When Life Gives You High Tide and A Low Battery

Ignatian spirituality invites us to seek God in all things, trusting that even our everyday experiences can become sacred ground for formation and growth. As someone shaped by traditions that prize planning and efficiency, Ignatian practices like Examen speak my language: there’s nothing I love more than a list of practical steps I know I can count on. But of course, as with all things spiritual, the aim of Ignatian contemplative practices is not a perfectly executed plan—it’s learning to notice what stirs within us as we walk the path, and listening for God’s voice amid our questions and uncertainties.

One thing that has always puzzled me about Ignatius is how he seemed determined to travel without money or food, relying entirely on God to provide for him. When I first read about his life, that kind of radical trust felt pretty foreign to me (and, honestly, maybe even a little irresponsible!). His seemingly haphazard approach doesn’t exactly line up with the modern culture I live in, where being prepared and self-sufficient is considered wise and faithful. I’ve read about Ignatius' choices and shrugged in bewilderment—until recently, when I decided to drive to a retreat in my husband’s new electric car.

I’ve long felt that good stewardship of the earth’s resources is part of my loving response to God’s generous creation. Using the electric vehicle to transport me to a weekend of rest and spiritual retreat felt like a faithful expression of an important value for me. However, there was a catch: the car couldn’t make the whole trip on a single charge. That meant I’d have to make stops and rely on public charging stations to get to my destination.

That small task—charging an EV—ended up becoming a lesson in trust. Watching my battery display needle begin to sink as I made my way, I realized that many factors were out of my control, such as finding chargers that were accessible, working, and available when I needed them. It reminded me, in a tiny way, of Ignatius relying on God to meet his needs along the road.

Of course, things did not go smoothly. One charging station I arrived at was, indeed, out of order. The next one didn’t have the type of plug my car needed. A third was overcrowded and required a long wait. The whole process was a bit stressful, and I began to call this experience my “maybe retreat”—maybe I’d get there, and maybe I wouldn’t. Yet, in the not-knowing, I sensed God gently inviting me to surrender my anxiety and simply accept whatever circumstance came my way. After all, the aim of my trip was to meet with God—why not begin right then and there?

I did eventually arrive without any major catastrophes. But the theme of trust didn’t end there. The next evening, I planned a long prayer walk on a nearby beach I’d always wanted to visit. Of course, my timing was off: when I arrived, the tide was rising and the sun was sinking. The beach was nearly empty, and cellphone service was nonexistent. Faced with the choice to stay in a place where anything could happen, I recognized how rare it is these days to be completely alone and without any means of contact if I need it. Yet, with God’s invitation still fresh in my mind to surrender my worries and be present in the moment, I felt drawn to at least start walking anyway.

Making my way along the stunning but increasingly narrow shoreline, I again felt God’s subtle nudge to let go of my need for a plan. Maybe I would make it to my goal of the beach’s end. Maybe I’d have to turn back early. Maybe I’d find myself wading back in ankle-deep water. Whatever came my way, it felt freeing to accept the circumstance and figure it out.

In the end, I didn’t reach my intended destination. A large downed tree blocked my path. But I’d gone farther than I ever had before—all the while enjoying the rare gift of God’s companionship and a whole beach all to myself. And that was enough.

Thankfully, in both situations, I was never in real danger. But they revealed to me how rarely I allow myself to be in positions where I’m not entirely in control—where I must accept the presence of forces beyond myself, whether technology or tides, timing or terrain. It was both disorienting and strangely liberating to place myself at the mercy of God’s created order rather than my own capabilities.

Looking back, I wonder if that’s what Ignatius was after—not just navigating without money and provisions, but learning to be free from the fear that keeps us tethered to the feeling of control. Maybe his purpose was to be open to what God might provide in the moment instead of planning for every possibility ahead of time. Perhaps he wasn’t being reckless; he was practicing a deep kind of trust. A trust that allowed him to be formed by the journey, not just the destination.

As spiritual pilgrims, it can be easy to lean on our experience, our preparation, or the tools we’ve collected over time. And those things matter. But perhaps a deeper invitation is to continually place ourselves in postures of trust, helping us remember that God gives us what we need when we need it. God’s provision is not always early, and not always in the way we expect—but always enough.

Sometimes the destination looks like a “maybe,” and that’s okay. God is still in it.

Questions for reflection:

• When was the last time I had to really trust God in a practical, personal way?
• Are there areas in my life or ministry where I tend to cling to control?
• How do I react when plans don’t go as expected? What helps me stay grounded?
• What’s something simple I could do this week to put myself in a posture of trust?
• How might God be inviting me to lean less on my own certainty and more on God’s presence?