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.
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