Reflections on the Spiritual Journey

 

I think it broke into at least eight pieces, as did my heart when I saw it. There are very few things I own that I truly treasure, but my teapot was something special to me. If you’re someone who appreciates the complexity of fine Chinese tea, you know that having a proper clay teapot greatly enhances both the flavor and the experience. Just as wine and various foods are improved when served in the right vessel, tea reaches its fullest potential when brewed in the proper teapot. Losing mine felt like losing the ability to brew tea to its fullest expression. I was more than a little sad.

I gathered the shards into a container and stared at them for a while. I know people often try to repair these teapots because they are irreplaceable. Once you start making tea in one, the tea seeps into the clay, and the minerals within transform the flavor. As the teapot becomes “seasoned” over many sessions, it evolves into an essential tool for drawing out the best in a tea. Its magic is influenced by your tea preferences and brewing style. Even if someone gave me a new teapot, it wouldn’t be the same.

 

Fortunately, I had the materials needed to repair it. With great care, I slowly began reattaching the shards, reconstructing the teapot piece by piece. There are two common methods for repairing teapots: one involves tiny drills and golden staples to stabilize and seal the pot back together. I didn’t trust my ability to manage that technique, so I opted for the other method: kintsugi. 

 

Kintsugi is a Japanese art form meaning “golden repair” or “golden joinery.” It involves using lacquer, tinted with gold mica and often finished with gold leaf, to glue the broken pieces together. Though delicate and meticulous, if done correctly, it adds a special beauty to the repaired piece. But why go to so much effort to repair a shattered teapot? Beyond its emotional value, the act of repairing something in this way is a spiritual practice. In Japanese Zen Buddhism, there's the concept of “wabi-sabi”— embracing the flawed or imperfect as a form of beauty. Instead of hiding the damage, you highlight it, making it part of the object's story. Things described as “wabi-sabi” are uneven, rough, asymmetrical—the very opposite of what is traditionally considered beautiful in Western culture.

 

Interestingly, items repaired with the kintsugi method often become more beautiful and serve as sources of reflection and meditation. My teapot, once repaired, was not the same as before. It was something new. Veins of gold and golden patches accented the red clay. When I finished, I couldn’t help but marvel at how lovely it looked, and I am happy to report that the teapot works just as well as it did before—perhaps even better.

 

Maybe your life feels a little “wabi-sabi,” or perhaps you feel like you're carrying cracks that could never possibly heal. But if a human being can take a broken teapot and repair it with gold, increasing its artistic value, imagine what God can do with our lives. I carry many cracks and dents, but the spaces where I have allowed God to lay His hands have been restored in the most beautiful ways.

 

I invite you to look at some kintsugi pieces online and find one that speaks to you. Perhaps it can serve as a gentle reminder that brokenness can be transformed into beauty, and that our scars can shine with grace when touched by God.

Now that we have discussed the theological and cardinal virtues, I want to draw your attention to our Jubilee Year of 2025 “Pilgrims of Hope”.  The theme is: SPES NON CONFUNDIT − Hope does not disappoint. (Yes, this is me, Sr. Colleen, using the Latin Sr. Denise taught me at MHC Academy − using it despite my assertion that Latin is a dead language I would never need…!) 

 

Before discussing the Jubilee, listen to Sr. Nivia’s enthusiasm for this year’s Jubilee; it is contagious. In her words, “During a Jubilee year, past debts are forgiven. Absolving a debt offers freedom from the burden it carries, but release from an emotional debt or a resentment is far more liberating!” Sr. Nivia’s words are inspired and accurate. Debt is a burden, and freedom from it is a relief. Feeling that relief allows us to free others from emotional debts we feel they owe us − because forgiving a grudge liberates both the transgressor AND his target.

 

Every Jubilee is a year of forgiveness of sins and even their punishments; it is a year of conciliation, of conversion, and receiving the Sacrament of Reconciliation. Above all, a Jubilee year is a year of Christ. A regular Jubilee occurs only every 25 years − it is a year of special events. At best, most of us will live through perhaps four Jubilee years. The most recent regular Jubilee was in the year 2000, called the Great Jubilee because it ushered in both the new century and the new millennium.  

