The Public Square of Spiritual Companionship
February 2026 Volume 35.1
Unexpected Grace:
Spiritual Accompaniment at the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering
By Elizabeth Guss
When I became a spiritual director and joined Spiritual Directors International (SDI), I looked forward to both accompanying others and continuing to learn. For more than twenty-five years, books, conferences, webinars, presentations, conversations with peers, and women’s circles have provided me with wonderful insights and awareness. Yet, at an unexpected event, God surprised me delightfully, revealing another expression of spiritual accompaniment.
The National Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Elko, Nevada, U.S.A. was originally organized by folklorists to honor the cultural tradition of cowboy poetry. There, through nineteen visits, I “caught” a culture of everyday, supportive, affirming interactions, the kind that can lead to quiet transformations in our lives. Besides fostering the deeper questions of meaning and engagement with life that propels much poetry, the Gathering helped me to become a better spiritual director—though it would be a while before I realized that.
From my first visit in 1995, I saw people from many different backgrounds connecting through love of land, horses, and poetry in the form of both in verse and song. That year, the Gathering honored indigenous cowboys and their wisdom—practical, spiritual, and relational. A celebrated Russian poet also enlarged the image of respectful living on the land through his poems and animated recitation. Goodness, patience, and humor were everywhere. Life’s vagaries were on full display—recited, sung, and talked about with a mixture of acceptance and stubbornness. I was smitten, and I thought it was just the great storytelling and wonderful music.
Some years later, as a new spiritual director, I began to notice how the Gathering holds space to explore what being fully alive means. Reflecting on events and experiences is central to the poetic journey. As poets recite their art, the audience can share in these human journeys toward meaning, brilliant storytelling and much, much more.
“The Gathering experience is a liminal space; its pace invites reflection, reverence, and openness to experiences of the transcendent.”
Beginnings and Continuings
The distinctive form of cowboy poetry dates to cattle drives in the 1870s. According to folklorist Hal Cannon, an originator of the Gathering, “The trail was like a petri dish for growing a new culture. It brought together diverse strains of life: former slaves, Civil War veterans, Mexican vaqueros, Indian cowboys. They spoke in verse about the harrowing experiences they shared” (Sloat, 2021). Around campfires, a distinctive poetic form developed, one that included an ironic, unexpected closeness.
One hundred years later, as few people worked in agriculture, folklorists wondered if the culture itself was endangered. With funding from the National Endowment for the Arts, folklorists searched for remnants of cowboy poetry. They found the genre alive and well and proposed a competition in Elko. Poets resisted. A rancher and poet from Montana said, “Getting together would be more fun. A competition would yield one winner. Why couldn’t we all be winners?” (Sloat, 2021). The gathering developed from there.
The Gathering has continued for forty years, organized by the Western Folklife Center. By nesting poetry within the larger topic of folklife, the stage enlarged to showcase other horse-based cultures and poetic traditions such as Hawai’ian, Mexican, Irish, Paraguayan and Italian buffalo cowboys and fisher poets. Today’s merging of conference and festival provides place for entertainment, conversation, learning, and renewal—some of it definitely spiritual.
For years, I went annually with my husband and son. Friends joined us. A move, new jobs, and the pandemic kept us away for a decade. In 2025 we brought new friends to the fortieth Annual Gathering. That long break gave me a fresh, crystal-clear view to see what had always been there.
Immersion into Grace: More than Entertainment and Traditions
Grace means many things: elegance in movement, compassion, courteous goodwill, prayer, gentle charm, and more. Its Latin origin reflects something pleasing and a sense of thankfulness. Most of us view grace, gracefulness, and graciousness positively. My favorite definition of grace comes from the twentieth century Catholic theologian, Karl Rahner, SJ, who called grace “God’s self-communication.” Developing this idea, he spoke about the ever-present Holy Spirit and that we humans experience the transcendent in the very unfolding of our lives (22-25).
As surprising as it may sound, Western Folklife culture itself fosters this grace. The culture comes out of a long and complicated history with a distinctive persona and a harsh shadow side. Over generations, a mythology has developed around the western cowboy that is mostly caricature, distant from the lived reality on ranches. By contrast, the Gathering features real, principled people (usually working ranchers) dealing with challenges and joy, asking questions of meaning and mindfulness. The Gathering experience is a liminal space; its pace invites reflection, reverence, and openness to experiences of the transcendent.
This presence of the Holy Spirit anonymously caught my attention at that first Gathering. Stories poetically wove together kindness, playfulness, hospitality, tragedy and acceptance into a distinctive beauty that spoke to me at a soul level. Over subsequent visits, I have seen how it embraces visitors and performers, fostering joy, patience, and possibilities. Divine breath fills the space. People seem really present to one another, something I often recognize now as an experienced spiritual companion.
I call the Gathering an “immersion in grace” because the Holy Spirit is as evident as in traditional accompaniment environments. Manifestations of grace that I see are gratitude, reverence, awe, community, and enthusiasm. These attributes fill the festival with light and life far beyond the wonderful storytelling.
“Where and how do we wake up and see the amazing world around us and delight in it?”
Gratitude
Working on the land cultivates gratitude. So much is out of a rancher’s control. There is a strong sense of everything as gift. Tender, poetic stories express appreciation for good weather, helpful friends, healing from injury, a far-off light in a blizzard, and good prices at the market. Despite difficulties, people find gifts of opportunity almost everywhere and radiate joy.
Brother David Steindl-Rast, OSB offers the insight that, “Grateful living provides an ingeniously simple gateway to living fully and joyfully. Better than anything else, it can help us find our orientation—and find it again every time we lose it” (87).
