Eric A. Clayton

Award-Winning Writer

The Man Who Liked To Wrestle

by

My grandfather and I used to wrestle.

He’d visit our home in California with my grandmother – a long flight from New Jersey – and enter the room and declare, “Let’s wrestle.” My five-year-old self would giggle and run at him and try to pin this big man to the ground as he scooped me up and kept me dangling in the air.

That was nearly 30 years ago. But that’s how I still see my grandfather: a big guy with a deeply furrowed brow, a belly laugh and an intimidating presence. A man who’d wag his finger at me for not keeping up with the news – me, a nine-year-old! – and who’d lean in eagerly across the table to hear how’d I’d deftly managed coupons to save a few bucks on the latest video game for Nintendo 64.

My daughters don’t know that man; they never will. My grandfather is nearly 93. He doesn’t wrestle anyone anymore; he has a hard enough time getting up and out of his chair. He still has a hearty laugh and a big goofy grin, but those things are rarer and cut by tears and sorrow in the wake of strokes and deaths and the steady march of time.

He’s intimidating still, but not in the same way he used to be – with his furrowed brow and barrel chest and daily newspaper – and it took my eldest daughter a long time to warm up to him. She didn’t want to give him a kiss, give him a hug; she barely wanted to say hello when we’d visit. She’d hide behind me, her eyes cast downward.

This was nearly devastating to me and my grandfather, that my daughter couldn’t see in this man what I still did, couldn’t see her way to just saying hello. I would try and be patient with her, let her lead the way – forced love is a brittle thing to build a relationship on – but still, I’d encourage her: Say hello. Shake his hand. Give him a wave.

And slowly, slowly, that shyness gave way to hellos and then to handshakes and kisses and hugs. And amazingly, this little girl discovered within herself deep expressions of empathy when she saw her great-grandfather rattled by tears and sadness. She’d wander over of her own accord and give him a hug, hold his hand.

And so, this hard-won affection continues to play out at every visit. She still needs a little prodding, but that’s okay. And her sister – two years younger, meaning the advantage of two years of watching and idolizing her big sister – needs no encouragement at all. She hits the ground running – “Poppop! Poppop!” – and gives the man’s leg a big hug, burying her face into his belly.

And that’s another amazing thing.

I think we do this for one another: We show one another how to love. We lead others to love. And, miraculously, we are the vessels through which others are able to love more: more ferociously, powerfully, unquestionably. An intimidated five-year-old grows up to nudge a shy little three-year-old who finds her own way and unknowingly leads a little sister who barrels down that path with a big goofy grin and outstretched arms.

We show the way to love. We walk with others along that path. And we rejoice when they take off running at a full sprint.

Isn’t that what Jesus did? Didn’t God enter our human story and show us how to love? How to love better? Didn’t Jesus love those whom others found intimidating or off-putting or scary? And didn’t his love – his example, his blazing path – open the way for others to wander along and love all the more?

We’re made in the image and likeness of our God who is love. And we each are given the opportunity to help others love a little more, a little better – even greater than we ourselves yet understand.

In The Home Of Ignatius

by

This statue of St. Ignatius greets you at the entrance to Loyola

Somewhere along the Spanish highway, I was asked if I would read at Mass.

“Sure,” I replied. My gaze never left the mountains out my window. I’m no stranger to the lectionary.

After an hour or so, the bus turned into the parking lot and rumbled to a stop. I grabbed my camera and elbowed my way off the bus, following in the footsteps of my fellow pilgrims. My attention was consumed by the basilica that took up quite a bit of Loyola real estate, and my camera lens was pointed in that direction.

I ran all over the place, getting shots of the statue of St. Ignatius that stands guard at the property’s entrance, filming the basilica from every possible angle and taking a few selfies of myself because there had to be some proof that I had in fact visited the birthplace of Ignatius of Loyola.

The basilica, it turns out, is not the main attraction. Ignatius’ home – not just the place of his birth but also the place of his post-cannonball moment convalescence – feels as though it’s been swallowed up by the surrounding church. We walked under great stone arches and then through much simpler wooden doorways and wound our way up the stairs of the Casa de Loyola.

My camera was running the entire time.

