 While recuperating from his injury, Ignatius experienced a conversion. Reading the lives of Jesus and the saints made Ignatius happy and aroused desires to do great things. Ignatius realized that these feelings were clues to God's direction for him. Over the years, Ignatius became expert in the art of spiritual direction. He collected his insight, prayers, and suggestions in his book, The Spiritual Exercises, one of the most influential books on the spiritual life ever written. With a small group of friends, Ignatius Loyola founded the Society of Jesus for the Jesuits. Ignatius conceived the Jesuits as contemplatives in action. This also describes the many Christians who have been touched by Ignatian spirituality. But something not often spoken about in the biography of St. Ignatius, or Inigo, as he was called, is the support both financially and spiritually that he received from women. The Society owes its existence to many women, writes Rogelio Garcia Matteo, in Manrasa, Spain, where Ignatius's world vision was born and began to take place. A group of women calling themselves the Inigas were the first to benefit from the graces received there, because they did the spiritual exercises. This support continued as Ignatius traveled and enlisted women to share his ministry, many of whom sought admittance to the Society, which Ignatius didn't support. However, one woman, Princess Juana of Spain, crossed her way into the Society. After considerable consultation, although reluctant, the decision was made to accept the princess, but her membership was to be kept a secret. She was referred to as Matteo Sanchez, and she remained the only woman Jesuit until her death in 1573. Tonight we celebrate the women who were inspired by Ignatius, the Inigas. They realize then, as we do now, that God is inviting each of us to use our gifts for the greater good, to be of service to God, and to live from that place in our hearts where we are being called to more. I am grateful to introduce you to someone who is doing just that, Reverend Ann Simington Gardner, member of the great class of 1982. Reverend Gardner spent the majority of her career at two of Boston's premier educational institutions, Harvard University and Phillips Academy and over. She now leads the chaplaincy program at Harvard Westlake, a private secondary school in Los Angeles. Ann is both an Episcopal priest and a freelance writer. Her forthcoming debut book, And So I Walked, recounts her journey of traversing the 500-mile Camino de Santiago de Compostola and experience that explores how faith, family, and friendship both change us and sustain us. Please join me in welcoming Reverend Ann Gardner. First and foremost, I want to thank my alma mater, and in particular, Janet Canapa, Marcy Haley, and the Murphy Center for Ignatian Spirituality for offering me the opportunity to reflect a bit about the spiritual impact of my Jesuit education. This was certainly an unexpected honor, as I am not an academician nor a teacher. But I am a person of faith and one who has been profoundly impacted by my Catholic education, an experience I found both intellectually rigorous and spiritually challenging. College was a place where I grew and grew up. On this very day, I remain grateful for all the gifts I received during those four years. An exceptional liberal arts education, a crucible in which I first considered the direction my life would take, and a cadre of classmates, many here tonight, who are still among my very best of friends. Before preparing these remarks, it seemed like a good idea to remind myself of the core values professed by our shared alma mater. Fairfield's motto, perfetum ad plenum veritatum, or through faith to the fullness of truth, gives equal weight to the life of the mind and the life of the spirit. But tonight, my focus will clearly be on the latter. Margaret Atwood, perhaps best known for her novel, The Handmaid's Tale, summed up human experience in this way. In the end, we'll all become stories. So tonight I want to share two stories of my own. The first from my own days in college, a story about how I decided what I was going to do with my life. And the second, a much more recent story about how I decided how I was going to live my life. Two stories that I hope may provide some insight as all of you navigate your own journeys. Story number one. In the early 1980s, during the era of Wall Street greed, voluminous amounts of hairspray, and the emergence of punk rock music, the New York City job market for an economics major like me looked pretty good. I had arrived to Gonzaga 112 as a freshman without much of a clue as to what I was interested in doing. Inspired by a conversation I had with Professor bus. I began to study derivative volatility and the ebbs and flows of the stock market. Soon enough, I came to understand the landscape of investment banking. And by the time senior year rolled around, I had bought the prerequisite blue suit and gray suit and the supporting cast of pumps and pantyhose. I had made myself into the image of the hundreds of people I saw swarm the train platforms every morning, heading from places like Fairfield and Stanford and white planes into the promised land of Manhattan. In the spring of my senior year, I courted favor with all the big players and was offered a number of interviews with the leading financial