Reverence
What does reverence look like at the Gathering? On my third visit, I attended a one-man performance titled “The Last Cowboy.” R. W. Hampton brought to life the tender reminiscing of an aging cowboy decades into the future. Songs and commentary expressed his deep grief at precious natural resources lost to “progress.” In these whisperings of his heart, he wept silently for how the land he loves is mistreated and not valued for itself. I began to see my own relationship with the elegant, intricate, and interconnected world through new eyes.
Poets and presenters love the land. They describe their work as a relationship based in the connection they feel to the land and one another. Not sticky and romantic, but down-to-earth; their lives depend on their attitudes and good decisions. They take work seriously and themselves lightly. They are curious, continually learning to do better.
Poetic reverence journeys toward “right relationship,” a component of the Noble Eightfold Path in Buddhism and common goal in spiritual accompaniment. In the poem, “Shoes,” Paul Zarzyski grapples with the horror of the Holocaust and closes with the image of a “frozen baby bootee on the ground at Wounded Knee” (53). “The Cattleman’s Prayer” by Jo Beckstead asks God for help to care for land and cattle respectfully in “the vastness of Your plan” (Bennett, 154).
Awe
Where and how do we wake up and see the amazing world around us and delight in it? What sparks awareness that illuminates the sacrament of the present moment and fosters grateful living? With noticing that leads to wonder. Mary Oliver tells us how in seven words through her poem, “Sometimes”:
Pay Attention.
Be Astonished.
Tell about it.
In 2025, I heard rancher and poet Darrell Holden reflect on a nighttime ride back home. His horse carefully navigated the uneven trail, leaving Holden to be with the stars and the quiet and the wonder of life. The tone of both the poem and Holden’s tender recitation is best described as beholding—witnessing the Divine. While ranching life has many demands and requires attention, there is open time and space to notice. Sometimes, it is daydreaming, sometimes it is evening dreaming.
In poems like “Reincarnation” (Cannon, 185) and “Cowboy Courtin’ Time” (Bennett, 148), elders Wallace McRae and Elizabeth Ebert share life wisdom kindly and playfully. In “Coyote Song,” Linda Hasselstrom offers insight to nature’s systems and what survival means (Bennett, 112).
Mongolians attended one Gathering—throat singers, horsehead fiddle music, and conversations about land renewal stretched our souls and minds beautifully. In the musical finale at the end of the Gathering, performers and teachers led the international audience in singing “Home on the Range.” I was not alone in gentle weeping, moved and with a primal awareness of the Presence embracing us in our common humanity.
Community
In his 1987 book, The Different Drum: Community Making and Peace, Scott Peck, MD, describes community as a safe place where you are accepted as you are and free to become your whole and holy self (68). As social creatures, we shape the places where we live and work into places where we dream—individually and collectively. Gathering stories chronicles how, through everyday tasks and activities, people help, comfort, and strengthen one another.
In 2004, Judy Blunt shared stories from her memoir Breaking Clean. She described a terrifying nighttime drive along an unlit country road to take her desperately ill toddler to the hospital. Melted Spring snow spread thick ribbons of slippery mud on the road making the drive treacherous. In the distance she saw faint lights, cutting through the darkness just enough to help them navigate and stay out of the mud. Approaching, she saw her neighbors’ truck at his driveway’s edge of the rural highway, headlights on full beam. The lights blinked once, like a nod. Over the next miles, each neighbor waited at highway edge, each with headlights on high beam, literally lighting her way (Blunt, 246). A safer place.
Enthusiasm
The etymology of enthusiasm consists of two Greek words, en and theos—together, the spirit of God within. More than engagement or excitement, we know and love it when we see it. Can our enthusiasm be one way that God appears?
Enthusiastic joyfulness abounds at the Gathering. Living gratefully. Caring for community, each other, and the land. Accepting what is. Laughing easily, often ironically, at the shared human condition. Persevering through adversity. Safeguarding the sanctity of one’s word.
And like seeds scattered by wind and birds, this joyfulness spreads.
Hundreds of ticketholders wait patiently in many lines. Smiling and chatting. Finding and making connections. Affirming others. Not a standard conference where rushing and self-importance change the room’s energy. Something significant is happening, more than entertainment.
Could it be the transcendent? Maybe with a Capital T? An invitation to a new way of thinking and speaking and interacting? Is sacred breath, the ruach blowing gently around and through those who go? Does this spirit go home with the audience and sow seeds of change?
Namaste to Folklife Grace
Storytelling and song. Heartache and humor. Courage and comedy. A place celebrating how people are present to each other, move forward together, strengthen relationships, and foster joy and hope.
Personally, the Gathering has informed and strengthened how I accompany others. Workshops and classes share spiritual lessons in unexpected costume. Rawhide braiding works when we work with nature’s timing. Poetry writing trusts the silence to let the right word or insight emerge. Heritage cooking shares how food traditions can nurture the whole person with flavor, love, and strength. Land renewal panels present science and tradition partnering together toward a more effective relationship with earth and one another.
The beautiful, ironic twist at poetry end reminds me how seriousness and humor walk hand-in-hand as we encounter life. Humor often helps us find the path through challenges to a calmer, more restful place. Above all else, the Gathering shows me how accompaniment happens quietly and effectively in our ordinary, everyday lives. The grace of this Gathering found me. I am grateful and joyful.
References
Bennett, Virginia, ed. Cowgirl Poetry: One Hundred Years of Ridin’ and Rhymin’. Gibbs Smith, 2001.
Blunt, Judy. Breaking Clean. Vintage Books, 2002.
Cannon, Hal, ed. New Cowboy Poetry: A Contemporary Gathering. Gibbs-Smith, 1990.
