EYE OF THE NEEDLE

Ever hear the phrase “the eye of the needle”? Of course you have. We

all have. I always assumed it meant something fierce — like Eye of the Storm, or Evil Eye, or that Eye

of the Tiger montage that convinces you that you, too, could climb 72 flights of stairs in sweatpants and 

emotional turmoil.

Turns out?

None of that.

It’s... a gate.

Which feels like disappointing branding.

Every morning I walk my dogs into the woods. There’s a giant metal gate blocking the path — probably

to keep nitwits from hosting unsanctioned monster-truck baptisms or whatever grown adults do after

dark when left unattended.

But on the right side of the gate?

There’s a tiny opening.

And by tiny, I mean:

If I gain three pounds, this becomes a rescue situation.

I could walk around it, but poison ivy is basically the woodland

welcoming committee.

So every morning, I do the same ritual:

Hold my breath.

Suck in my gut.

Let the dogs barrel through like they have brunch reservations. And then I shimmy after them, hoping 

no one is live-streaming this.

It’s humbling. It’s undignified. And it teaches you something

instantly: You cannot bring all your crap with you.

No grudges.

No inflated ego.

No emotional carry-on stuffed to capacity.

Just you.

And maybe your phone — because we’re not saints.

That is the eye of the needle.

Recently at Mass, the priest talked about it — Jesus saying it’s hard

for a rich man to enter the Kingdom. Scholars debate: Some think Jesus

meant we can’t save ourselves.

Others believe the eye of the needle was an actual narrow gate where

camels had to kneel, unload everything, and shimmy through like

ancient, furry commuters.

Either way?

The point is the same:

To get through, you have to let go.

My version is messier. More sarcastic. More... human.

For me, the eye of the needle means this:

If you want to become the best version of yourself, you’ve gotta

unpack your crap.

All of it.

Every grudge.

Every fear.

Every story you tell yourself that was never true.

Every shame memory you replay at 2 a.m. Every emotional dead

raccoon you’ve been dragging behind you like a pet.

Drop it. Leave it at the gate. Throw it into a ditch. I don’t care how

— just release it. Because here’s the part that hits me hard — the part I

never understood when I was walking too fast to notice anything: God

isn’t waiting for you on the other side. God is squeezing through the

gate with you.

Right there, whispering: “Easy now. You don’t need all that stuff.

Let it go. You’re almost through.” And when you finally make it —

when you shimmy, grunt, exhale, and step onto the other side —

something shifts.

Not magically. Not perfectly. But honestly. You stand taller. Your

chest loosens. Your breath deepens. And your hands — the ones that

were gripping everything so tightly — are suddenly empty enough to

hold something good. 

And that’s when it clicks:

The eye of the needle wasn’t the barrier. It was the lesson. It’s not

about shrinking yourself. It’s about dropping what’s been shrinking you.

The grudges. The fear. The shame. The old identity you outgrew

years ago. The emotional luggage you’ve been hauling like it was your

job. Because when you let all that go — you walk through lighter. Freer.

More you. And maybe you walk through a little closer to God.

Not because you chased Him. But because you finally made enough

space to notice He was beside you the whole time.

Because the eye of the needle was never about getting through — it

was about letting go.