institutions of the time. I was beside myself thrilled that all of my hard work might just pay off. I memorized profiles, and I boned up on the details of the latest trends and mergers. I was going to be ready when those interviews began. The first few went fine. No major blunders but no real hook either. I thought I had done a good job but I felt strangely flat after spending a few days in the shadow of all of those looming skyscrapers. Nothing to worry about I convinced myself I just, I just hadn't found the right fit. Tomorrow would be another day. But soon enough, all of the tomorrows came and went. While I grew more accustomed to the interview process, more sure of myself, and certainly more polished, the hook I was looking for, it never materialized. After the last bevy of interviews, I got off the train and headed back up that hill to campus, dejected. By the time I arrived at the dining commons that night, that discomfort had turned into fear. I was once again beside myself. What am I doing? I just spent four years and made four years of tuition payments to study a subject that suddenly fell dull and dry. How was I possibly going to spend every day of my working life in a cubicle surrounded by spreadsheets. For many years of age, the veneer of life had been enough to capture my imagination, getting good grades and finding a job and landing the right apartment. I had not stopped even for one moment to consider what sort of life I wanted. I was just moving along down the conveyor belt, hoping to keep up. And then in the midst of my angst, a moment of grace occurred. I was headed to the bus that transported students to the beach where I was then living when I ran into a friend. She was walking across the quad with the then campus chaplain, a woman named Kim McElaney, someone in all my years at Fairfield, I had not yet met. They exchanged pleasantries and then they excused themselves to head to a meeting that Kim was running. She suddenly turned back around and said, Why don't you come along? Oh, no, thanks. I'm, I'm just going to head home. No, join us, she said. It's a small enough group. There'll be plenty of room for you. And before I knew it. I myself say yes. And so it came to be that I first heard about the Jesuit Volunteer Corps. Likely a good number of you are already familiar with the JVC. But for those of you who are not, the Jesuit Volunteer Corps provides its participants a chance to spend one or more years working with underserved communities. An outreach program founded by the Jesuits. The core had then been in existence for about 50 years. As I sat amongst the students who had gathered with Kim, I became quite taken with the idea of joining the JVC. Maybe it was my dismay over the current state of my job search. Maybe it was some sort of untapped idealism. Maybe it was just the right thing at just the right moment. But whatever the reason, I left that meeting convinced it was worth a try. At that time, JVC offered placements only within the United States. But as I reviewed the materials, it quickly became apparent just how much of a leap of faith. This was going to be, despite the fact that all the openings were within a 50 state radius. Every applicant needed to complete a generalized form, including a number of essays, touching on each of the four core elements that guided the program. The first tenant gave me comfort. Every volunteer would be placed in a community of at least two. This was a significant departure from other programs like the Peace Corps, for instance, where volunteers were routinely stationed on their own. Each participant would work in a job that felt broadly within the field of social justice. JVCers served the poor, the marginalized, the voiceless, the disenfranchised. Difficult, yes, but compelling as well. Each volunteer would be expected to live, quote unquote, simply, an experience meant to build compassion and understanding of the tremendous challenges faced by those who lived in poverty. As such, each volunteer earned $50 a month. This amount was expected to cover all of your personal expenses. And while we received rudimentary housing and a base amount for our household staples, there was no money for coffee or movies or shampoo or chocolate or any other form of entertainment. That $50 was yours to spend, but restricting the salary so severely quickly drew the line for me between what was a want and what was a need. Just to be clear, this tenant of JVC never presumed to equate the conditions of its volunteers with those who lived a life of actual poverty. Years of financial stability and access didn't just disappear when I joined the JVC. The intention was to increase awareness within its volunteers to ask those in the program to examine their privilege in a way that was more than just theoretical. And for however briefly, to see the world through the lens of deficiency rather than abundance. And finally, each participant was expected to spend the year or more developing their own spiritual life. Volunteers didn't need to be Catholic or even Christian, but they did need to have an interest in enriching their interior lives. The program was meant to be a 360 degree experience, one of the heart and of the mind and of the soul. So I submitted my application, despite the fact that I wouldn't be allowed to choose where I would be placed, or what kind of job