Oliver, Mary. “Sometimes.” Read a Little Poetry, September 10, 2014. https://readalittlepoetry.com/2014/09/10/sometimes-by-mary-oliver/.
Peck, M Scott, MD. The Different Drum: Community Making and Peace. Touchstone Books, 1987.
Rahner, Karl. Faith in a Wintry Season: Conversations and Interviews with Karl Rahner in the Last Years of His Life. Crossroad Publishing, 1991.
Steindl-Rast, Brother David, OSB. You Are Here: Keywords for Life Explorers. 2023. Orbis Books.
Sloat, Sarah. “Cowboy Poetry: A 150-Year Tradition Survives in the 21st Century.” National Geographic, September 29, 2021. https://www.nationalgeographic.com/history/article/cowboy-poetry-150-year-tradition-survive-21-century.
Zarzyski, Paul. Wolf Tracks on the Welcome Mat. Oreana Books, 2003.
Elizabeth Guss, MA
completed her training at the Mercy Center in Burlingame, California in 1999 and has companioned people ever since. An active and free-thinking Catholic, she is now retired after an eclectic professional career. She and her husband live on beautiful Whidbey Island, Washington, U.S.A. where they see Bald Eagles, Great Blue Herons, and goldfinches regularly. Contact her at: [email protected]
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Spiritual Companioning with Boundlessness
By Andre Van Zijl
artwork by Andre Van Zijl
Balancing on the Head of a Pin
As spiritual directors, we live at the nexus between our own unfolding spiritual journey and the sacred work of holding space for another. The depth we discover within ourselves—often through silence, paradox, or the simple gift of awareness—becomes the depth we invite our spiritual directees to stand under as well. Our practice is always a weaving of the interpersonal and the intrapersonal, of our own self-awareness with the tender gift of presence offered to another.
It is about awareness.
Awareness of the paradox of infinite being, appearing in finite form.
There comes a moment on the path—not marked by fireworks or visions, but by a hush—when we begin to sense that the boundary between the personal and the infinite was always an illusion. The self we have so earnestly defended, curated, and mourned is not dissolved, but made translucent. It still speaks, still aches, still forgets, but it is no longer the whole story. This is a meditation on the impossibility and the beauty of being both nothing and everything. Infinity—unconditioned, undivided, vast beyond measure—pours itself into the specificity of each of us. And this is not a contradiction, but a miracle.
To balance on the head of a pin is to rest in the still point where the impersonal and personal touch. Where the “me” dissolves without being destroyed, and the “we” of all creation moves through a hand extended, a breath shared, a listening glance. For spiritual directors, this is where our ministry takes place. The messy, ordinary, relational world is not an obstacle to God but God in costume—stretching toward us in every encounter. The “I” is not erased—it is revealed as a wave on the surface of the great sea. The personal becomes the portal. The infinite becomes intimacy. Even the act of taking things personally, when held with awareness, becomes part of the holy dance.
As companions, we learn that our physicality does not define our being, nor does it deny our embodied experience; but rather, it affirms the wondrous singularity of our perspective, which is one window among many in the mansion of God’s heaven-and-earth. Being spirit—an energy of unbounded love—we become portals through which the Infinite meets the finite, and through which our spiritual directees are reminded of their belonging.
artwork by Andre Van Zijl
In contemplative spiritual direction practice, this awareness carries practical consequence. When a spiritual companion brings grief, frustration, or longing, we listen not only to the personal story but also for the shimmering translucence of the Infinite within it. We know that every narrative, no matter how messy, participates in the ALL. Time and eternity are enmeshed. Matter and spirit are not rivals, but twin aspects of a single whole. Our listening becomes a sacrament in which both are honored. The ego naturally insists on the personal as the measure of meaning. As spiritual directors, we notice this both in ourselves and in those we companion. And yet, when we rest into the vastness of awareness, we find that the stories we cling to are waves dissolving even as they crest. What remains is not the annihilation of the self but an embracing of the whole.
The miracle is that every localized detail—a child’s cry, a spouse’s tender touch, a bird’s call, a chance encounter—is both utterly particular and utterly universal. In spiritual direction, even the smallest disclosure carries the fragrance of boundlessness. When we attune to this, we invite sympathetic resonance in those we accompany. We need not explain it; our quiet presence embodies it. To settle into this unbounded awareness, we might guide ourselves and our directees with a simple remembering:
Stop.
Breathe.
Acknowledge.
This.
Moment.
Now.
There.
Is.
Nothing.
Else.
In this active presencing, the gift of spontaneous joy often arises—not as a technique, but as grace. In spiritual direction, such joy is not separate from suffering or struggle. It coexists. We do not bypass pain; but rather, we hold it in a space wide enough to reveal its participation in the Infinite. When the “me” loosens, even for a moment, we taste the freedom of essential being, neither for or against, but tenderly present. This is not neutrality but vast inner spaciousness. It is wholeness without parts, and yet a celebration of every singular part. It is a symphony of gratitude for what is.
How can trees be separated from the air we breathe?
How can the uniqueness of a spiritual directee’s story be separated from the cosmic story?
How can your being and mine be anything but expressions of the same boundlessness?
I AM that boundlessness appearing in time.
YOU ARE that boundlessness appearing in time.
THAT is all this.
I AM because YOU ARE.
Rev. Andre van Zijl
is a cofounder and codirector of All Paths Divinity School, an online interfaith seminary promoting and nurturing sacred community through the arts. He is a spiritually inspired, award-winning artist, poet, published author, and non-dual philosophy teacher. Andre is also the founder and director of Van Zijl Art and Design Studios. He can be reached at [email protected].
