In my last journal entry, I reflected on “The Call of the King”—the moment of standing before Christ and wrestling honestly with my hesitation before finally whispering a grace-dependent “yes.” That meditation revealed that following Jesus is not sentimental; it is costly. Yet it also showed me that love chooses obedience, even when the path feels uncertain.
As the retreat continued, however, the focus shifted in a surprising way. After the call came something quieter: formation. Before public ministry—before miracles and crowds—there were hidden years. The King who calls us to labor with Him first chose to grow slowly, obediently, and almost invisibly.
This next movement of the Exercises invited me not only to follow Christ in mission, but to accompany Him in His hidden life—to watch, to learn, and to discover that obedience is formed long before it is displayed.
The rest of the week unfolded with unexpected joy. I was invited to use my imagination in praying the Scriptures, entering scenes not as a distant observer, but as someone present within them. I found myself sharing in the joy of the shepherds (Luke 2:1-21), standing in reverent awe with the magi before the newborn King (Matthew 2:1-12), and feeling the astonishment of Simeon as he held the long-awaited Messiah in his arms (Luke 22:22-40). I sensed the quiet urgency of Joseph and Mary as they fled to Egypt (Matthew 2:13-18), carrying both fear and trust in their hearts.
As I prayed through the hidden years of Jesus’ life—His infancy, His childhood, His youth—I often placed myself within the family circle, watching Him grow. I imagined Him as a toddler, playing with friends, learning to eat, walk, and speak, fully dependent on Mary and Joseph. At one point in prayer, I asked Him, “Wasn’t it a hassle to be born as a child—to have to learn everything?” In the stillness, I sensed both His innocent smile and a gentle response: Isn’t it good to be a child? There was an invitation there—to become childlike, to trust fully, to depend without fear.
I pictured Him attending Jewish school, learning the Scriptures, and later working beside Joseph in the carpenter’s shop—crafting tools, building furniture, even making simple toys for neighborhood children. The One through whom all things were made was now shaping wood with His hands. He read. He prayed. He grew. He was obedient—not out of pressure, but out of love.
When I prayed the scene of Jesus at twelve in the temple (Luke 2:41-52), I found myself asking, “Couldn’t You have warned Your parents?” Yet His response echoed clearly: Didn’t you know I had to be in My Father’s house? He was already anchored in the “one thing”—the Father’s will. Others did not always understand Him, and that, too, felt familiar. As I prayed that scene, I sensed how easy it is to want others to understand or affirm our decisions. Yet faithfulness is not about being understood; it is about staying attentive to the Father.
In the long stretch between twelve and thirty, I saw a quiet preparation unfolding—years of hidden obedience, early mornings in prayer, steady growth in wisdom and strength, a calm and rooted life in communion with the Father. His first thirty years prepared Him for the final three. Obedience shaped by love and trust.
That realization became deeply personal. Perhaps these, too, are preparation years for me. The hidden seasons matter. The ordinary days matter. Intimacy with God now shapes faithfulness later.
Watching the child Jesus grow into the obedient Son softened something in my heart. The King who called me into His mission first chose obscurity. The One who would later preach to crowds first learned in silence. The Saviour of the world embraced dependence, growth, and waiting.
And somehow, that made my own slow formation feel sacred.