The Deep End

One of the hardest lessons I had to learn in life was that not everyone encounters God the same way I did.

When I first experienced a deeper relationship with Christ, it felt like light bursting through every crack of my being. Everything became alive — Scripture, silence, beauty, suffering, mercy, art, even ordinary moments. I wanted everyone around me to feel that same depth, that same fire.

And therein lay one of my greatest shortcomings.

I could not speak casually about faith.
Every conversation drifted toward the deep end.

I wanted people to feel what I felt.
To understand what I understood.
To awaken immediately.

What I did not yet understand was that every soul unfolds differently.

Some people first encounter God through doctrine.
Others through suffering.
Others through beauty.
Others through silence.
Some through ritual and tradition.
Some through kindness.
Some through years of wandering before finally turning toward the light.

And many are simply not ready to dive into the depths all at once.

Years ago, I taught RCIA for new Catholics entering the Church. At the time, I found myself frustrated teaching what felt to me like “basic” foundations of the Catholic faith. I wanted to move beyond structure and into spiritual depth. I wanted them to grasp the mystical reality behind the teachings immediately.

But eventually I realized something humbling:
they were babes in Christ.

Before depth comes foundation.
Before contemplation comes trust.
Before the ocean comes the first small step into the water.

I began to recognize my own impatience — and yes, even my own arrogance.

That realization changed me.

Over time, I learned that light does not always need to burst outward with intensity. Sometimes it shines more beautifully through gentleness, restraint, listening, and presence.

I still feel the enthusiasm.
I still feel the desire to share beauty, hope, and the reality of God working quietly through our lives.

But now I try to listen more carefully.
To discern.
To meet people where they are rather than where I want them to be.

Recently, a colleague watched some of my creative videos and asked if I had written them myself. Immediately, I felt that familiar excitement rise within me — the desire to share the deeper spiritual source behind everything I create.

But this time I paused.

She was Muslim, and out of respect for her beliefs, I simply told her my work celebrates God and light without forcing language or theology she may not share. It was not compromise. It was understanding.

There is wisdom in learning that truth does not need to overpower people to be real.

Ironically, I think this same lesson now shapes how I approach technology and creativity as well.

Many people debate AI as though it were simply about shortcuts or authenticity. But I have come to see it as a tool — much like a brush in Chinese watercolor painting. The brush itself creates nothing meaningful. It takes time to understand the balance of water, pressure, movement, restraint, and flow.

Likewise, AI reflects the intention of the person using it.

Used superficially, it produces superficial things.
Used thoughtfully, reflectively, prayerfully even, it can become part of a creative dialogue.

My poems, books, music, and reflections do not emerge from nowhere. They grow from years of conversations, experiences, failures, spiritual searching, motherhood, teaching, silence, mistakes, and self-examination. AI simply helps me shape, refine, and explore those thoughts more fluidly.

In many ways, this entire journey has taught me one recurring lesson:
growth often begins the moment we recognize our own limitations.

Not to condemn ourselves —
but to soften.

To become more human.
More patient.
More aware.

Perhaps true wisdom is not found in dragging everyone into the deep end with us.

Perhaps wisdom is learning how to walk beside people gently as they discover the water for themselves.