I would be given, or with whom I would share the experience. The only voice I had in the process was the region to which I would apply. Feeling adventurous, I chose the Northwest, the area furthest from my home, a territory that included Alaska, Montana, Oregon, and Washington State. Within a few months, I was notified I had been accepted and would be stationed in Montana, just south of the Blackfoot Reservation in the foothills of Glacier National Park. Six other women would join me, making our placement one of the larger communities, particularly given its rural location. I quickly scanned the letter for the most important piece of information. What was I going to do? Soon enough, I found the pertinent paragraph. I had been assigned to work as a counselor in a shelter for battered women and abused children. I suddenly felt my stomach lurch of all of the things. How had I possibly been given this? Fast forward. I packed my bag. I attended the orientation and was transported to the beautiful and frightful location in which I would spend the next year. When I just turned 21, I found myself doing intake interviews with women who had fled an abusive relationship. We were required to do 12, 24, and 36-hour shifts, which meant I often slept in a small alcove in the office, waiting for the next crisis that would land someone at the shelter's door. At first, I was routinely ignored and even ridiculed by some of the women who sought my care. What do you know about it anyway? You're not married. You're not a mother. You don't have any idea what my life is like. How could you possibly think you could help me? All reasonable assertions as far as I was concerned, I was woefully unprepared to assist with their legal battles, and I knew nothing about what it meant to be physically, emotionally, or mentally threatened or harmed. I was there to listen, to comfort, and hopefully to learn, and that's what I tried to do. Over time, I found I was surprisingly resilient. Every day, women would come into the shelter with eyes blackened and noses bloodied. Some had had teeth knocked out. Some had had bones broken. But no matter what the havoc was that was on display, I was able somehow to remain calm, to keep my head. Truth be told, it was strange. Perhaps I had come to the right place, I thought. Maybe I was doing what I was actually meant to do all along. And then one night, a woman arrived with two young children in tow. During their time at the shelter, they quickly became my favorites. Those two kids were sweet as pie. Unlike most of the arrivals, this threesome seemed physically fine. Upon closer inspection, I noticed a small red welt running across the front of the mother's collarbone. A line that had crisscrossed at the bottom of her neck. But that was it. No other sign of trauma. The two kids were taken to the playroom by one of the other counselors while I did the intake form with the mother. Everything seemed to be under control. Marcy, I think you want to be on the next slide. She began to tell her story. Sadly, one that had become rather routine to me after a few months of working at the shelter. She described the increasingly disturbing behavior of her husband, who had now become violent. And when I asked if she had any injuries we should attend to, she hesitated. I waited. The silence growing awkward as the pause continued. And finally, she pointed to that red line on her throat. Choosing her words carefully and deliberately. She explained that she had been with her husband in the kitchen during his latest explosion. And in his fury, he ripped the toaster out of the wall and then used the loosen cord to make a loop he lassoed around her neck. Before pulling both ends in the opposite direction. He had tried to strangle his wife with the cord of a toaster. Ultimately leaving her unconscious on the kitchen floor after she blacked out from lack of oxygen. Without warning, I felt the room begin to spin. Tears sprang to my eyes. After witnessing all sorts of oozing gashes and eyes swollen shut in bloody lips. It was this faint red line. That sent me over the edge. I apologized and quickly left the room in an effort to regain my composure, which I did. But the impact of that conversation never left me. Eventually she and her two children left the shelter to make their way in the world. Many others return to their abusive situations, sometimes once, sometimes twice. Sometimes on more occasions than I can now recall. Our population was largely native given our proximity to the reservation, which made a complicated situation, even more so. The cultural, political and familial constructs were so different than what I had been exposed to previously. I struggled with the learning curve. I struggled with what it meant to provide a safe haven while still allowing the clients their own choice and their own autonomy, particularly when I disagreed with them. What seemed so very clear to me as the outsider was not necessarily clear. The model of the Jesuit Volunteer Corps is quote unquote ruined for life. And after my year in the JVC, I was ruined. Not in the sense of decay or collapse. But in so far that I could never again see the world in the way I had before. I could never again divorce myself from the hardships that existed all around me. The JVC forced me to see that I had a responsibility to care for those around