The Catholic Writers Guild

The Fire Inside

The sky lay divided between night and day—stars still clung to the sky even as the first hints of the rising sun appeared in the horizon. I stepped out into the unusually chilly September morning, a book tucked under my arm, and made my way to the chapel on the other side of the dormitories. Around me, nature hummed with life—things hiding in the grass, scuttling away, or flicking themselves into my face. Upon entering the chapel, I genuflected before the tabernacle and praised God for the start of a new day. Even as I prayed, however, a new petition formed in my thoughts: please, please, inflame my heart with love for You.  

I was spending the weekend at a silent retreat. Our days were structured with prayer, talks on Ignatian spirituality, silent time, more talks, and Mass. I should have had one foot in heaven and one on earth, but instead I had both feet in a purgatory of my own making. The first couple of times I attended the retreat, I felt at peace. I prayed and wept for my sins and prayed some more. I renewed my vows of baptism and sighed with longing for my Beloved, aching for an early death, for only then would I get to embrace Him. Indeed, nothing seemed unconquerable, not even martyrdom. St. Ignatius rightly terms this condition “consolation.”           

Well, no longer experiencing consolation, I confronted its counterpart—desolation. I devoted my hours of quiet contemplation to reading philosophy, wishing to catch a glimmer of truth, though I was closer to Truth than any of the pagan philosophers ever were. Of course, I refused to admit that I was just not feeling it. My interior life felt as dry as a Texas drought, and unlike the Israelites who grumbled for food while still wandering in the desert, I couldn’t even bring myself to do that, so unworthy did I feel. Instead, I limped to the shade of a cactus (for what else is there for me?), thirsting—but not praying—for one sip of the spring of eternal life. 

The last day of the retreat, I went to Mass with a contrite heart, disappointed in myself for wasting time on frivolous books. I pleaded with Our Lady to lift the desolation, but my prayers vanished like incense into thin air. St. Ignatius told us how to water the parched earth of our souls (through prayer), but I, stubborn daughter of Eve that I am, continue to sit in the shade of the cactus wishing, but not praying, for rain. I’ve read enough to understand that sometimes God does not send us rain, but instead asks us to dig with our bare hands deep into the earth until water gushes forth. In the case of the Israelites, God didn’t provide a table laden with all manner of exquisite food. Rather, He sent them to gather enough manna for one day. 

I’m writing this because I couldn’t think of anything else to do. I realize I’m waxing too poetic even now, but that’s because I’m searching for the right words. But since my heart can’t be bothered to bubble up beautiful verses like those of St. John of the Cross, I can console myself by reciting along with him: “no sign for me to mark, /no other light, no guide/except for my heart—the fire, the fire inside!”

May the divine love set my heart on fire. How I wish it were already burning!

Copyright 2022 Gema Guevara