And then, all of a sudden, we were in the room. His room. The literal room where it happened, where he was given nothing but books on Christ and the saints, and where God spoke to Ignatius through those stories. Where God invited the wounded Ignatius to consider a different sort of life.

And I couldn’t film the room fast enough! Mass was just about to begin, and people were crowding my shot…

I begrudgingly put my camera away, tucked the equipment under my seat. Be present, I thought.

Because the gravity of the place began to dawn on me; we stood in this essential site of Ignatius’ own story, his own pilgrimage. The very same. And God was there, again, speaking to us. No different than God spoke to Ignatius.

And then suddenly, I was reading Scripture and realizing that I hadn’t fully appreciated the gravitas of the invitation I had been given, to read God’s stories in the room where Ignatius encountered them, experiencing them in a new, significant way.

I was speaking God’s story into that same space. Pilgrims – of a very different era but cut from a very similar cloth – were there to listen.

I’ve read at Mass many times, and yet, this moment was palpably different, important.

How often we get caught in the routine of our lives. How often we move so quickly – focused on our tasks, viewing the world through camera lenses and iPhone screens – that we miss the sacredness of place. We forget to look for hints of the Spirit at work; we forget to appreciate all that the Spirit has done here already.

We forget to remove our sandals and delight in holy ground.

I didn’t have a profound vision or some life-altering insight while at Mass that day. But I was reminded to center myself, to sink deeply into the moment and into the place. To recognize that the same God who worked wonders in the life of Ignatius continues to work wonders in my life, the life of my fellow pilgrims, the life of each one of us.

A sense of place is just one way in which we can connect to that history, in which we can tangibly grasp the communion of saints. There’s a reason the old saying invites us to follow in another’s footsteps: There’s something significant about place and space.

Oh – and that video. Hopefully you’ll find something useful within it below – even if I did fail to film the actual Mass.

God’s Great Composition Is You

by

The Cave-turned-Chapel in Manresa

No one conducts PR campaigns from the recesses of a cave. For one, the internet is terrible. The acoustics are no good and – depending on where you are – you might need to worry about bears.

Fortunately, the cave I was in is now more chapel than cavern. And we weren’t in the part of Spain where bears are much of a concern.

But why worry about PR? My new book, “Cannonball Moments: Telling Your Story, Deepening Your Faith,” launched this week. Was it wise to leave the country with little-to-no access to email in the ten days leading up to publication? From a PR perspective, probably not.

But from a spiritual perspective? Absolutely.

I was on pilgrimage in Spain and Italy, praying at the Ignatian sites with folks from Creighton University in Omaha and Regis University in Denver. We celebrated Mass in the room where Ignatius experienced his conversion, stood before Our Lady of Montserrat – the very place where Ignatius laid down his sword and committed himself to God – and crossed an ancient bridge to sit on the banks of the Cardoner River, in awe and wonder at the mystical experience Ignatius himself had by that same body of water all those many years ago.

And, as you might have guessed, we prayed in the cave near Manresa where we’re told Ignatius wrote – and experienced firsthand – the “Spiritual Exercises.” (Take a look at the photo above.)

The cave itself is more of a rocky overhang; maybe enough shelter to avoid getting soaked in a rainstorm, but hardly what you’d image a cave to be. I wouldn’t call it cavernous. The space is shallow, open to the elements, harsh.

At least, I assume that’s how it was in Ignatius’ time, before it became a cozy first-floor chapel of the Jesuit-run spiritual center.

Regardless, it’s a holy place, a grace-filled place. You run your hands on the cool rock and imagine Ignatius doing the same, imagine him wondering at the vocation he’s now committed himself to living out. It’s a place where you can’t help but come face-to-face with your own vocation, your own life story.

And there, you meet God.

But Fr. Kevin Burke, SJ, who was presiding at Mass on the day in question, reminded us of something else: “This is a place of composition.”

Fr. Burke didn’t want us to forget that Ignatius literally wrote the “Exercises” there, in that place. It was a profound spiritual moment for Ignatius personally. But the work didn’t stop at the personal. It was also a profoundly significant moment of creativity that birthed a crucial piece of spiritual writing from which generations of people the world over have benefitted.

My ears perked up at those words: This is a place of composition. Was I to take something from this place for my own vocation as a writer? After all, that forthcoming publication date was ever-present in my mind. Perhaps.

But as I’ve continued to reflect on those words, something else occurs to me: The word “composition” has more than one meaning. And I wonder what we might learn from spending time sitting with our own composition.

What are we made of, composed of? What are the joys and sorrows that compose our own unique stories? Those experiences and insights and hard-won truths? When we look at our very selves, what is it that we see? What is the stuff of our lives?

After all, Ignatius himself spent not an insignificant amount of time in that cave worrying about his own composition – particularly, where he had fallen short of what he believed God expected of him.

But in the end, in that cave, Ignatius realized an essential truth: his was a God who couldn’t help delighting in all that he was and all that he would yet become.

That’s our God, too. God looks at us – at our composition – and smiles. God sees the intricacies of our stories, the tiny details we ourselves may have forgotten, and invites us back for a closer look. In taking that long, loving gaze at who we are and who we are yet called to become, we glimpse the composition of our lives and see utterly unique stories dripping with God’s grace.

That cave in Manresa is indeed a place of composition. But it’s not the only one. For me, my basement has a lot of those same qualities: poorly lit, cold and where I’ve done hours of writing, rewriting and soul searching. I’ve done the work of composition but – perhaps more importantly – recognized the work of composition that I already am. And therein we find God smiling.

Where might you find a place of composition? Where might you encounter our God who is delighting in you, God’s own great composition? And what, in your story, are you called to share as a result?

(And if you’re interested in learning more about my book, “Cannonball Moments: Telling Your Story, Deepening Your Faith,” you can do so here.)

Get A Shirt That Fits

by

A literal layer of dust has piled up on the dress shoes in my closet as a result of the many months of pandemic casual, and my hangers are full of clothing I don’t remember buying. Aside from the half dozen flannel shirts I’ve been dutifully rotating through, I’ve had very few opportunities to wear anything with a collar for nearly two years.


That’s why the shirt was just a little tighter and a little shorter than I remembered – a byproduct of the pandemic, no doubt. And a less-than-meticulous observing of the wash instructions, too.


But it was too late. My youngest daughter and I were accompanying my parents to a baby shower, and we were several states away from our Baltimore home. We were staying at a relative’s house. My luggage was filled with diapers and dresses, milk bottles and Daniel Tiger books. I’d committed most of my mental energy to remembering the giraffe pacifier and well-worn, not-quite-white-anymore stuffed bunny rather than worry about trying on my own clothes.


“What do you think?” I pulled at the tails of my shirt, trying to get them past my belt. “Look alright?” One eye on my daughter running around the kitchen, the other assessing my mother’s reaction to my not-quite-perfectly-fitted outfit.


“You look nice,” she said.


“Shirt’s not too small?”


“It’s a little short,” she replied, not missing a beat.


I scowled, tugging at the shirt again, grabbing the toddler before the chair fell on top of her. “I think it’s fine.”


“It’s fine,” my mom agreed. “Just a little short.” Then, a shrug: “You asked.”


But that’s not the answer I wanted.


At the risk of comparing my mother to God, how often do we approach our prayer life in this same way? We know the things that are weighing us down, distracting us, tempting us to take up habits and practices we’d do well to avoid. Like an ill-fitting shirt, we tug and pull and pretend it’s all okay – even when we know it’s not.

And we turn to God in prayer, hoping to get an answer we know we don’t deserve, justification for something we know we should change. Remember: Jesus says, “I am the way and the truth and the life.” (Jn 14:6). He doesn’t say, “Come to me, all you who desire easy answers.”

What is it about your life that’s ill-fitting and causing you spiritual discomfort? Perhaps it’s time to try on a new way of living: a new habit, spiritual practice or renewed self-discipline. Lent is just around the corner – and the Holy Spirit will keep nudging until you do.

But there’s one more thing that’s particularly illustrative here, and I don’t want us to miss it. At the risk of comparing my mother to God again, you’ll note my parents didn’t send me home or force me to sit the baby shower out. My mom said, “You look nice” – and she’d meant it.

No matter our spiritually ill-fitting shirt, God still delights in us, still loves us, still gazes upon us and says, “You look great.” But God doesn’t leave us there. God sees the person we may yet become and invites us to take up that challenge.

Leave those old clothes behind, God says. I’ve got something that will fit you perfectly.