Monday, March 31
It’s spring again. I’m someone who’s deeply affected by the changing seasons, and when spring arrives in Texas—the pink blooms, the fresh green leaves, the clusters of bluebonnets by the road—I feel it in my soul. This season, more than any other, feels like a time when God offers us signs and wonders right out in the open. The world wakes up; life pushes through the ground again. And yet, I still sometimes miss it. I wait for it. I pray for it, especially on those long stretches when the days feel heavy, when shadows stack on top of each other, and I can’t quite remember what joy feels like.
So I admit with some chagrin that I often let wonder pass me by. I rush from the parking lot into the grocery store or into work, barely registering the trees or the sun on my face, distracted by the next task—or even by something like this that I’m composing in my head. And meanwhile, right beside me, my 10-year-old son is growing—so fast. He’s asking bigger, more thoughtful questions. He’s becoming more of himself each day. And sometimes, even that miracle starts to blur into the background of my busy life.
There are moments when something my son says or does catches me off guard completely—some flash of insight, humor, or tenderness—and I am struck with almost rapt wonder, though. How is it possible that I get to witness this becoming? I think. In those moments, I want to be better for him. I want to slow down, to notice, to respond with the total love his springtime deserves. I want our home to feel like a place prepared—not just for him, but for Easter. His presence pulls me back to the present. His questions gently ask me to make more room for God, as he wonders aloud about the “why” behind everything in this world.
Today’s daily readings remind me how easy it is to live without that kind of attentiveness. In Isaiah, God says, “See, I am creating new heavens and a new earth.” He is always doing something new, something beautiful—if only we have the eyes to notice. Yet in the Gospel, Jesus speaks almost with frustration: “Unless you people see signs and wonders, you will not believe.” It’s that line that stirs something in me: it stirs my Lenten promises awake. I want to believe not just when the signs are unmistakable, hitting me over the head, but when they’re right here in front of me and I’m simply not receiving them as I should. I want to cultivate the kind of faith that notices, that stays open, that prepares even when the ground still looks bare.
I cherish signs and wonders, but I don’t always behold them as I should. To behold is more than to see—it’s to see with spiritual eyes. It means to stop, to notice deeply, to receive something as a gift. It’s the kind of seeing that holds a moment open and lets it change you. Lent invites us to practice that kind of sight—a slow, reverent attention to the ways God is already moving. But too often, I let even holy things slip. I forget that the miracle is already happening.
And when I don’t behold, I miss the invitation to trust, too.
The official in the Gospel comes to Jesus desperate for his son’s life. I understand that kind of prayer—the urgency, the hope, the suddenness of a plea spoken in need, maybe after too long without any wonder in one’s life. Jesus sends him home with just a word, even though he’s disappointed in his lack of faith: “You may go; your son will live.” And the official goes. He walks back home in that quiet space between promise and fulfillment. And when he arrives, not only is his son healed but “he and his whole household came to believe.”
Looking at my son now, I realize I should believe simply because he is here, now—and so is spring, and so is Lent, and so are God’s promises. The miracle leading to Easter’s fulfillment is already underway. We all want that big, undeniable moment, but I understand Jesus’s frustration: we shouldn’t need it! The wonder was already part and parcel of the story, to begin with, just as Isaiah reminds us prior to the Gospel.
Sometimes, when I truly stop and see my son—not just with my eyes, but with wonder—I feel the call to believe more fully, as I do when I see God’s son at the altar.
Sometimes I remember to behold, to wonder, and springtime is more than a blur. It is a miracle.
That’s how these Scripture readings come together for me. Lent is full of quiet invitations. They don’t always shout, but they are no less real.
This season is a chance to slow down, to notice what’s already growing, and to walk—like the official—back toward home, not waiting for the miracle, but carrying it with us.
Because we are walking toward the fullness of the Gospel, where the greatest wonder has already come.
Dr. LuElla D’Amico is an Associate Professor of English at the University of the Incarnate Word. Her essays on literature, popular culture, and Catholic education have appeared in Church Life Journal, America Magazine, and Christ and Pop Culture among other publications. Her forthcoming book, Wondrous Reading: Encountering the Catholic Faith in Children’s Literature, explores how reading classic and contemporary children’s books with a faith-filled purpose can strengthen families’ spiritual lives and support educators and in forming students’ hearts and minds. A joyful Catholic convert, she lives on the outskirts of San Antonio, with her husband, children, and rambunctious chihuahua.