God moved heaven and earth to get me
into this wait-listed, 10-day silent retreat.
It had taken me eleven years to arrive. Why do I have to have a
lingering cough from a cold that began over a week ago when I am sharing a room
with a roommate who needs to sleep, and I must be quiet during prayer? Why? After waiting all those years to get
here, why would I be banished like this?
I returned to my silent room and sat down in the
most comfortable chair you can imagine and began my private session—no one
could hear my coughs. I did okay but
mainly I discovered that the God of all comforts had something to show me
through this seeming disaster. It’s not
so bad to pray in your room overlooking the beautiful lush green Rockies with
snow tipped peaks (this was before the 3-5 inches of snow that began that
afternoon). I wiped my tears and enjoyed
my setting.
Things were looking better as I got
back on track with the schedule and walked down to the morning church service. I spent time in the Guest chapel before the
service asking God to help me not cough.
It was a miracle; I did not cough, but I did cry. I cried a lot. I cried and cried and I don’t cry. I’m not a Cryer so I didn’t expect to cry,
but I do know I need to cry so I didn’t stop the tears. But I connected to what the tears were about
as the service began. The monks in their
white church robes triggered a painful reality about my son who was on the
journey of wondering if he should be a monk when his life took a detour to wearing
a white prison uniform. I needed to talk
about this. There are retreat leaders
here. There are people to talk to. I’ve been invited to talk, but I need to talk
to a monk. It is monk business that is making me cry, at least that is what I
think. So I write a note and don’t
expect an immediate response; yet I am told to go down to the bookstore at two
and talk to a monk.
Fr. Charles is sent and I spill out my
story, and I show him a picture of Ben and me taken just the Sunday before. He looks at it and listens; I cry some
more. When I finish my rambling, he
tells me, you know this is about you, right.
You are crying for you. You have
been through a lot and you need to cry.
Of course, I have a lot going on; and he doesn’t even know the half of
it! I think my tears are telling me
that. But, no, I don’t automatically
think my tears are about me. I think
they are about how I am failing my son somehow, that I wasn’t enough to keep
him on track, that there was something else I could do. I mean I don’t say that to people. I don’t live that out every day…but when I come
to a place like this, and strip away all my normal distractions, that is exactly
what I think. I think I’m crying because
my son needs something more from me!
Something I should have been able to give him if I were just a better
mother. There’s some way I can make up
for that if I can just figure out what.
I can help him. He needs my help.
Well, he does indeed need my help so
says Father Charles. He told me that
what Ben needs most of me is to take care of myself and be one with God. That is how I can heal Ben best—heal me. I hear him.
I really do. And as he talks, I
know that is true not only for Ben but
also for Rachel, Nate and Lila. It’s
true for Paul and for my ministry. What
the people in my life need most is not more of what I can do but more of God in
me (and in all the other places He is in their lives). It's what Irvin Yalom calls the healing
presence. I know that is what has
happened through the years as I have counseled others. It’s not my training or my brilliance, rather
it is God’s healing presence in me that directs people’s souls to a new way of
connect to Him that results in their healing.
It’s not whether I do a certain thing, but it is for me to connect more
deeply to how God is in me so that God can connect more deeply to all the
people in my world.
Copyright
© 2017. Deborah R Newman
teatimeforyoursoul.com All Rights
Reserved.
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