“To wonder is to stand in the towering shadow of God however frightened we are of our own smallness. Like Moses, let us pause at the buses that burn. Like Tomas, let us bend for a closer look at Christ—even if, paradoxically, it’s doubt that reaches to touch his side. Let us have certainty when it’s available; let us have humility when it’s not.” – Jen Pollock Michel, Surprised by Paradox
Everything about this view is comforting—familiar. I’ve marveled at the symmetrical beauty of the magnolia lane dozens of times. The glistening leaves of the towering Magnolia Grandiflora trees mark the old entrance to the Monastery of the Holy Spirit. When you stand there, you feel minuscule, like you are a part of something grand that must have always existed this way. Like you could melt away and no one would notice you were ever there.
I imagine the changes to the world that these trees have witnessed during their stalwart watch over the monks who arrived on the old plantation grounds in 1944. Beyond that, I haven’t thought much about the trees before. Nestled on over 1,000 acres of Georgia woodlands, the monastery offers many other sights like the geese by the lake or the glorious stained glass windows.
I’ve always arrived with a purpose in mind. I always like to be here during the liminal space between two years, asking God to guide me as I enter the next season. I’ve come when discerning a big decision that I need to wisdom for. I’ve been on retreats to learn from a few of the 300 remaining Cistercian monks in the world about a specific topic like contemplative prayer or writing. I’ve always brought expectation as my companion to this place.
Today is different. I am on a solo retreat with no agenda. The church, cafe, and museum are all still closed due to the pandemic. I can’t converse with the brothers or join them for prayer today.
Yet, I need a weekend of silence and some time on what always feels like holy ground to me.
The world has been extra noisy lately. The voices shouting about elections and diseases, sides to take, and lines to draw—have become too much to take. I come to God with a million questions that I am not sure how to begin to ask.
I feel aimless at first. I open my Bible. I journal for a while. I sit in silent prayer. Then, I just start to wander the grounds.
I amble past the trees, at first looking up at the way they seem to touch the sky. That’s usually what I notice about them—their height and their shine, the way the leaves are never changing year-round when everything around them seems to whither.
Today my pace is slower so I stop to notice the sunlight that is much brighter at the base of trees that reach all the way to the ground, no trunk visible. They seem one with the earth, like there is no dividing line between the two.
I step closer and the vision changes. The branches touching the earth aren’t springing from below; they grow sharply downward from the middle of the trunk, jutting out at strange angles. They conceal a cavelike area between the branches and the trunk of the tree.
CONTINUE READING AT THE MUDROOM
In October, I am free writing for five minutes a day—raw and unedited—on practicing faith in the every day. Each day is based on a different prompt from 31 Days of Five Minute Free Writes.
{Day 19} -Notice
I don't notice little details. My husband laughs when I say I am the least observant person because he knows it's probably true. I will often drive the same road over and over without noticing the name of the street or which store I turn at to get to a certain place. If I am not driving, I don't notice anything around me. I just stare off at the passing scenery or more likely have my nose in a book.
I am horrible with names, forgetting them easily. If you ask me to describe a person I met, I am hard pressed to describe their hair color or height.
It's not that I don't care but that my mind can't seem to be still. If I am riding in a car, I am probably thinking about the place I need to go next or the item on my to-do list I have to get to after this. If I am talking to you, I am probably thinking of my response or how I want to phrase that next statement because my mind thinks faster than my words can keep up with. If I am working, I am doing the task at hand while I think about the kids, the groceries, the laundry, and a million other things. I know better than to try to write in my own home because some distraction will take hold of me and I will stop writing to chase down some other task that seems more urgent.
Maybe it isn't that I don't notice little details but that I notice too much. I try to take it all in at once and I just don't have the ability to see it all. I need to slow down and focus on the thing in front of me, really see it. The person in front of me can so easily get lost in the jumble of my thoughts and I miss their needs, what they are really trying to communicate. I can miss out on worshipping altogether when my mind jumps around instead of being still in the Presence of God. Lord, teach me to stop. To notice. To be fully present wherever I am.
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