 

During a Jubilee year, we can receive a plenary indulgence. What is that? It’s the forgiveness of sins and any punishment due for those sins. This used to involve meeting a series of stringent conditions. This year, the conditions have been made less rigorous − we can ALL fulfill them. 

 

The simplified requirements include one of the following:

 

PLUS, we must be detached from our sins, make a sacramental Confession, receive Communion, and pray for the Holy Father. When we meet these conditions, we receive a plenary indulgence, which removes punishment for our past sins; miraculously, it restores our souls to the way they were immediately after Baptism. 

 

To learn more, I urge you to download the app Iubilaeum 2025. It contains a wealth of information. In closing, let’s pray the Jubilee prayer authored by Pope Francis:

 

 

 

As the Christmas season approaches, I often find myself grappling with an unspoken grief—an ache that lingers quietly in the background, especially when the world is focused on joy and celebration. For many of us, Advent—the time of waiting and preparation—can feel heavy with loss, whether it’s the absence of loved ones, unhealed wounds, unfulfilled hopes, or the ongoing challenge of illness. Living with a chronic condition like lupus, the physical pain often serves as a backdrop to the emotional weight of the season, making it hard to embrace the joy others seem to feel so effortlessly. Yet, amid this grief, Advent still calls us to hope. In the story of Christ’s birth, we encounter a God who enters into our pain, not to erase it, but to walk with us through it. Advent reminds us that, even in the darkest moments, the light of Christ shines—offering healing, peace, and the comfort of His presence.

 

I was diagnosed with lupus during the first week of Advent seven years ago. The experience felt surreal. I had gone to the doctor with joint pain, a rash, and a fever that wouldn't go away. It had started suddenly and lasted for months, draining me physically and emotionally. After some tests, I received a call from my doctor while I was working at Sr. Mary’s annual Christmas party. I remember answering the phone and hearing I had lupus. Sitting on the bleachers in the Mary Help gym, I looked around at people laughing, shopping for gifts, and enjoying their meal. I felt so disconnected from their experience. The relief of having a diagnosis was quickly replaced with anxiety: What does this mean? What will my life be like with this disease? Anger followed—why did I have to suffer this? Though I made an act of surrender to God’s plan, it wasn’t out of warm devotion, but as a choice in the midst of emotional chaos.

 

As Advent unfolded, with its scriptural readings on the days leading to Christ’s birth and the prophecies surrounding His first and second coming, I found comfort in Mary — not because I saw her as a powerful queen or even as my mother, but because of her deep trust in God, a trust that is often difficult and full of unexpected twists. I realized that Mary’s “Let it be done to me according to your word” (Luke 1:38) did not mean her path became easy, nor that she understood everything. It was a choice to trust God in an overwhelming and confusing situation—much like my own diagnosis, and perhaps like what you might be facing today.

 

Grief is often overlooked at Christmas. We hide it behind decorations and festivities because it’s uncomfortable. But when Jesus was born, He entered a world steeped in grief. There were no carolers, no celebratory crowds. He could have been born anywhere, yet He chose to come into a place of sorrow. The grief in the Christmas story offers encouragement to those of us struggling with it during this season. Grief has a place in our celebration. We all feel it when we notice missing loved ones or experience loneliness. To ignore it is to miss the full beauty of Christmas. The first chapter of the Gospel of John contains one of the most poetic and powerful passages in the New Testament, which speaks to grief:

 

 

In the midst of suffering and grief, there is a light, and it has a name: Jesus. The Christmas lights we enjoy are a reminder of this. We often forget that the beauty of the lights can only be fully appreciated because of the surrounding darkness. They lose their impact in daylight. Just as faith in God is beautiful during good times, it is in the dark times that our faith shines brightest. God doesn’t ask us to suppress our grief but to offer it to Him, allowing Him to accompany us in it. His birth didn’t restore the world to perfection but invited us into a deeper relationship with Him, the One who can wipe every tear from our eyes (Rev. 21:4). Grief opens space for this relationship — a relationship not built on comfort or pleasant emotions, but on the trust that God can carry us in our greatest weakness. It’s about the intimacy of sharing our vulnerability with Him, giving Him room to act. The Star of Bethlehem wasn’t just a celestial guide for the shepherds, but a reminder that sin, sickness, and suffering will never overcome God’s love. That, ultimately, is the true message of Christmas.