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Listening to the Longing: What Volunteers Teach Us About Spiritual Direction
By Tandi Rogers
Over the past three years, the Spiritual Direction Formation & Certification program at Meadville Lombard Theological School has invited volunteers to serve as practicum partners for student spiritual directors. Each invitation has been met with abundant and generous responses. The responses alone speak volumes, suggesting that these individuals are hungry for spaces of deep listening, reflection, and spiritual companionship.
As part of the matching process, volunteers shared their hopes, expectations, and current practices. More than eighty responses later, a pattern emerged. Taken together, these voices offer a vivid glimpse into the spiritual longings of our time and the qualities of spiritual direction that feel most life-giving. These highlights not only inform how we train our students, but they also give us insight into what seekers in our communities are yearning for right now. Spiritual direction is not an abstract discipline, it is a living practice that takes shape through the questions, desires, and commitments of those who come to it.
Expectations of Spiritual Direction
When asked what they expected from spiritual direction, volunteers responded with striking clarity and consistency. The most repeated word was “companion.” They said they longed for someone to journey with them, to listen deeply, to hold sacred space, and to reflect back the presence of the divine in their lives. They reported a desire for a relationship that is authentic and trustworthy, grounded in empathy and respect.
Beyond companionship, they named a desire for reflection and discernment. Many say they hope for a dedicated space to wrestle with questions of faith, ministry, and vocation. Others want guidance in cultivating spiritual practices or help discerning purpose during times of transition. There is also a strong current of curiosity. Participants are seeking a container where they can ask hard questions, explore past religious experiences, and experiment with new expressions of faith. This is not a passive curiosity but an active yearning for exploration, often accompanied by a willingness to be stretched.
Accountability was another theme. Several volunteers noted that they hope spiritual direction will help them establish or sustain practices that bring them life. For them, the gentle presence of a director is also a reminder to set aside time for prayer, reflection, or whatever grounds their spirit. And of course, some respondents named uncertainty. A few came without expectations at all, saying simply that they were open to what might happen. Others confessed that they did not know what to expect because they were new to spiritual direction. This openness itself is a spiritual posture, a willingness to be surprised.
Finally, many tied their expectations to professional identity. Ministers, chaplains, and lay leaders reported the need for a place to reflect on their work, process trauma, and discern how spirituality informs leadership. For them, spiritual direction is not just personal support but a resource for vocational resilience. These responses reveal a shared vision of spiritual direction as a relational, reflective, and spacious process. Some come with clear goals, others with curiosity, but all trust that something sacred will unfold in the presence of a benevolent witness.
Why Now?
The question of timing often reveals the deeper context. Volunteers were asked why they were seeking spiritual direction at this moment. Many discussed ministerial and vocational formation. Seminarians, ministers, and candidates for ordination described spiritual direction as vital support while navigating demanding processes. Some noted that spiritual direction had been recommended or required, but many framed it as essential for staying spiritually grounded amid ministry preparation.
Others came in seasons of transition or upheaval. Some were beginning new ministries, others were facing divorce, illness, or significant life changes. Several mentioned aging, entering new decades of life, or grieving losses that reshaped their sense of self. One poignant response simply said, “life is lifing”—a reminder that spiritual direction often becomes necessary when the ordinary overwhelms.
"Spiritual direction remains a ministry of presence. It is what we all long for and what our world needs."
There was also a deep hunger for grounding and growth. Many described feeling unmoored or disconnected from spiritual practices, and hoped spiritual direction would help them reconnect. Some used words like “jump start” or “re-engage” to intimate what they were seeking. Several participants asked for companionship through hard times. A few described feeling overwhelmed, lost, or inadequate, hoping a spiritual director could offer presence and perspective. Others named grief, health struggles, or vocational discernment as moments when spiritual direction felt especially needed.
Not everyone was in crisis or transition. Again, some simply came with curiosity, wanting to learn more about spiritual direction, or to complement psychotherapy with a spiritual practice. Others identified as seekers by nature, open to whatever might be revealed.
Across all these responses, the thread is clear. People are drawn to spiritual direction when they are in seasons of transition, formation, or discernment. They recognize the need for grounding and companionship, whether their lives feel unsettled or full of possibility.
Current Spiritual Practices
When asked about current spiritual practices, volunteers revealed a wide and creative range. Prayer and meditation were the most common, though often with notes about struggling to be consistent. Many described their desire for more depth and discipline. Nature-based practices were also frequently named—walking, hiking, gardening, and time near mountains or oceans are some examples. Some follow the Celtic wheel of the year, others tend altars, and many mentioned noticing daily moments of awe.
Creative and embodied practices were abundant. Participants listed singing, dancing, yoga, qigong, tattoos as sacred marking, poetry, journaling, and artmaking. For some, these were occasional outlets, for others they were the heart of their spiritual life.
Communal and ritual life also featured prominently. Many attend congregation-based worship services, while others participate in covens, ancestor rituals, or Christian prayer groups. Some described family practices, such as evening prayer with children or shared Bible study with a partner.
Mystical and divinatory practices also appeared. Tarot, astrology, rune stones, crystals, energy work, lectio divina, and mystical reading were all mentioned. These practices often coexisted with traditional worship and prayer.
Finally, several participants named activism, community care, and justice as spiritual practices. Others pointed to everyday acts like morning coffee, parenting, or gratitude Fridays as ways of grounding themselves in Spirit. Overall, what emerges is a portrait of spirituality that is eclectic, embodied, and relational. Traditional disciplines blend with creative and justice-oriented practices, all woven into daily life.
What Makes Direction a Good Experience
When asked what would make the practicum a good experience, volunteers again returned to the theme of authentic connection. Trust, rapport, and a sense of safety were described as essential. Our survey revealed that participants want directors who are good listeners, who ask insightful questions, and who reflect truth back with compassion. Several asked for directors who would not simply sit silently but would offer thoughtful feedback. Many hoped for directors who could lovingly challenge them into growth.
