he says.

She nods and slowly releases my hand.
“Come in,” she calls out
to everyone in heaven and earth.
“Come in!”

Heidi Martha Frehner (Mueller) May 19, 1933-January 28, 2026, Age 6

I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am.
–John 14:3 (NIV)

Credits and References:
#36 in explore by ashley rose,. Used with permission
Come In by Esther Hizsa, 2026
Heidi Martha Frehner age 6
© Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim, 2026.
The unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without permission from Esther Hizsa is prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used provided there is a link to the original content and credit is given as follows: © Esther Hizsa, An Everyday Pilgrim 2013-2026.  http://www.estherhizsa.com
Posted in Aging, Childhood, compassion, Ignatian Spirituality, Praying with the Imagination, Reflections, Stories | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments