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.)

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.