From this effort, it seems safety and inclusion are also vital. Respondents with histories of religious trauma stressed the need for a nonjudgmental space. Others asked for spiritual directors who are queer or trans, or who share some of their identities. Nearly all emphasized that anti-oppressive practice was important for creating trust. Consistency and structure were also named, with some asking for regular meetings, organized scheduling, and structured questions. Others preferred openness and less emphasis on assignments, but all valued reliability.
Finally, volunteers expressed appreciation for creativity and play. They wanted humor, art, poetry, and curiosity to be woven into the process. They hoped for directors who could integrate multiple spiritual traditions and sources and were willing to embrace imperfection.
The Gift of These Voices
Viewed collectively, these responses are a gift to the field of spiritual direction. They confirm that people are seeking authentic, identity-affirming connection with spiritual companions who can hold space for both challenge and care. The desire for support in cultivating practices, grounding through transitions, and opening new paths of discernment should be taken into careful consideration.
For our program, these voices highlight the sacred responsibility of preparing student spiritual directors who can meet seekers where they are, with humility, curiosity, and compassion. The insights gathered across these three years will continue to shape how we teach, supervise, and form our students.
At its heart, spiritual direction remains a ministry of presence. These voluntary responses remind us that presence is not passive. It is attentive, honest, creative, and deeply relational. It is what we all long for, and what our world needs.
Rev. Tandi Rogers
serves as the Director of the Spiritual Direction Formation & Certification Program at Meadville Lombard Theological School’s Leadership Institute for Growth, Healing, and Transformation. An ordained Unitarian Universalist minister, she has over two decades in denominational leadership, spiritual formation, and companioning leaders across traditions. Her writing explores the intersections of spiritual maturity, courage, imagination, and liberation. Contact her at: [email protected].
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Love Out of Control
By Kathleen Phillips
"The parent of an adult child may stumble while trying to figure whether to keep their adult child on a known path or let them blaze their own new trail."
In most every gathering, people co-exist with an unspoken commonality. They may be vaguely aware of the others’ similarities and perhaps have offered brief comments or even shared with others a photo or two on the subject but nothing deeper. Stuffed way down in their soul is an awareness that something they dearly love has slipped beyond their ability to steer the course. And that’s not how it used to be.
They are the parents of children who have grown up. Adult children. Full-fledged people who are out the in the world making their own decisions without consulting their parent. When that bundle of joy entered the home with such fanfare years ago, no one mentioned this would happen. A search of the shelves in the “Parenting” section yields infinite volumes about raising a baby through the teen years but is devoid of books about adult children. That seems to indicate no one is experiencing similar feelings about no longer knowing how to relate to their kids. “Best to keep silent and try to sort it out alone,” a parent may reason.
Spiritual companions may hear tales about adult children and dismiss it as “small talk” so our companion can get to the “real” topics about their spirituality. “Things are fine. My son just left his job and he has a family, but he’ll get another one,” one might say as they enter and settle in the chair, “Otherwise, I’ve been…” But lean into that first statement with your companion—here is likely a deeper reason it was spoken in a spiritual setting. “Tell me more about your son leaving his job. How do you feel about that?” you might ask. Or “Did you ever leave a job? Tell me why (or why not).” Probing the statement about their adult child may lead to deeper understanding of why they are feeling certain ways about the decisions and life of their adult child. It is about their feelings and the impact on their spirituality now, not their adult child’s.
Parents continue to be concerned about their children long after they reach adulthood. There comes a point in which the “child” is on their own or of legal age, and the parent wants to help their adult child as they did when the kid was young. Initially, this seems like helping the grown child know how to handle various situations. But this never stops. Parents think because they have been alive more or less twenty years longer, that they know how to handle everything. It is like the older version of kissing a boo-boo to make it better. But somewhere along the path to maturity, such help isn’t needed or wanted. Yet this pattern repeats itself through many different situations the adult child faces on their journey. Parents get a dose of reality and awkwardly move into the era of loving adult children who are out of their control.
In Spiritual Direction
In a 2018 study reported in Gerontologist, lead author Amber J. Seidel of Penn State University-York noted that parents continue to remain engaged in the lives of their grown children, and having knowledge of their lives often leads to increased stress and lack of sleep. Gone are the days when the (adult) child’s parent can make choices and find solutions. And that can lead to more worry and stress for the parent as adult children navigate the grownup issues of finances, relationships and their faith journey or lack thereof. A parent may struggle about whether it is better to say something to their adult child, and if so, how to say it, or to say nothing at all.
People of faith may rely on prayer to solve situations and that can certainly be a way to calm our anxiety and find answers, but realizing we are not alone also can be comforting. As a spiritual director since 2000, I’ve been privileged to hear the faith journey stories of hundreds of people. I emphasize the word “hear” because the term spiritual director is a bit of a misnomer. Although our styles may vary somewhat in how “direct” we are, a spiritual director is not one who gives advice, tries to fix anyone or anything, counsels, or places any judgment on a person’s story. Rather, we listen with a “holy ear.” We may ask questions, even hard questions, that help a person clarify parts of their life story. But usually, if we commit to regular talks with our spiritual director and are earnest about listening to where God, the Divine, or however you name the Great Mystery might be guiding, merely talking about our journey brings insight and direction for next steps in life. That frees a spiritual director from the need to dream up a plan of action to “fix” someone and allows us to truly, actively listen.