me, not only as a person of faith, but as a human being as a citizen of the world. Service and social responsibility became for me not just a clarion call, but a lifestyle. An inspiration that began that very first day in Gonzaga Hall. Story number two. Fast forward, I left the JVC and work for a number of years as a social worker. That was followed by a long stretch of time, working in university admissions, and enormously fulfilling career choice, given that I had had the opportunity to spend every day. Talking to people about what they imagine for their lives and about the kind of person they wanted to become. And then, somewhat unexpectedly, I felt called to ordain ministry. I left my job, entered seminary, was ordained, and after a few years spent as a college chaplain and parish minister, I took a position as the director of spiritual and religious life at Phillips Andover, an independent boarding school located 30 miles or so northwest of Boston. For 12 years, I ran their chapel program, sat on various committees, and lived in a dorm with 37 teenage girls. Crazy as it sounds, it was actually my favorite part of the job. Being surrounded by the hum of adolescents, and living with people from all over the world, made for an incredibly rich and joy filled life. Not a life for everyone I suspect, but for me, a Cinderella slipper. But as is often the case, no path is smooth forever. And during my tenure at Andover, both of my parents died the second just a few months after my 50th birthday. Those two losses, combined with such a significant life marker, pushed me off course. Grief strickened, and suddenly very aware of my own mortality. I began to reexamine much of the way I was living my life. And as you might imagine, some changes seemed in order. So I decided after a good deal of reflection that I would mark my 50th birthday by walking the Camino de Santiago. It was just the kind of epic adventure I thought I needed to rouse me out of my malaise. Most assumed it was something I had been dreaming about for many years, a brass ring of sorts that I had finally decided to grab. All of which couldn't be further from the truth. It was actually during a cocktail party at my headmaster's house that the Camino was first introduced to me. I was hunkered down in the corner of the living room, trying unsuccessfully to balance a small plate of cheese and crackers on my knees, when one of the other guests made her way over to me. After discovering I was a minister, she excitedly told me of her desire to walk the Camino. When I returned her enthusiasm with a blank stare, she launched into a detailed description of the famous pilgrimage path. The more she spoke, the more enamored I became. Long distance challenges had been an interest of mine, but this walk, nearly 500 miles across an unfamiliar landscape with virtually no support systems presented an entirely different kind of trial. I began to pepper her with questions. But instead of being deterred by the frightful details. I felt my heart come alive. Who was this woman? And why was I so drawn to this crazy notion of walking across Spain? Hoping not to appear too much like a Pollyanna. I told her the Camino sounded like something I might like to try. Her eyes sparkled, as she said. I thought so. Santiago is believed to be the final resting place of St. James the Apostle. As the Hague geography tells us, James traveled to this Iberian Peninsula to preach the good news of his fledgling Christian church. And after his martyrdom, his remains were transported by boat from Jerusalem to Santiago, and then buried. During the Middle Ages, Santiago was a popular pilgrimage destination. But over time, the members had dropped precipitously. So it should come as no surprise then, when the reaction I received upon declaring my intent to walk the Camino fell somewhere between ignorance and disbelief. Why would you want to do that? My friends enjoined. Good question, I thought. To walk the Camino is to literally traverse the width of northern Spain. You begin by crossing over the Pyrenees Mountains in France, and then make your way across the rolling wine country and wheat fields of eastern Spain, including the towns of Pamplona and Burgos. The Middle Third provides an entirely different kind of terrain. On the Meseta, a bleak outcrop of rock, the land is flat and the heat is blistering. There is no shade. Access to water is nearly non-existent. And if you must make a very strenuous ascent and then descent to get to the top and then to the bottom of the butte. If you somehow manage to do all that, the last section contains dense mountain woodlands with peaks high enough that you are often pelted by rain and in some cases snow, even in the middle of summer. This was clearly not a trip for the faint of heart. And it's not something you can do quickly, at least I knew I couldn't do it quickly. I estimated it would take me approximately 40 days to walk across Spain, perhaps longer. I knew I would need to train. I knew I would need to acquire the right equipment. I knew I would need to convince my spouse that this endeavor was safe, perhaps even convince her to join me. But most importantly, I needed to figure out why. Why was I so rabid about taking on this challenge? In the end, I think the main reason behind that longing was a spiritual one. I had endured some pretty significant