Without knowing what to resort to, or even how...I wondered if I had lost my "mojo" as I arrived at Saturday night without the enthusiasm I had been accustomed to in the past. I wondered if I had done perhaps one retreat too many.
But I had the words of...which mentor?...in the back of my head: trust the process. Words I had been proclaiming too often this weekend to others, who were "disappointed" by how this particular retreat was unfolding. We get so full of ourselves and our ideas sometimes, that we slip over into the belief that we have some control of the Holy Spirit, or worse, that we might know God's mind...and think we need to have to urge Him to some proper conclusion.
This retreat has left me wounded, confused and perhaps about a lifetime more spiritually mature than any other retreat I have done. At long last, I am finding myself...and finding myself in God...and this woman is way more fun...and calmer than any woman I have been before.
I wondered why I could not "feel the bliss" on Saturday night, but I knew why...I was immersed again in the great sufferings that surrounded me, in both the retreatants and the team members...and I knew that a lot of work and time would have to pass before any deep spiritual healing would occur. It was only a beginning...and so many of the women I visited with were not yet ready to release their demons, they still liked them...or were comfortable with them.
I spoke more boldly, sometimes I thought perhaps harshly...or I said nothing at all. I suppose I was becoming more confident in trusting what God wanted and less influenced by what I wanted. When I made the mistake of being lost in me, a kind of buzzer went off inside, recognizing this was not the path to walk...and I was miffed that I was still not finished with, or had forgiven those aspects of my life. Then I thanked God for exposing them to me...praying to not be tricked by them in the future.
There were so many humorous moments. As I reflected with a dear friend, I thought about the images of certain parts of the weekend...and all the miracles...and there were many miracles...in this intense weekend of love and hate...laughter and tears.
We had four priests for reconciliation going into the weekend. By Thursday afternoon, there were three. Friday morning, we were down to two, and at 5:04pm, we were down to one. The retreat director gave me a phone number and told me to try to fix it. I made 14 calls to priests, pagers, churches, monasteries...and whatever other leads I could get from the priests I were able to speak with, who could not help me. My efforts, which were so adventurous, and many prayers, when the time arrived, we had not four, but five! And not just a miracle of priests, but there were miracles within the miracle. A series of phone calls led me to one woman with a priest she had not seen in 25 years...graces poured out from everywhere...and what began as a terribly stressful evening for too many people...my telling of the tale of the priests had the whole room laughing after midnight...exhausted as we were...realizing in all the madness and our unceasing desire to be in control...God had things safely in His Hands.
Now one priest I had to locate, I walked to the retirement community where he had moved in, only a week ago. Parts of my talking him in to helping will have to wait for my book, but for now...I wish to write about the part I most need to understand.
After securing the priest from this location, I decided to take the back door to return to the retreat house, to save a lot of walking time, because I was needed for other duties there immediately. I texted people to let them know, but no one was responding. I walked out of the retirement house to the back gate. The gate was locked. I tried to return into the house. Couldn't get in. Banged on every door I could. No one answered. No nuns to be found. I walked around to the front area. The driveway was also gated and locked. I did not have too much time to waste. It was a poor Hispanic community. I noticed some young men listening to music in a front yard across the street. I grabbed the bars and called out, "Help!" There was a pause, but no one moved. I had to yell "Help!" twice more. On the third time, four younger boys, about 12 or 13, turned to look at me. "Please help me. I am locked in. I can't get out. Go to the front door and tell them I'm out here and to let me in through the back door." They began to walk across the street, the older boys in the yard just turned their backs...I told the younger ones, "Oh, thank you! Thank you!" and I was released from my prison. The retreat team had quite a laugh as I retold the story, and of the collecting of the priests. I did not see the event as a bad thing, but as a great adventure.
What I realized, what God had done...I cannot recall ever calling for help like that. But as I write, I know I called for help once, when I jumped into a river and my legs cramped and I was helpless in the current. This time, I was locked in a yard...and I had to hope for the help of some young strangers to save me. I was completely not in control of the situation. My only option was to rely on others. Only when I called for help did I realize how distant I had kept myself from the world, how I tried to be certain it could not touch me, not wound me, ever again. There was something so delightfully freeing from realizing I could humble myself enough to call for help until help arrived. I just didn't know or realize how much I had hardened myself...and how much better it felt to ask for help.
This was one of many blessings over the weekend. But I think this was the best blessing.
The next morning, after Mass, I remembered I had a dream about being locked out of the garden...and longing to go in. I dreamed that dream about three years ago. I knew that I would not enter heaven in the "normal" way. I knew I was different from the long line of dogs all dressed alike. My path would be different. And my ability to call for help, to not despair, but laugh, is training me for my next task. Somehow, I know it is all connected...as all the events of the weekend are so deeply connected.
Yes, I did not have that "spiritual high" a retreat junkie expects on those retreat weekends. My work is changing again. Yes, I've agreed to another retreat. But I am not the woman I was six months ago...or a year ago. I know my work. I am still not ready to say the words. I am still too afraid that if I speak of it, God will take it away...but my head knows that is a lie. Spoken or not, what I will do will last exactly as long as God chooses it to last. And even a moment in God's graces is better than a lifetime of "nothing special." I'm ready to work the next thing. To take the challenge, to fall, to get up again, to learn, to forgive...to love...and to let love in. Quite honestly, that is the greatest miracle: to let love in.
And oh yeah....I've put the ring back on...where it belongs...
Love, Cindy
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