Things People Have Told Me Part 5

August 22, 2026

Some things people have said to me have been spiritual showstoppers. In only a few words, they lift a conversation onto an entirely different plane. They interrupt the anxious reasoning of the mind, reorient the heart, and reveal a truth so large that everything looks different afterward. This story tells of such a time when one sentence “stopped the show” and turned everything around for me.

At various times in my life, I have gone to monasteries for private retreats. These have been sacred intervals when I could step away from everyday responsibilities and give sustained attention to the matters of my heart and soul.

As a retreatant, I attend the services, walk the grounds, write, pray, and sit quietly with whatever questions or struggles I have brought with me. I also treasure the opportunity to talk with the sisters or brothers of the monastery—people who have often learned how to listen without rushing to explain, correct, or rescue. One retreat took place when I was especially worried about our daughter, Lauren.

She was a college student grieving the passing of her brother, Ben. His death had devastated all of us, but Lauren’s grief was uniquely her own. During that raw period, she began pulling away from her mother and me. We wondered whether our presence had become a painful reminder of the family life that existed before Ben died. Perhaps we reminded her of a grief too large for her to approach. Perhaps we had truly little comfort to offer because we were dealing with our own sorrow. We did not really know why she was withdrawing. We only knew that she was—and we were worried.

Concern for one’s children can be among the most painful forms of anxiety. When they are young, we can pick them up, hold them, and try to protect them. But when they become adults, their decisions are their own. We may offer love, wisdom, and support, but we cannot live their lives for them. Still, the parental heart does not easily surrender its longing to protect.

I once had a patient whose daughter was engaged to be married. She said to me, with deep sadness, “I am losing my most prized possession.” I shuddered inwardly when she said it, because I knew that our children are not our possessions. They do not belong to us, even when we have given them life, held them through illness, sacrificed for them, and loved them beyond measure.

Possession says, You are mine. Love says, Your life is sacred, and I must allow it to become your own.

Yet the distinction is not always easy to draw. Our desire for what is best for our children can silently become confused with our belief that we know what is best for them. Love can become entangled with fear, and fear can disguise itself as responsibility.

During this retreat, I was able to spend time with one of my favorite people in the world, Sister Mary of Sacred Heart Monastery in Cullman, Alabama. As usual, I poured out my heart to her. Her eyes seemed to say everything before she spoke a word: compassion, understanding, shared concern, sorrow for our situation—and somehow, even hope within the uncertainty. Mary let me talk. She let me weep. She did not interrupt my grief with easy answers. She did not try to convince me that everything would turn out as I wished. She remained present.

I told her how helpless I felt. I wanted to change things for Lauren. I wanted to relieve her grief, bring her close again, and protect her from whatever dangers might lie ahead. Yet somewhere within me, I also knew that my desire to help could cross an invisible line. I could begin trying to manage a life that was not mine to manage. I could begin trying to possess what could only be loved.

Eventually, I came to the end of talking to Mary about the anguish I had carried into the monastery. She had listened patiently to all of it. Then she said the one thing I will remember for the rest of my life:

“Joe, remember: God loves Lauren even more than you do.”

That one sentence placed all my fears into a larger perspective. Most gently and lovingly, Sister Mary reminded me that Lauren had a source beyond me. Her life had not begun with my plans for her, nor was her future dependent upon my ability to protect her. She belonged first to God—the One from whom she came, in whom she lived, and by whom she was loved with a love infinitely greater than my own.

My love for Lauren was real, deep, and immeasurable to me. But it was still human love—limited by fear, attachment, imagination, and the painful need to know what would happen next. God’s love was not limited in those ways. Sister Mary’s words did not remove my concern, but they reframed it. I no longer had to carry Lauren alone. I could place her and her destiny into a Love greater than my understanding. I could begin loosening my grip without loosening my devotion. That sentence of Sister Mary’s became a touchstone for many later acts of surrender.

At the time, I did not know how often I would return to it. I did not know that Lauren, Lark, and I were living within a much larger story—one that would require deeper faith and greater acceptance as the years unfolded. But Sister Mary had given us a truth strong enough to lean upon:

God loves our loved ones even more than we do.

Sometimes the most faithful prayer is:

God, I love this person with all my heart. But You loved them before I did. You know them more completely than I ever can. Help me to place them once again into Your care.

And in that surrender, we remember that we are held there too.