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The next day I returned to the scene and asked Jesus once again to show me the rest: in other words, the Resurrection. And I realized sadly that I would have made a poor martyr—asking for evidence of “new life” before accepting my cross. Though I knew not to compare myself to the Jesuit martyrs, I seemed already to have failed. I felt cast down.

At noontime I walked into the dining room where someone had put on a CD from the movie Out of Africa. The music transported me back to my years in Kenya. An hour later in the chapel, I was awash in memories of my time in East Africa and pictured myself standing with Mary, still clad in black, on the grassy hillside I loved near the Jesuit Refugee Service office, the place where I had felt great consolation years ago, a place that still symbolized great freedom and joy for me.

Together Mary and I walked through the places where I had worked during my two years in Nairobi: through the little shop we had started for the refugees, through the dimly lit refugee houses, through the wide grassy paths that I would take returning from work, through the sprawling slums where the refugees lived. I saw their bright faces, I could hear their East African accents, and I could feel their warm affection.

This is a nice resurrection, I thought. But was this all there was? Was this enough for me?

Then, all at once, Jesus was standing beside me, radiant and joyful in his dazzling white robe. This was something I hadn’t needed to imagine: it simply appeared in my mind. Jesus reached out his hand and said, “Follow me!” The two of us returned to the same places, one by one, now with him holding my hand. It was a vivid reminder that he had been with me throughout my stay.

Jesus appeared in the place where I had felt the freest in my life. It was a surprising, personal, and intimate way to experience a resurrection. For, in a flash, it dawned on me that only by accepting the loneliness and tiredness was I able to experience what I had found in Kenya. God seemed to be saying, “Yes, you must accept the loneliness and the tiredness, but here is what awaits you when you do. Here is what happens when you say yes. And you know this from experience. Here is the new life.”

This experience was a reminder of how helpful Ignatian prayer can be, offering a moment that is at once personal, meaningful, transformative, and even difficult to communicate to others. It was also a reminder of why spiritual direction is helpful—without Paul’s guidance I would have simply avoided entering into this passage.

Since that time I’ve not feared the loneliness or overwork as much. It is part of what I’m asked to accept about my life. But I also know that acceptance means that I can often see signs of new life. The cross leads to resurrection.

All this leads back to obedience. God sometimes asks each of us to accept certain things that seem at the time unacceptable. Unbearable. Even impossible. For me it was loneliness and tiredness. For another it might be terrible illness. For another, the loss of a job. For another, the death of a spouse. For another, a stressful family situation.

This doesn’t mean you court those things or that some things should not be changed. “Don’t work even longer hours because of your retreat!” said my friend Chris after the retreat. Rather, some struggles in life are unavoidable. And, at least in my own life, embracing them may sometimes lead to new ways of finding God.

This small insight may pale in the face of whatever suffering you are experiencing. But it has helped me in my life, and I wanted to share it with you, and I hope it might help you during tough times.

The insight goes by many names: accepting the “reality of the situation,” as Walter Ciszek would say; surrendering to “the future that God has in store,” as Sister Janice would say; taking up “your cross daily,” as Jesus would say. Acceptance. Abandonment. Humility. Poverty of spirit. Finding God in all things.

All of them are talking about the same thing, and all these words and phrases point to one word, a word