body blows by that point. But I remained convinced if somehow I stripped away all of the noise and confusion. If my daily routine could be distilled into just putting one foot in front of the other. I would have the time and the bandwidth to experience the full extent of my emotions. In a cruel twist of fate. Just a month before I left for Spain. Kim McElaney, the woman who had changed the course of my life by guiding me toward the Jesuit Volunteer Corps all those years ago, died of cancer. She was just 55 years old. Now, more than ever, I was convinced this journey, no matter how difficult, was absolutely necessary. I had to do the pilgrimage. To tell the full story of my walk across Spain would take far more time than we'd be given. But just to quench your appetite a bit, I did complete the pilgrimage, arriving at the cathedral in Santiago after 37 days. I was fortunate to have four others on the journey with me, my wife, and a particularly adventurous coworker, and two students who had just graduated from Andover the month prior. I was just 18 years of age at the time of our departure. We were quite a crew. The experience of walking the Camino and sharing it with those four wonderful souls is now and forever will be one of the most cherished memories of my life. Let me end tonight's reflection with a short musing oddly enough about my backpack. There is no topic, none, that sparks more conversation between pilgrims as the contents and thus the weight of one's pack. So I thought I'd ask each of you to do some quick math with me over Zoom, a hypothetical musing on what you might take on such a journey. We'll start with your current weight as one's pack size is directly related to the size of its hiker. So with that figure in mind, calculate the value of 10% of the total. So theoretically someone weighing 150 pounds would have this number reduced to 15 pounds, 10% of 150. Backpacks meant to be used for long distance hikes usually come with an interior water bladder. Having enough water is of the utmost importance on a venture such as the Camino. So after filling that bladder, its weight balloons to just about eight pounds. So take your weight, multiply that by 10% and then subtract eight from the total. The number that remains is what the ideal weight of all of your gear should be. Now I bet many of you carry a backpack or briefcase or messenger bag or purse. And inside are items you imagine you'll need for the day, perhaps even a few extras you want to have just in case. And I'd venture to guess that if I hoisted your bag right now, it likely weighs more than our previous calculation would allow. So imagine what would happen if I told you the contents of that bag would need to sustain you for 40 days outside in all kinds of weather. I bet many of you would react like I did. That's insane. I have to bring more than that. And you could if you wanted to. But when you're walking 500 miles across difficult terrain, the things you thought you needed suddenly don't seem so important. Case in point, just prior to our trip, the five of us got together to sort through what we were going to take. There were certain essential items we all agreed upon our backpacks, our sleeping bags, our footwear. But that left a pile of clothes and supplies scattered across my living room floor that completely dwarfed my pack. Socks and gloves and jackets and eyeglasses and towels, you name it. Surely I couldn't go on a trip without these things, without a jackknife, without a camera, without a cell phone charger. The pile also included medical supplies, everything from band-aids to a snake bite kit. As I looked at the jumble oozing out in every direction, I thought to myself, I don't even have enough room in my pack for a granola bar. This collection needed more than a weight loss program. It needed a full-blown intervention. The winnowing process that followed began with my clothes. Eventually included a pair of binoculars, a sleeping mat, a flashlight, even a spare roll of toilet paper. In time, the pile became small enough at least to give me a fighting chance at jamming the remaining items into my pack. And then, to keep all of us from getting too discouraged, we decided to take one luxury item on the trip. Something that gave us pleasure or comfort, even if it wasn't practical. When it was my turn, I was torn. There are few things in the world that give me more pleasure than books. But the thought of enduring two long flights, countless hours in various airports, and potentially 40 nights in rural Spain without something to read, was virtually unthinkable. But books are heavy, and my pack was already bulging. Although it pained me, it just didn't make any sense. So reluctantly, I pushed aside the stack of books I had chosen for the trip, and instead slipped 40 pieces of bazooka bubble gum into the remaining side pocket of my pack. Every day I was on the Camino as the sun disappeared behind the horizon, I opened a piece of gum and popped it into my mouth. That sugary taste of home gave me something to look forward to, especially after a long or difficult day of hiking. The lesson of my backpack wasn't to ascertain what I needed to take. It was to discern how to be free of the things I needed to leave behind. Every pilgrim I met brought too much and straining under the weight would abandon items, even valuable ones, during