For those of us who are Christian spiritual directors, we include the Holy Spirit as the third person in the room when we meet with a directee. We listen and prayerfully ask questions of the person as they share their life story, but the Holy Spirit is the true director. Often, the gist of our decision to seek a spiritual director comes from the need for discernment about part of our life. People who seek a spiritual director are trying to understand what God is doing—or not doing—in their life. Inevitably, life stories are mixed in with relationships—family, extended family, ex-family, friends, coworkers, et cetera. Each of those categories may require separate discussions, or they may be intermingled in terms of how a person interacts in any given situation.
Listening
The focus is on the parent and their grown child. A parent can be anyone who has a biological child, an adoptive child, a foster child, a stepchild, or even a person for whom one has acted as guardian. The assumption is that all effort has been given to raising, loving, encouraging, and guiding the child, when necessary, to help them grow into responsible adults. Hard work, yes.
What is rarely mentioned in society, is that once all that effort has been extended and parents are even thankful their child has reached and headed out on their own, the desire to nurture doesn’t stop. What does stop is the ability to exercise any degree of control or even influence over their grown child’s life choices. And worry? That doesn’t stop either—if my own mothering experience and listening for decades to the parents of adult children is any clue.
"When we listen, we can better understand what an adult child's boundaries are and where to set our own."
Though a new child is brought into the home and parenting is learned over time with advice from other parents and reading scores of books and articles, one becomes a parent of adults with no advanced understanding or instruction on how to deal with the new lifestyle. Do we stop parenting? No. Have parenting techniques now changed? Considerably. The main difference is, whereas the parent of a new child can establish the norms of the household and have authority over how the child observes and learns from them, all that ends when the adult child branches out on their own. The parent of an adult child may stumble while trying to figure whether to keep their adult child on a known path or let them blaze their own new trail.
Discerning how to deal with a new type of relationship is key to growing together in new ways going forward—even if an adult child has chosen a rocky or dangerous path. The book When Will My Grown-up Kid Grow Up? by Elizabeth Fishel and Jeffrey Jensen Arnett reports that seventy-five percent of the parents interviewed say they had better friendships with their adult children. But there were several points that had to be understood for that to continue: observe respectful boundaries, listen more than you talk, share time doing what you both enjoy, set ground rules on how to disagree, and grant them time for their significant other.
Parents spend the first eighteen or so years of a child’s life reminding them we are not their “friend” but their parent. That takes a step back roughly around the time a high school diploma hits their hand, and society tells them they can vote or lease an apartment without your consent. Suddenly, we are not the parent who disciplines, not the parent responsible for regular meals or decisions on daily schedules, and not the parent who can decide who they socialize with or set a curfew. The parent of an adult cannot tell them how to make money or spend it, make them get along with siblings, or demand they attend religious services. On the positive side, we can aspire to be a parent who hopes to enjoy quality time with another adult whom we were at least partially responsible for guiding into their grown-up selves. However, neither the parent nor the now-grown child finds that change easy to make.
A spiritual companion can help a parent focus on one of the five points in Fishel and Arnett’s book: listening. True, active listening will help navigate the other points they mention—boundaries, shared time, disagreements, and their time with others. When we listen, we can better understand what an adult child’s boundaries are and where to set our own. Listen, and we will know better what their interests are to suggest times to share. Listen and learn how to disagree so that both the parent and adult child can continue to explore differences. Listen and come to realize the importance of their significant other and allow them space. Still, there will be issues that come up where we may want to pause and reflect before broaching the topic with an adult child. Issues that energize emotions often revolve around various financial matters, relationships, and faith. Those are the topics a spiritual companion can listen for and probe with a spiritual directee.
Additional Ideas for Spiritual Direction with Parents of Adult Children
As is often the case in the ministry of spiritual companioning, trends emerge. Maybe a companion hears a similar story from two or more people, and it begins to bubble up as a nudge. Or perhaps they have a day when there seem to be coincidences, and several messages emerge about something until they notice and wonder if it means there is a larger message. A spiritual companion might recognize them as godly nudges but fall back on the training that we are not called to fix anything. We would not, for instance, suggest to directees with similar situations that they contact each other, though we sense that if they could talk together, it might be helpful. To do so would betray a confidence.
Group spiritual direction, however, might be useful for parents of adult children. Offer to facilitate and invite those expressing situations with adult children along with others from the wider community who might benefit. Lay the groundwork about the importance of vulnerability coupled with honoring confidentiality. Commit to regular, one-hour sessions over time as needed to build community. Each session may have a different topic such as employment, poor financial decisions, sibling rivalry, divorce, addiction, estrangement, questioning family norms, and many others. Allow each person to talk and guide other participants to listen without trying to fix. Factor in some silence between each person to encourage thoughtful exchange.
Possible Outcomes
The transition from parenting a child to relating to an adult is one of the most spiritually charged passages in a person’s life. It can be full of pride, loss, gratitude, confusion, as well as an invitation to deepen one’s relationship with God. Spiritual directors are uniquely positioned to sort out statements and experiences in need of deeper probing, thus helping a spiritual directee realize they are not alone in this phenomenon about which little is written.
Talking through these changes can help parents release control, practice non-judgmental presence, set boundaries without withdrawing love, see their adult children as autonomous spiritual beings, and even reshape generational patterns.
References
Arnett Ph.D., Jeffrey Jensen, and Fishel, Elizabeth. When Will My Grown-Up Kid Grow Up? Workman Publishing Company, 2013.
Seidel, Amber. Are You Sleeping? Dyadic Associations of Support, Stress, and Worries Regarding Adult Children on Sleep. The Gerontologist, 2018.
Kathleen Phillips
is a journalist whose talent for listening to people over a forty-year career led her to the ministry of spiritual direction. In 2000, she completed FIND-School for Spiritual Direction and subsequently served as its director. Phillips co-founded Middleway Urban Monastery in College Station, Texas, U.S.A, and authored Love out of Control: Meditations for Parents of Adult Children.
