Month: July 2021

Spirituality, Writing

Cover Reveal

Christine Eberle

Saturday is the Feast of St. Ignatius Loyola—two years from the day that I stepped down from a twenty-six-year campus ministry career to pursue a freelance existence.  As the second anniversary of my “third act” approaches, I’m delighted to announce that my next book, Finding God Abiding, will be coming into the world on June 7, 2022, courtesy of Woodhall Press.  Here’s the cover, designed by the very talented Asha Hossain.

Cover of Finding God Abiding: An image of two poppies and the book title

So much thought and work go into cover design; that’s what the rest of this post is about.  If you’re intrigued, read on! 

Asha had an unenviable task: design a cover that would be “just like the first book, only different.”  In other words, make it clear that this is a companion volume to Finding God in Ordinary Time, yet offering fresh bread.  Here’s a peek at the thought process (to which many of you contributed via Facebook and Instagram this week):

The Background

Did you even notice the background?  It’s not just white; it’s a woven texture, alluding to one of my overarching themes: life as a tapestry.  In “A God Who Abides,” I wrote:

“The stories in this book are organized around four actions that run like threads through the tapestry of our lives: perceiving, becoming, embracing, and releasing. We awaken to the world around us, discover and rediscover our path, practice love in its many forms, and grieve the loss of much that we hold dear. These movements are neither sequential nor singular; we go back and forth like a weaver, creating a unique tapestry on the loom that is our life.”

The woven background is such a subtle detail; it may never register in the reader’s conscious mind, but it adds to the overall impression.

The Poppies

On the cover of Finding God in Ordinary Time, the hummingbird is what people really remember.  For this book, we wanted something equally memorable.  I shared with Asha a paragraph from my chapter “Finding God in a Fire Siren” and suggested she might find inspiration there.  A few days later, I emailed her back to say, “Or poppies!  I love poppies!  If you find good image, I can always change the language.”  And that’s what happened. Since then, I have given a lot of thought to the significance of poppies, and have a whole pastoral reflection to share, but that will keep for another day.

The Colors

The red and the green were obvious, to match the poppy flowers and stems. But red + green = Christmas, and red + green + white = the Italian flag. Not that I don’t love Christmas and Italy, but neither is what I was going for. When Asha introduced purple for the way it balanced the other colors, my mind went straight to the liturgical year: green for Ordinary Time, purple for Advent and Lent, white for Christmas and Easter, and red for Palm Sunday, Good Friday, and all those martyrs’ feast days. My book traces God’s abiding presence through the joys and travails of our life; how appropriate to have a nod to the whole sweep of the liturgical year–birth, death, resurrection, and everything in between–right there on the cover.

The Fonts 

Oh, my goodness.  Most of it was easy; “Finding God” and “Daily Meditations” are in the same fonts as we used for Ordinary Time (Trajan Pro and Minion Pro, for the curious).  To convey a sense of freshness, Asha presented a choice of fun script fonts for the word Abiding.  I wasn’t crazy about either one, but they arrived as I was about to take a walk with my friend Rose—who can always be counted on for an opinion—so I printed out the samples and headed out the door.  After much discussion (and a three-mile hoof, and some wine), Rose said “You have nice handwriting.  Why don’t you write it yourself?”  This was SUCH an Enneagram One thing to say, and to agree to—one of the many reasons Rose and I get along. Three sharpies and almost two hundred attempts later, we had a winner.

But still, I wasn’t sure.  I asked Asha to show me what the cover would look like if the whole title was in the same typed font, and it looked BEAUTIFUL.  Elegant.  Dignified.  What if I used my own handwriting, then regretted the decision?  What if I put that little bit of myself out there, and it made me cringe every time I saw the book?

Can you see where this is headed? 

If I’m worried about putting too much of myself out there . . . if I’m afraid of letting people see my messy edges and imperfections . . . well then, frankly, I should be writing some other sort of books.  Science fiction, perhaps.  A Brief History of Mathematics. Bicycle manuals.

The comment that gave me enough courage to move forward with the handwritten Abiding was from my friend Emilie, who wrote this beautiful observation: “The handwriting provides a suggestion of something personal within.”  Indeed, it should.  Finding God Abiding includes chapters on everything from body image to the clergy scandal, from feeling broke to not being able to stop crying. (Also nicer stuff.)

If I can be brave about all that, surely, I can write my own name on the cover.

Now, back to editing the manuscript . . . deadline, September 1st!

Retreats, Spirituality

How Do We Say Goodbye?

Christine Eberle

The Jesuit Center for Spiritual Growth in Wernersville, PA is closing its doors next month. For those of us who have been formed and sustained by this holy place, the closure is cause for weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. Can there also be peace, gratitude and acceptance?

Here’s the reflection I wrote on my final morning there . . .