moments of discomfort or fatigue. And that's what I needed to do as well. In the beginning, I focused on peering down the actual contents of my pack. But during the pilgrimage, I attempted the much more difficult task of letting go of the other things that were surreptitiously weighing me down. I tried to rid for my life things that were unhealthy. Whether they were old habits or toxic relationships or grudges, I had held for no apparent reason other than spite. I tried to trust that I didn't need to barricade myself, but kind a kind of protective wall of achievement. Over the course of those 500 miles, I tried to remember that life was a journey of faith. My backpack proved to be a good litmus test, a rather telling commentary on all the things I thought I needed. Only to learn even amidst the most challenging of circumstances that most of what I carried was completely unnecessary. And finally, the Camino taught me the subtle difference between being a traveler and being a pilgrim. The traveler enjoys moving through the world, seeing new things and appreciating new experiences. But the pilgrim, the pilgrim searches the world, listening for the voice that beckons, calling them deeper into their interior life. Tonight, I urge you to consider the wisdom of our Jesuit founders and make the tenants of social responsibility, service, and developing your own spiritual life a priority. And make sure they got that one right. Thank all of you so very much. Thank you so much. And I am so you did. That was incredible. And I'm so grateful for your sharing and for your participation here with us tonight. It really was such a gift for all of us to hear your story. And I think particularly at this time, given the pandemic and what people are going through to hear that calling and that invitation to recognize what it is that we need and what it is that we think we need to find where that discernment is is really it's something that we can all bring to our prayer. So I'm so grateful for your participation and for your worry sharing that with us. I one question before we take some questions from from the rest of the people participating here that really resonated with me is can you in your work with students because particularly because you work with high school students, you talked about, you know, sort of getting off the conveyor belt that that you did all the things that you thought that you should be doing, and that it, something was inviting you to something deeper something different. And I wonder how it is that you work with students what you're seeing in them now and and how you invite them to that kind of contemplation and discernment. Before I talk a little bit about that, I just wanted to recognize Father Allen, who I have seen since 1982 and my own graduation, Father Allen who is on my screen was the priest who lived on my floor in Gonzaga, the first floor of Gonzaga so thank you Father Allen for all of the impact that you had on my life which I hope you see in my talk tonight it's really great seeing you here tonight. So thanks. I think I speak for all of us when we all say we're grateful to see Father Allen with us tonight here. Yay. Very much so. As far as, you know, I think it's enormously difficult to be a teenager. And I think it's become much more difficult to be a teenager now than it ever was when I was one, and particularly working with students that are in some pretty high power institutions that feel literally inside their bones feel the pressure of expectation of their parents and their communities to do all the right things to make all the right decisions that will somehow give them a magic gold ring. It's very hard to push back against that wave. And I think for the most part, teenagers do far less listening to words than they do watching actions. They talk and talk and talk, and it might go in and it might come out, but they watch what you do. And if what they see represents something counter cultural and I think for people that consider themselves to be deeply religious and devout, and they think about their life using a different kind of yardstick when they see that example. It gives them an opportunity to think maybe that's something about that will resonate with them. And I leave it to them, of course, to choose their own path their own lives to make their way just like people let me make my way. And I think that that will be in the back of their head, just like Father Allen was in the back of my head, and that somehow as their 20s turn into their 30s into their 40s etc. That part of those lessons will somehow stay with them. Thank you so much. And I agree with you and I think that when we model that behavior and when they see that it liberates someone else to do the same. I have a question here from Mario asking. Thank you for sharing. Can you tell us about the book you wrote Mario. Thanks for the plug. I know you're out there somewhere on the screen. I can't see you. Yes, this is, I think for probably all of my life. I'm going to write a book that this was my great goal for my life to have a library of Congress number that this was the thing which showed you what a nerdy kid I was. I was incredibly nerdy, but this was my goal and I spent a lot of my life thinking, I don't think I have anything to say. And I think that was part of not only my time but more importantly everyone