Holy Cross revisited

As always, I had a lovely and enriching time at Holy Cross this past weekend. It was a different experience to be on my own instead of with a parish group, but one that brought its own gifts. I was able to get to know the brothers better, and had some excellent spiritual direction from Br. Randy that I'm still processing. As I continue to write about and reflect on my past few weeks, post-CPE and officially into the wilds of job searching, I came across something I wrote after my last retreat at Holy Cross. Even though it was many months ago, I found myself resonating with the experience all over again. It was then that it struck me- I go to the monastery each time to find and re-find God's love. Over and over again.  (Duh. Isn't it silly how obvious revelations can be sometimes?)

My main takeaway from this recent time of retreat, which I am still working on writing about: Wake up! Wake up to your life, your broken and beautiful life! Or, as the poet Mary Oliver so wonderfully put it: “Tell me, what is it you plan to do, with your one wild and precious life?” 

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2015 Lenten Retreat, Holy Cross Monastery

The chapel was ice cold, its white walls and high windows equally cold and barren. The brothers in their two lines sat quietly, one blowing his nose loudly every now and then while the others kept their heads down and pretended not to notice the sound. Far away, a cross with intricate painted scenes from the life of Jesus stood, a splash of color against the bare walls. But even in the bareness, there was something clean about the chapel; cold, clean, and open. A blank slate almost, something to be written on anew by each new person, or an emptiness to be rested in by a wounded soul.

My soul sat in the quietness, worn down and weighed down by the cares of parish life. Worn down in a way that I didn’t even fully understand until I entered into the stillness, until the fast moving tides of the world ceased and I found my muscles fatigued, my mind empty, my joy a barely burning ember.

What was left after the anxiety and exhaustion ebbed away was a sadness. How had I gotten to this place? Hadn’t I read enough books, prayed enough times, led enough conversations about self-care and burn-out to recognize the signs?

Even as others on the retreat had been contemplating their Lenten disciplines, the very clear message I got from God was “Be still. Relax. Just be, and be loved.”

And so as I sat in the chapel, I sat in the new pit of emptiness that I had become aware of within me where the toxicity of life had worn down my being like a slow acid. It didn’t hurt, it didn’t even feel bad; it just felt like a nothingness. I felt acutely aware of the veil between life as we live it and life as it “really” is; the busyness and noise which masks the yawning chasm of silent emptiness, the frenetic actions which mitigate our anxiety and lack of control in a world which is largely beyond our ability to understand. Did anything I worked on really matter? Did all the time spent planning that event really mean anything, or was it just a more dissociated form of self-flagellation?

I suddenly felt something cave in—it was as if what I thought was the basement level of my soul had given way to reveal an even deeper floor, a new subbasement level inhabited by God knows what.

Now I ached; now I felt the tightness in my chest, the pangs of feeling as something fervent and powerful rushed over me, filling in the space which had now become even more expansive. Love poured in, the kind of love that leaves you breathless and sore from the touch of it, aching from the holding of it. Free, undeserved, and even unasked for love now sat in me, reaching deeper than I thought possible.

I thought of my dear friend Hannah who just had a baby; was this a piece of what she had described feeling, when she told me about the painful love she feels for her child?

We finished our prayers, stood and waited on the brothers to file out. They turned, bowed, and left the room. We all walked out too, stepping carefully around one another as we moved silently along.

Love moved with me, love moved around me, and love walked beside me, as the seed of God in me felt itself pulled towards the other God seeds in those around me. But the pull was a yearning, a craving even; I’m not sure if I felt better, but I certainly felt, and felt abundantly.

Lord God, whose grace is given to undeserving people at the most inopportune times, I thank you for the gift of deep love. I thank you for your people, who bring out the best and worst of me so that I may see myself more rightly. I thank you for dear friends, who speak quiet truth and help me to see myself with grace and compassion, and especially for those who love me better than I love myself. I thank you for the woundedness in my soul that allowed me to be filled with your grace in a greater abundance than I had ever imagined possible, and I pray for the guidance to use this power according to your will. I pray for the courage to never stop feeling, especially when it makes me cry all day. Surround me with your Spirit like a hug. Send your angels to tend to me, to encourage me, as I walk through this next wilderness of discernment.

Always with You, always with You my Lord will I abide. Amen.