WHY BEAUTY SAVES

What Draws Your Soul Above the Fray?

We do not want merely to see beauty, though, God knows, even that is bounty enough. We want something else which can hardly be put into words–to be united with the beauty we see, to pass into it, to receive it into ourselves, to bathe in it, to become part of it.

—C.S. Lewis

The sunlight through the stained glass: a vision of angels guarding a child at St. Thomas parish, my niece posing proudly with her winning art submission—a snowman, his carefully painted twig arm reaching out for snowflakes, my husband reading Hatchet to my son—last lines cracking in his voice, holding down the tears that come from reliving past touchstones through your children’s eyes.

These were the little glimpses of beauty throughout my past week.

Why does beauty make us weep? Why does it feel like a homesickness for somewhere we’ve never been?

Beauty has always been a portal to the Divine. We’ve been living through decades of shallow decadence, and deconstruction as a sign of virtue but real beauty in all its order and awe can reorient us towards what is true.

In our modern world, beauty is often mistaken for luxury, something ornamental or reserved for the elite few. But that’s a cultural lie. Our souls are hardwired to crave what lifts us beyond utility. Yet, we live in a time of aesthetic fatigue: endless content, perfectly curated feeds, algorithmically-generated visuals… and still, we feel numb.

There’s no soul behind the shine.

We’ve become efficient at producing and consuming—but poor at contemplating. And so, the hunger deepens. We scroll and scroll, hoping something will stir us. And when something genuinely moving does—unexpectedly, without our control—it stops us in our tracks. A sacred interruption.

That’s not to say beauty can’t appear in a perfectly targeted Pinterest image or a viral, heart-tugging meme that captures your unique friendship in a single frame. But often, we’re moving too fast to linger and investigate what it stirred in us.

In a world saturated with imagery, it’s easy to mistake what is striking for what is truly beautiful. We’re conditioned to equate beauty with curated perfection—with the glossy, the filtered, the aspirational. That’s glamour. That’s seduction.

Glamour stirs envy. Seduction wants to possess. Beauty invites us to behold.

Hallow > hollow.

Beauty cannot be separated from virtue. It reorients us and creates harmony in the soul because it reflects the harmony of the divine.

That’s why a grainy, poorly lit photo of a mother smiling down at her sleeping baby can move us more than any Leibovitz-styled starlet on the cover of Vogue. Why classical music still quiets the heart in a way pop anthems never can. Why Gothic cathedrals, centuries old, still wets the modern eye. These moments and objects aren't merely pleasing—they carry the weight of sacrifice.

And sacrifice is what gives them meaning.

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It’s no wonder, then, that throughout history, women have served as curators of beauty. She makes a sacred offering of her youth and body to carry the next generation, becoming an embodied bridge between heaven and earth. Later, she turns her attention to beautifying the nest—through her home, her dress, her speech, and her art. Often unseen but deeply felt, her role is to set the tone of the spaces around her, shaping the spiritual and emotional atmosphere.

This is part of what Pope John Paul II called the “feminine genius” a unique capacity to receive, nurture, and humanize. It’s an elegant power.

For women to reclaim beauty in an age of crudity is no small thing. It is a quiet rebellion. We become a counterpoint. A keeper of harmony.

In Christian theology, beauty is understood as a property of God Himself, alongside truth and goodness. To encounter it, even fleetingly, is to brush against the hem of the Lord.

Even now, conversion rarely begins with a debate. It begins with a stirring. A painting. A piece of music. A glimpse of someone living with an undefined radiance. These moments are invitations. And if we pay attention, they pull us out of ourselves and up toward God.

This is why we must not only seek to consume beauty— but also create and protect it. Whether it’s in the way we decorate our homes, interact with our children, prepare our meals, or celebrate our traditions. We can either build temples or add to the rubble of Babylon.

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Curating a Beautiful Life

If beauty is a doorway to the divine, then our little lives can become sanctuaries.

It doesn’t have to be grandiose, like the ancient cathedrals or a classical opus. It can be small acts repeated with love. It just requires intention.

To live a beautiful life is not to chase the sublime, but to live with the awareness that the physical environment we create can either exhaust the soul or uplift it. The words we choose, the clothes we wear, the music we play—all of it can be liturgical.

This is weighty, I know. And God knows we’re not perfect. We just need to begin gently, somewhere…

Create one corner in your home for silence and prayer. It doesn’t need to be elaborate. An armchair by a window. A special candle. A stack of worn books. Let it be a place where you return again and again—not just to escape, but to remember.

Choose one beautiful garment and wear it as an offering. Not for compliments. Not to impress. But as an outward sign of the dignity and beauty within you. What makes you feel pretty even if nobody sees you in it?

Speak beauty into your children’s days. Point out the golden light on the trees. Read poetry aloud. Let them grow up knowing that beauty is something to be noticed, not scrolled past. They may roll their eyes, they may give you that obligatory head nod, but just keep at it. They will remember it somewhere in their souls and realize the lasting imprints when they are grown.

Play music that uplifts instead of background noise. Let your home become a place where harmony is cultivated. Let music help shape the atmosphere.

Make art a regular part of your life. You don’t need to call yourself “artistic” to experience the profound benefits of creating something. Try it. Whether you scribble in a daily journal, brush oil across a canvas, arrange flowers in a vase, shape clay with your kids, or dust off that mirrorless camera. The making…that’s what transforms you.

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Because ultimately, we were made for beauty. Not just to see it, but to enter it. This is what C.S. Lewis meant: that beauty is a homesickness for Eden. A yearning for heaven.

So let us become keepers of beauty in a time of noise. Let us slow down enough to notice it, to make space for it, to pass it on. One candle lit. One meal made with care. One song played in the gloaming.