In my previous journal entry, I reflected on how the retreat led me to confront my own sinfulness within the safety of God’s mercy. I was reminded that I do not make myself right with God; I am made right through Jesus Christ. But forgiveness is never the end of the story. Mercy restores us not only to peace, but to purpose.
As the Exercises moved into what St. Ignatius calls “The Call of the King,” I found myself standing at a new threshold. If Jesus has lifted me out of the pit, where is He now leading me? And more personally: How will I respond to His call?
Each day’s preparation prayer remained the same—that everything in my life would be more and more directed toward God’s service and praise. But the grace I was now instructed to ask for felt more searching: that I might not be deaf to His call, and that I would be ready and willing to do whatever He desires.
Ignatius first presents the image of a noble human king who calls his people to join him in a great mission—to labor with him in the heat of the day and remain faithful in the loneliness of the night watches, sharing both the hardship and the victory. If such a king were good and just, who would not want to follow him?
Then comes the deeper invitation: Christ the King calls us to join Him in His mission—not only in glory, but in struggle, rejection, and suffering. To labor with Him. To follow Him. To share in His life fully.
And that is where I felt something in me hesitate.
Why would people not want this call? The answers surfaced quickly: it is hard work. It disrupts a comfortable life. It involves suffering. There is a real cost. And our human hearts are rarely content; we want control more than surrender.
When I first prayed this meditation, I felt reluctance—an unpleasant, heavy resistance. I did not want to acknowledge the feeling, because I would have felt guilty for having it; yet I did not want to ignore it either and continue praying half-heartedly. So instead of pressing on, I went to sleep. The next morning, as I walked the labyrinth, I carried that heaviness with me. Then, in the quiet, I sensed a simple nudge: Just say it.
So I did. “I don’t want to.”
There was something freeing in that honesty. No thoughts are hidden from God. I realized I have the freedom to bring my true feelings before Him. And immediately, Jesus in Gethsemane came to mind. He also said, in His own way, “I do not want this.” Yet He added, “Not my will, but Yours be done.”
That shifted everything.
Did Jesus “want” to enter fully into human limitation and suffering? Did Mary “want” the uncertainty and cost of her yes? Did God “want” to love a people who continually turn away? Perhaps the question is not about desire in a shallow sense, but about love. Love says yes even when the path is costly.
So I found myself praying: I may not want to—but because I am chosen as God’s daughter and called to be His servant, I will say yes. Not by my strength, but only by His grace. Come what may.
This movement led me into prayer: “Search me, God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.” (Psalm 139:23-24)
And slowly, I began to echo the offering prayer of the King meditation: “Eternal Lord and King of all creation, humbly I come before You. Knowing the support of [the Holy Spirit,] I'm moved by Your grace to offer myself to You and to Your work. I desire to be with You—even in rejection, poverty, and struggle—if it is for Your greater service and praise. If You, my Lord and King, would call and choose me, then take and receive me into such way of life.” (Draw Me Into Your Friendship, Ignatius of Loyola, translated by David L. Fleming, S.J., [98])
The question that remains with me is simple and searching: How is my “yes” to God?
This part of the retreat revealed that following Christ is not sentimental. It is costly. But it is also the only path that leads to true glory—not comfort, but communion; not ease, but eternal purpose.
And so the friendship deepens—not only in receiving mercy, but in responding with surrender.