Lenten Reflections

It has been two years since my grandma passed, yet some days, the grief feels just as fresh as if it happened yesterday. No one can ever truly be prepared for the loss of a loved one, but I certainly was not ready.

When she was hospitalized, the prognosis was grim, but I clung to even the smallest glimmer of hope, praying for a miracle—that God would restore her, make her whole again.

I remember sitting by her bedside, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of her breath, while across from me, my grandpa gripped his rosary, his fingers pressing into each bead as if his prayers could physically hold her here a little longer. In that moment, I felt utterly helpless.

There was nothing I could do but entrust everything into Mary’s hands—pleading for my grandma’s healing, or if that was not God’s will, trusting that Mary herself was holding my grandma as she journeyed home.

Mary’s Presence in Suffering

Even now, grief still lingers. It settled in my heart before she even passed—knowing what was to come, but not knowing how to bear it. And I wonder—

Was this how Mary felt when she met Jesus on the way to Calvary?

Did her heart ache with the same anguish, knowing the inevitable was near, yet still holding onto faith that God’s plan was greater than the suffering before her?

A Witness to Hope

Mary’s silent presence with Jesus teaches me something about grief and love.

She did not turn away. She remained.

And in remaining, she became a witness to hope—not the kind of hope that denies suffering, but the kind that walks through it, believing that love has the final word.

"Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted." (Matthew 5:4)

A Prayer for Those Who Grieve

That same hope carries me today.

🌿 The hope that my grandma is at peace.
🌿 The hope that, in my own grief, God is near.
🌿 The hope that Mary, too, walks with me as I navigate both sorrow and motherhood.

I pray for the grace to embody her steadfast love and trust in God’s promise, even when the weight of loss feels unbearable.

And I pray for all who grieve, that the love our departed ones imprinted on our hearts may always lead us back into the tender arms of Jesus.

Tami Nguyen- Tran

Ignis

At my workplace, I frequently face difficult situations that leave me feeling underprepared. No matter how much effort I put in, mistakes happen. It’s easy to feel overwhelmed by expectations, trapped by perfectionism, and anxious over the smallest errors.

Whenever I pray about Jesus’s first fall, I think about His humanity. Here is the Son of God, at His weakest, collapsing under the weight of our sins that make His cross heavier. Yet, what strikes me is not just the moment He falls—but what happens next.

🌿 After His first fall, we see His Mother, Simon, and Veronica. Each offering comfort, support, and love—small but meaningful reminders that His suffering had purpose.

This reminds me to look past my failures and recognize how God is reaching out to me. Even when my mistakes feel overwhelming, there is always something to learn, someone to help me rise again, something to look forward to.

It is through my own falls that my journey becomes worthwhile.

As it is through trusting in God that my perceived failures become bearable.

This Lent, I pray for resilience—that even when I fall or find myself in anxiety, uncertainty, or loneliness, I can look past the darkness and recognize how God is offering me support to help me rise again.

I pray that I can see how my mistakes and failures can become a source of strength, leading me forward in faith and hope, knowing that God is always by my side.

📖 “Therefore, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and constraints, for the sake of Christ; for when I am weak, then I am strong.” – 2 Corinthians 12:9

Anna Hoang

It is very loud. The crowd is shouting. I want to talk to them, convince them that they are wrong, explain to them that the One they have sentenced to death is innocent and does not deserve this punishment.

But they do not hear me.

Then, angry, I turn my back to them and stand face to face with Jesus to tell Him how unjust this all is.

And I freeze.

Here stands before me the quiet and gentle Lamb.

I look at His wounded face.
He does not say anything.
He does not shout.
He does not argue with the crowd.

✨ He looks at me with great love, even as He carries a heavy cross.

It becomes quiet—not on the outside, but inside my heart.

How Often Do I Forget Him?

I forgot about Him. I was so focused on the shouting crowd.

🔹 I get lost in my daily worries—family, health, finances.
🔹 I become overwhelmed, turning my back to Jesus without even realizing it.

And yet, He is already carrying my burdens.

A quiet, gentle Lamb.

He does not even force me to look at Him.

The Gentle Teacher

So often, I feel tired, weak, and overwhelmed.

But then, I remember: Jesus is already here.

🌿 He teaches me how to be a good mother, helping my child carry his cross.
🌿 He teaches me how to be a good daughter and sister, carrying the cross of my family.
🌿 He teaches me how to be a woman, accepting the unique crosses I bear.
🌿 He teaches me meekness, gentleness, humility—through His loving heart.

A quiet, gentle Lamb.

A Prayer for Women

🙏 In this Station, I pray especially for women who feel lonely and abandoned.

May they find the courage to open their hearts to a God who is always with them.
May the Holy Spirit grant them the grace to recognize His presence in their lives.
May they discover their strength and beauty in the One who created them.
May they find hope in their cross, which Jesus is ready to carry with them every day.

📖 Jesus does not force us to look at Him, yet He is always there—silent, waiting, loving.

Joanna Jezierczak

Polish CLC of Young Adults

The crowd yells, “We have no king but Caesar!” as Jesus is handed over to be crucified. I wonder how Jesus must have felt at that moment.

In the First Contemplation on the Incarnation from the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius of Loyola, a scene unfolds in which the three Divine Persons look upon our world and see humanity in its brokenness:

“…they decide in their eternity that the Second Person should become a human being, in order to save the human race” (Sp Ex: 102).

In this beginning moment of the Passion, I wonder if Jesus felt hopeful.

• In the scourging, did Jesus remember those who suffer at the hands of others, wounded by the world?

• In the humiliation, did Jesus remember those who experience shame and powerlessness?

• In the condemnation, did Jesus remember those who feel trapped by sin, suffering, or despair?

Through his Passion, Jesus enters into our pain with deep compassion. Through his Death and Resurrection, he offers us healing and new life. We, captives of our own brokenness, become Pilgrims of Hope—because in Jesus, hope is never lost.

Jesus remembered us first, and so now, we walk in hope. Even in condemnation, perhaps Jesus saw beyond death, knowing that the story was not over.

Min Keun Daniel Park, SJ
Jesuit Scholastic at Ciszek Hall Jesuit Residential College, Bronx, NY.