else's time to actually spend page by page and going through it. And as I was on the Camino, one of the things that occurred to me was, maybe this is the thing. Maybe this is the thing I've been waiting for because of course part of it is mechanically about how you do a long distance walk. And it's much more about why you would ever want to walk 500 miles than how to walk 500 miles. So it's out there in the world it's looking for a publisher, maybe someone on this screen can find me a publisher. So please let Marcy know and she can patch you through to me, but even if it never goes outside of my own living room. It was a joy to spend time kind of toiling that soil and having something come out that really was important and worthy for me, and maybe someday it'll be worthy for all of you. Thanks Mario. Thank you and thanks Mario, we have a question from Patricia Davidson. Yes. Patricia. Yes, I was. Oops, and I can you hear you can hear you. Thank you. I work with Anna Phillips Academy and and over and so I can tell you that she's been an incredible role model, not only to the students that she lived with and worked with but with to all of her colleagues and peers at the school. I wonder if there has been sort of a specific grounding principle or idea that you know germinated on your trip that allowed you that you kind of go back to in your moments of wonder or questioning or angst or whatever was there. So is there a single sort of overarching takeaway message from your, from your trip or your walk, your pilgrimage, or would you say it was just sort of a general sense of getting in touch with your own spirituality in your core. Yeah, it was certainly a tapestry. I couldn't narrow it down to one thing. But I think for me. One of the things that became so very clear to me it was something I knew about myself before, but it became crystal clear to me, as I did this walk was just how much I rely on walking as a spiritual practice that by walking I exercise out all of my demons, no matter how wedge they are into my heart. And I free myself of all that kinetic energy that is really unhelpful and unhealthy, but it takes moving literally moving across the landscape to let me shed things. I'm not good at shedding things. I hold on pretty tight to the reins and it's been sort of the bane of my existence for almost my whole life. So this as I think it's really great if you can find a spiritual practice that works. Some people find it in nature some people find it in silence. Some people find it in walking some people find it in reading. Some people my more extroverted friends find it in community. I'm suffering now particularly because of the pandemic in not having that way to really let their heart be full. But I think more than anything, I know that this is the thing I can always go back to no matter where I am on the emotional spectrum. This is the thing that works for me, my magic wand. Thank you. I have a lot of people representing from the class of 1982, who say that you that you look so at peace and you look fabulous. Thank you, all of you. Your glasses on, just like mine are off yours must be off too. And a couple people who are also happy to see Father Alan on this tonight and who are back from Gonzaga one back in 1983 Father Alan so I'm going to bring you finally from there. Someone is asking about the amigas and where they might get more information about that I'm happy to send you a link to some more information about the amigas. Who are what we like to call the women of St Ignatius we will also be hosting three other events. One more this semester and two next semester. And a little bit more about the amigas during those events as well. If does anyone else have any other questions for and today if you want to raise your hand or put something in the chat, I can reach out to you. Oh Jean. Hi. Hi. How are you all. How are you. And I'm just wondering if you ever came across Father Tony Jarvis and any of your work in Boston. I have not Jean tell me. He's an Episcopalian priest was he's he passed away but he was at Roxbury Latin, who was a headmaster for many years there. And he taught at Yale Divinity School, the other. We didn't have much interaction with day school programs. Our, our peer colleagues were really just the boarding school community. So I did. Okay. Yeah, I just thought maybe you would have crossed paths with him he was who's wonderful. Any other questions. Mario. I'm going to unmute you you have to unmute yourself. Hi there. So, we were in that that crew where most of us in our class in our group of friends went off to the Jesuit volunteer core, and one of us went off to the seminary. But you are actually the only one better ordained. Can you talk a little bit about what your ministry means to you. And how that was really founded or the influence that Fairfield and the Jesuit spirituality instilled in you that brought you to this place. Yeah. Well, first and foremost, credit goes to my mother, who was not only a very very devout Catholic, but a woman of her own mind. She came for me to consider different colleges. She announced that I would be going to a Catholic college. And what she meant by that was a Jesuit college, only the great 28 were in consideration in 1978 when I was choosing a college. She really felt like not only was it important for me to have an opportunity to meet to