10

GOOD INTENTIONS

During the second week of January, just a few weeks after that disastrous Christmas Eve at Calvary, I walked a half mile down my street to the monastery. It was the first monthly meeting of the Visitation Companions, where I had committed to join a group of laypeople to learn about Salesian spirituality. It was a frigid morning, much colder than that day in November when the words “spiritual singleness” first entered my mind. That phrase seemed to point me back toward the nuns. But could I trust it was a message from God?

I wasn’t sure, but I walked to the monastery anyway.

After morning Mass concluded, I creaked down the steps into the basement room with a heavy-looking couch and chairs organized in a small circle. A group of middle-aged ladies looked over to me as I entered the room, then one motioned over to an empty spot on the couch.

“Come, sit,” said a woman with snowy white hair. It was Jody, the co-coordinator of the program I had emailed back in November. “We’re just about to get started.”

I took my place among the small group. Salesian spirituality, I learned, was based on the spiritual writing and doctrine of Saint Francis de Sales, who happened to be the patron saint of writers and a “Doctor of the Love of God” in the Catholic Church. Saint Francis was not only a best-selling author but also a missionary to the Protestant strongholds in seventeenth-century France and, in four short years, converted a whole region back to the Catholic faith. (Not very ecumenical, I thought to myself.) Unlike some of his contemporaries, Francis’s missionary tactics did not include threats or physical violence. One of his maxims was, “All through love, nothing through force.”

Before we got into all that, though, we went around and introduced ourselves. One woman introduced herself as Jane, “just like Saint Jane de Chantal!” who was a cofounder of the Visitation order with Saint Francis. She explained that her daughter was starting at a Visitation Catholic school and that she was here to learn more about Salesian spirituality.

“Each school meeting begins with a prayer from Saint Francis de Sales,” Jane said, passing around small sheets of papers she had brought to share. “It’s called the ‘Direction of Intentions.’ May I read it aloud?”

We all nodded.

“My God, I give you this day,” Jane read. “I offer You, now all the good that I shall do and promise to accept, for love of You, all the difficulties that I shall meet. Help me to conduct myself this day in a manner pleasing to You.”

“Setting intentions is one of the core practices of Salesian spirituality,” said Sister Suzanne from her blue easy chair. “Francis was a genius at sanctifying the ordinary moments of a day, and he taught people how to start each task by giving it over to God.”

I shifted in my chair. Whenever I hear the word intentions, I can’t help but think of the saying that the road to hell is paved with them. It’s one thing to study an ancient form of Christian spirituality because you intend to grow, but it’s another thing to be actually formed. Transformed. I suspect that Saint Francis de Sales would point me back to the ordinary moments of my day.

Setting intentions also reminds me of yoga.

Once a week, I attend a class at the YMCA. The teacher, a muscular woman with a long gray braid, welcomes me into the basement classroom. She shows me what blocks or straps I might need during the poses and where I can find a spare yoga mat from the community pile when I have forgotten mine.

“Before we get started,” she says while walking barefoot around the room, sidestepping mats, “take a moment to set an intention for this practice.” The room smells like rubber, like feet.

Sitting cross-legged, eyes closed, I think back to how the morning went, my flaws saturating my mental picture like a red stain: I spent too long scrolling through Instagram again, or yelled at my kids, or bought something I didn’t need at Target, or thought uncharitable thoughts about the coworker who missed a deadline.

Then, in a deep awareness of my lack, I come up with some intention like “presence” or “patience.” Or, just a desperate “please help.”

The yoga class lasts about an hour, and I join the others who follow the movements of the instructor from mountain pose to swan diving down and up again, the group moving like a synchronized ballet company. I watch myself in the studio mirror. Standing in tree pose, I find a stationary focal point to stare at, willing myself not to wobble. I amaze myself with an ability to focus, to keep my eyes fastened on a singular point.

As I lie down for the final savasana, or corpse pose, my mind is blissfully blank, and later I walk out from the class feeling warm and loose. A twisted knot unwound. But as the day goes on and my child throws a tantrum in the YMCA lobby, or I sit in traffic on the highway, or there are no groceries in the house and I need to make dinner, the strings begin to tighten again. I forget all about my virtuous intention. Patience and presence and “please help” are all out the window.

Saint Francis de Sales did have something to say about how to set intentions that stick. His prayer of intention begins: “I offer you all the good I might do,” which sounds a little like the evangelical worship songs of my youth, but then it goes on. “I promise to accept, for the love of you, all the difficulties that I meet.” In a book of his letters, Saint Francis warned against idealism and overeagerness, writing that “violent effort spoils both your heart and the business at hand.”

Living out one’s intentions, according to de Sales, is not about trying really hard or having intense emotions but about embracing reality. Bad traffic is a reality. Small children tend to throw tantrums, and a parent should anticipate that her day will include these things. The daily chores of making meal plans and going grocery shopping are to be anticipated. How can I set an intention that allows me to accept the world as it actually is?

As the Visitation Companions meeting closed, Jody and Sister Suzanne gave each person two books on Salesian spirituality to start reading for the following month. I tucked the books under my arm for the walk home. At the intersection of Fremont and Broadway, I waited for the light to change and took several deep breaths. The bright snowbanks glittered like broken glass.

When I closed my eyes, I could see the red stain: resentment toward Josh for leaving the faith, apathy toward God, cynicism toward church.

What did I really want? Deep down, if I was truly honest, I didn’t want to feel lonely in church or to embrace “spiritual singleness” or manage my kids in the fellowship hall alone. I wanted us to share the same faith again, just as I’m sure Josh wished that I had lost mine with him.

When the light turned green, I crossed the street. “God.” I spoke into the cold as I walked to the other side. “God, help me find a way back to you. Help me feel less alone.” As I spoke the words out loud, I realized I was setting my intention for the year of spiritual formation ahead.