Photo of a rocking chair at sunrise.
My favorite chair in my favorite spot at my favorite time of day: the east cloister walk at sunrise.

June 4, 2021

How do we say goodbye to Wernersville?

For those of us who have been touched and formed by our time at the Jesuit Center—and we number in the thousands—this is not a rhetorical question. August 15th approaches. Waiting lists overflow for every remaining retreat, as people try to get here one last time, each making a personal pilgrimage to our various holy places.

This spring, I’ve been fortunate to offer a program at the Center during four consecutive weeks, giving me ample opportunity to wander the house and meander the grounds. Having made my first retreat at Wernersville as a college student 34 years ago, I find these walkabouts rich with memory. Yet, each step is accompanied by a quiet drumbeat, painfully echoing, it’s the last time . . . the last time . . . the last morning watching the sunrise from the east garden . . . the last walk to the fishpond . . . the last evening curled up in a library nook . . . the last bedtime prayer in the chapel balcony . . . the last contemplation punctuated by a train whistle, urgent as the voice of God. It is excruciating. How do we say goodbye?

One retreatant had an idea. Upon arrival, Elaine announced that, on behalf of friends at a distance unable to make a final visit, she’d be taking home a bag of soil from the property. In the good earth of Wernersville—even transplanted to flowerpots in distant locations—life would continue to flourish. She was sure of it.

Elaine’s idea had solid scriptural roots. In the second book of Kings, we meet Naaman the Syrian, a military commander with leprosy who travels to visit the prophet Elisha at the suggestion of a captive Israelite servant girl. Elisha sends word that Naaman should plunge himself seven times in the river Jordan. Initially put off by the command—such an ordinary act, such an unimpressive river—Naaman relents, goes for a sevenfold dip, and emerges from the water both healed and converted. “Now I know that there is no God in all the earth, except in Israel,” he says. “Please let me have two mule-loads of earth, for your servant will no longer make burnt offerings or sacrifices to any other god except the LORD” (2 Kings 5:15, 17).

Until I started trying to figure out how to say goodbye to Wernersville, Naaman’s request made me chuckle. Having figured out that there was only one God, why wouldn’t he also realize that he could worship that God anywhere—that he didn’t need special dirt to stand on? Scripture commentary notes that Naaman was suffering from “a common ancient misconception that linked and limited a deity to a particular territory.” Ah, yes. Poor Naaman. An ancient misconception.

And yet . . .

Sometimes the dirt matters. As I have been listening to countless people grieving the impending loss of the Jesuit Center, the stories they tell are about such particular spots. This tree. That vista. This corner of the garden. That angle of light in the Holy Spirit chapel. God has been very real for us here, and the house carries the weight of those experiences in its bones.

Praying in the east cloister walk recently, I said to God, “This is the place where I learned to encounter You.” I was thinking of my first retreat, where I had a powerful introduction to imaginative prayer, but also of the many subsequent retreats where God continued to show up in reliably surprising ways. What came to me immediately was this: Please remember that the important word in that sentence is “You,” not “place.”

Oh. Right. Yes.

The holiness of this place—this thin place, where the saints and beloved of God have walked and prayed and wept and laughed for nine decades—has facilitated our encounter with the Divine. But what happened inside these gates always has been for the good of the world beyond them, as generations of Jesuits, spiritual directors, and retreatants have carried that living relationship wherever we went. God has been the one doing the work, and God is everywhere—firmly linked to this place, but never limited to it.

Losing our locus of effortless encounter is painful. But everything important is already on the inside—of each of us. To ease the transition, perhaps we could return to that image of Naaman’s mule-loads of earth. What do we need to take with us, that we may know how to encounter God elsewhere?

More simply: What’s in your mule cart?

I don’t mean the question literally (though coffee cans of dirt might start disappearing, I know). Rather, I’d suggest, this is a propitious time to do an inventory. What are you really taking with you? What’s already inside? What are the gifts of your history here? What insights, what healings, what conversations and conversions, what discovered freedoms or renewed commitments are yours because of this place? What relationships abide, unbound by these walls? All these things are firmly packed in your metaphorical mule-cart.

I am writing this from a comfortable recliner in a third-floor bedroom on the main corridor, looking out over the Grove and Hain’s cemetery beyond. I’m pretty sure I just woke up here for the last time. In a few minutes, I will close my laptop, zip my suitcase, and stand in the doorway trying to absorb as much as I can before I depart for good. I wish I could bottle the smell, mysteriously unchanging over the years.

How do Isay goodbye? With a full heart. Grateful, grateful, grateful to have had this place for such a long time. Thankful for the Ignatian education I received here: a 34-year practicum in the movements of the Spirit. Remembering these words of the First Principle and Foundation: Everything has the potential of calling forth in me a deeper response to my life in God.

Even this?

Even this.

Amen.