meet like minded souls, as she called it. But she really wanted me to have a rigorous intellectual experience, and she wanted me to engage spiritually in my education, not just above my Adams apple. My mother got me to Fairfield, and Fairfield got me to the JVC. And I think after that, like many folks, I had a period where I was sort of a wash. Because my own Catholic experience in the parish, not at Fairfield, but in the parish gave me pretty significant blinders about what I could do as a woman in my church. And I felt like, because I could never quite crack that code, like many folks I stopped going to church because I just couldn't find a place. And as an Irish Catholic woman, I just couldn't imagine any other place like there was just the Catholic church or nothing. So it took me a long time and it was only through a series of kind of bizarre coincidences that I came across the Episcopal church and recognized, wow, this is so similar to the things I've been missing about my own church experience, so similar physiologically, liturgically, historically, but just enough wiggle room to let me in the door so I could think about what it would feel like to be a leader in a different kind of way in my church. But I don't think I would ever even have made that step if I didn't have the Jesuits behind me saying, God gave you a mind for a reason, use it. It doesn't just depend on this tome, this rule book. Do what you feel God is calling you to do. Go out and do it. Thanks for that question. There is a question from Ellen Cabot saying I saw the movie the way and I feel compelled to walk. I love the line in the movie. We don't choose a life we live it. What do you think about that. Well, Ellen, that's a movie. It's not really how it is. And Martin Sheen is never sweating and he doesn't. Groovy and no, that's not the way it is. But it's incredibly worthwhile and any time of the week you want to get together for dinner and have us chat about it. I will give you the hard sell on the communal maybe you don't even need the hard sell. But I think that's true that I think a lot of us, you know, think a lot about what we might like to do where we might like to go, what kind of experiences we might like to have. And then we find reasons somehow never quite to pull the trigger. And Camino is one of those things that you can do all of everybody on the screen you can do because it's something you can do in your own way at your own pace in your own time. If you want to do it, it's there for the taking. So yes, live your life, live your life. And one last question because I don't want to take up too much for your time, but it is from Bert Rolston. He says, and you have one memory of a physical item with which you started the walk and the moment when you set it aside. I do. All of us took various things on the trip with us. We each had a banner on our pack that was based on the word go. Mine was let go. I think my wife best who didn't really want to go was just go. There were all kinds of goes but about two thirds of the way through the Camino, you get to the very highest point the apex of the walk, and to get there is an arduous climb. There are very large cross and surrounding the base of the cross or all of these rocks or shells or pictures or items of clothing things that people have brought, and they've carried with them so that they can set them at the mark to be able to let go of them. And each of us brought something. And of course because I couldn't bear to let go of anything in my pack. So I decided I would write something. So I stood at the base of that cross and I wrote a note, and I, you know, curled it all up, and I jammed it into a couple of crevices between the rocks before turning away and going the rest of the way. Maybe one of you will find it when you go to. Thanks Bert. I think like Ignatius is conversion yours is ongoing and inviting you to for even deeper interior life and expression in this world and for that we are so very grateful. So grateful to have you here with us tonight to kick off our Amiga series. I hope you'll come back and join us again. And before we leave, we are just going to close with a prayer. That is called God, please make us dangerous women. May we. May we be women who acknowledge our power to change and grow and be radically alive for God. May we be healers of wounds and writers of wrongs. May we weep with those who weep and speak for those who cannot speak for themselves. May we encourage children embrace the elderly and empower the poor. May we pray deeply and teach wisely. We may may we be strong and gentle leaders. May we sing songs of joy and talk down fear. May we never hesitate to let passion push us conviction compel us and righteous anger energize us. May we take fear into all that is unjust and evil in the world. May we dismantle abusive systems and silence lies with truth. May we shine like stars in the darkened generation. May we overflow with the goodness in the name of God and by the power of Jesus and in that name and by that power. May we change the world. May we honor God, make us dangerous women. Amen. To all of the Enigas out there, God bless you and thank you. My very deep and profound respect and thanks for Reverend Ann Gardner. My fellow Eniga. We will hopefully see you soon and God bless you all and thank you for joining us. Thank you so much. Thank you.