SDI Offerings
The Valley That Held Our Breath
By Jason Edwards
Editor’s Note: With this fable, we invite you into a personal, creative, and contemplative space to explore some of the rich and beautiful themes of spiritual direction.
Long before roads found their way into that part of the world, a valley lay tucked between two patient hills. The river that shaped it moved with the pace of something ancient, unhurried, as though it remembered a time before foxes dug their dens in its soft banks. The cottonwoods leaned toward the water, listening. Their trunks kept a record of what the valley had endured. Anyone who lived there long enough learned that this land kept its own counsel.
In one of those seasons, a fox lived in the valley who carried a steadiness that quieted every creature around him. He was broad-shouldered and calm, the kind of presence that settled disputes simply by walking into a clearing. The younger animals watched the way his shadow moved, slow and sure, as though he trusted the ground to meet him every time.
His mate, slender and quick-eyed, loved him with a devotion she did not speak aloud. They raised three young in a den beneath the oldest cottonwood, a tree whose roots wrapped the soil the way loving hands hold a sleeping child. The eldest fox-kit, nearly grown, had the kind of energy that made elders shake their heads while smiling. He darted between branches, chased wind that didn’t belong to him, charmed the neighboring animals into forgiving whatever mess he left in his wake. It was impossible to be bored in his presence, equally impossible to rest.
The middle kit was not yet grown, still carrying a softness beneath his ribs. He noticed things. Before taking a step, he studied the earth to see where it dipped or rose. He watched his older brother from doorways, torn between admiration and worry. The baby sister toddled after their mother, a soft bundle of fur who knew nothing of the storms around her.
Then came the morning when the steady fox did not return from the river. No one knows how long his mate waited before going to search for him. Some say she knew the moment the river swallowed his scent. When she emerged again, there was mud on her paws and a stillness in her eyes that looked like winter settling too early on the land.
Grief slid into the den like a fog. The eldest had gone over the ridge by then, having chased a dream of adventure just before the final blow had fallen. The baby cried whenever the wind shifted. And the middle son—still a child—found himself trying to fill the space his father had once occupied. He followed his mother through the tunnels, brushing her side with his tail. He lifted the baby sister when she faltered. He listened at night to the sounds of a creature who had lost her center.
Seasons moved on, though the valley did not forget. Memory clung to the soil like cold that refuses to melt after the sun returns. The eldest fox sent occasional rumors back—stories of leaps across ravines, of dances around farm fences, of wildness that delighted strangers while exhausting anyone who lived close enough to care for him.
The middle fox grew taller. Friends from neighboring burrows praised his patience, his careful mind. Some whispered that he had aged too quickly. They weren’t wrong.
One spring, he found a young vixen with energy that sparkled even as she tripped over her own newness. They built a den together before either had finished growing their adult coats. There was something sweet about the way they arranged their lives—two creatures trying to build warmth around things they didn’t yet understand.
Their first kit arrived in the quiet season. The father held him and felt something pull in his chest—an ache he had buried years before. The boy’s eyes were steady, perceptive, as though he saw beyond the walls of the den. He spent long moments studying the flicker of light on water, or the pattern of leaves on the forest floor. The father looked at him and thought of a brother he had loved fiercely but never understood, a brother whose brightness had made him feel both safe and abandoned.
A second kit came soon after, with a grace that made everything around him relax. He was organized in the way a riverbed organizes pebbles—methodically, without effort. He arranged pinecones by size, sorted berries by shade, tucked his nest-lining into corners with almost ceremonial care. When he did speak, which was not often, his words landed thoughtfully. Other foxes found him easy to like.
Many winters later, a daughter arrived. She was a soft flame in the den, the kind of creature who pressed her face into her mother’s chest and sighed with a trust that made the hardest days gentler. Everyone cared for her—the mother, the father, the brothers—but the eldest son watched her with a devotion that changed the way he moved through the world. He had learned to be careful, to anticipate shifts in weather, to make pathways safe for smaller paws. Those old skills found new purpose in caring for her.
Inside the den, the atmosphere was tricky. The father carried old grief that had hardened into something sharp. He had never learned how to be at ease. One day his voice was soft; the next it rose so suddenly that the kits froze. His mate adapted in her own way, bending and yielding until one day she no longer bent. Her spine straightened; her voice found edges. The valley heard the tension before the children had words for it.
The eldest kit felt the instability. He read every twitch of his father’s tail, memorized every pattern in his mother’s breathing. Fear entered his bones early, so early he could not remember a time without it. He placed himself between storms and the younger ones because no one else seemed able to do it.
The second son responded differently. When voices sharpened, he drifted toward the edges, learning the art of distance before he understood why.
He listened from thresholds, gathering safety the way others gather food. When the father growled, the younger one’s body tilted away, yet something in the father leaned toward him. Some creatures carry a quiet grace without realizing it—a softness that reminds another of who they once were. The father’s eyes found that softness in his second son. He did not recognize the boy; he recognized the echo.
Time carved deeper grooves into the household. The father told stories from his childhood, especially stories about the older brother—always running somewhere, always stirring trouble, always adored. He spoke of his brother with an affection tinged with irritation. The tales drifted around the den like smoke. The second son listened closely. He absorbed the tone, the rhythm, the unspoken assumptions. Over time, a picture formed in him of what “the older brother” was like, long before he had the chance to know his own sibling fully.
And without meaning to, the father placed old shadows where they did not belong. He looked at the eldest and saw a brother he had competed with and envied; he looked at the younger and saw the softer version of himself he remembered…or believed he had once been. The kits could not see this, but the den felt it, the way ground feels the shift of roots moving beneath it.
This was the quiet beginning of the gulf.
The boys grew. Outside the den, they were companions: running along riverbanks, wrestling in tall grass, admiring the same sparks of beauty in the world. They shared jokes and chores and the precious tenderness of their baby sister. They knew each other’s habits and tells. They loved each other in ways only brothers do—sideways, fiercely, without naming it.
Inside the den, something older than either of them breathed between them. The father’s old story threaded itself through glances and silences. The eldest did not know why his brother stiffened sometimes when he approached, or why certain words landed wrong. He assumed he had done something, so he apologized in small ways, smoothing ground that wasn’t his to smooth.
The day came when the eldest fox followed the hills beyond the valley, leaving the den for the first time. In his absence, something unsettled the old stories inside the father. The figure he had battled in memory no longer lived under his roof. Silence filled the space the eldest had occupied, and into that silence the father’s unfinished grief reached for the next available shape.
The second fox felt it before he understood it, a new tension in the father’s gaze, a new sharpness in the air around him. Without the eldest to absorb the father’s storms, the winds inside the den shifted. The younger kit suddenly found himself standing where his brother once stood—not by choice, but by the strange mathematics of sorrow. The father began to look at him with a different kind of strain, the echo of an old story fastening itself to him. And the softness that had once sheltered him could not shield him from the father’s unfinished storms. He bristled. He withdrew. And to make sense of the change, he reached for the only story he knew—the one in which the eldest held the wrong end of things.
Miles away, the eldest fox breathed easier without knowing why. The air outside surprised him with its quiet. Even his own heartbeat startled him in its steadiness. No shadows followed him. No voices sharpened behind him. He carried fear out of habit, but it began to thin.
The valley, having seen this pattern before, remained silent.
Years passed. The brothers met in clearings, talked at family gatherings, exchanged updates near old burrows. Sometimes their faces softened. Sometimes a shadow passed between them. The second son was gracious, admired, and trusted by others. But with the eldest, a different weather moved through him. Suspicion tightened his jaw. His sentences shortened. He believed things about his brother that did not match their shared history but made sense inside the air he had grown up breathing.
He gathered the father’s old grievances without realizing they were not his to gather, tucking them into himself the way a creature collects things found along a trail. When the eldest stepped beyond the ridge, the den shuddered. He mistook the timing for truth, believing the break belonged to the one who left rather than to the storms that had been gathering for years. Admiration and resentment wound themselves around each other inside him, shaping his sight in ways he could not feel.
The eldest sensed the distance too, though he could never quite trace its shape. Something in his brother’s eyes—a thin film laid over their conversations, a thing neither of them had words for—became an unspoken ache he carried with him each time he returned to the valley.
Still, in conversations with others, pride flickered when the younger spoke of the eldest. Mixed feelings are old companions in families like these.
Meanwhile, the father aged. The power that once frightened everyone evaporated. His voice grew smaller, though its irritations remained. He seemed unfinished somehow, like a fox who had stopped growing at the moment his father died and never resumed. His children saw his humanity with a clarity that had been impossible in childhood. Fear dissolved into weariness. Annoyance softened into something that approached pity. The old man struggled with himself more than anyone else did.
During one of the eldest fox’s returns to the valley, a visit marked by familiar rhythms and old undercurrents, he found himself caught in a particularly confusing exchange with both his father and his brother. The moment was small, almost forgettable, except for the way it unsettled something in him, as though the past had reached out with a paw he couldn’t quite see.
That evening, he walked out to the river alone. The night was deeply quiet. The valley held its breath. He lay down on the bank and watched the stars through the branches. The river carried fragments of reflection across its surface. A leaf passed. A broken reed. A glint of moon. The water accepted all of it without question.
A softness gathered in him, the kind that comes when a creature finally sees a map of its own life laid out with honest contours. He saw, as though watching from a hilltop, the generations behind him: a kit standing on the thin ledge between childhood and whatever comes after, trying to steady a mother’s grief while carrying a sister too small to understand its weight; a younger fox the father saw through the lens of his own unfinished story; an older brother running into a world too wide; a father sitting alone beside a riverbank, unable to speak the sorrow he carried.
He saw the next den too: a mother trying to love while struggling to stand; a father who responded to fear with sharpness; two boys trying to read the weather; a baby girl absorbing tenderness and trembling in equal measure.
Nothing excused the hurt of those years. Nothing justified the distance that had grown between him and his brother. Yet something in the picture made sense for the first time. It was as though he had been handed the ending of a story that had begun long before he was born.
He realized, lying there by the slow river, that he could not untangle the knots for anyone else. The air inside the old den was made of storms he did not create and could not calm. He could love from a distance. He could offer kindness where doors were open. He could step out of the weather without stepping away from the creatures he cared for.
He stood eventually, shaking the damp from his fur. The valley looked different at night—gentler, almost forgiving. He followed the path toward home, moving with a sense of grounding he had never felt before. Behind him, the river continued its slow, ancient work of carrying the past without needing to resolve it.
And somewhere under the cottonwoods, in the den where three young foxes once learned how to survive old grief, something settled in the soil. It wasn’t closure. The valley didn’t offer that. It was more like a shifting of weight—a small release—as if the land itself recognized that one fox had stepped out of the story that had held him for too long.
The valley did not forget.
But it no longer held him hostage.
And that was enough.
Jason G. Edwards
is the senior pastor of Second Baptist Church in Liberty, Missouri, where he has served for more than sixteen years. His forthcoming book, At Home with God, will be released this fall. His writing has appeared in The Christian Century, Plough, Good Faith Media, Baptist News Global, and The Kansas City Star. He writes poetry, prayer, and prose at the intersection of faith, spirituality, and culture at jasongedwards.substack.com.
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