Volume 30, No. 1-Winter, 2006

Resting in God: Thoughts on Discernment
by Diane Luton Blum

Shalem Society for Contemplative Leadership
by Carole Crumley

Body Theology: Living the One Desire
by Karen Day

Learning from the Dying How to Live
by Rose Mary Dougherty

Reflections from Shalem's Midwest Regional Gathering
by Lee Goodwin & Lynn Ramshaw

Martha with the Heart of Mary
by Gigi Ross

Resting in God: Thoughts on Discernment

by Diane Luton Blum

Last fall "Mary," a young adult in a health care profession who is active in her congregation and also follows a vocation in writing/ performing music, brought to our time together a deep sense of discontent, focused upon an increasing sense of drudgery at work. She voiced a number of possibilities that had come to her consciousness. As I listened, I was surprised to hear her consider leaving her health care profession. My own listening included an inner fear for her, almost maternal, that her work provided so much security. Still, I remember reaching beyond this momentary transference of my own, and I came back to the present moment with Mary.

God's presence for me was enhanced by the fact that we were meeting outdoors on the deck of my house where a warm, gentle breeze, low sunshine, drifting leaves, all mediated the reality of God's providence and grace. I reflected on the variety of seasons through which God had already met us in our time together and I remember "melting down" into a place of deeper trust. Out of that shift, I heard Mary speak a particular word: she felt restless. She used the word several times. She was feeling led to change jobs, possibly in a radical way, because for her it seemed that the needs of patients and coworkers were draining her of the energies that usually fed her creative work and soul.

I invited her to stay with the word restless: to lack rest. Mary realized that changing jobs or professions would not provide more rest. We reflected on the cultural pressures to work without regular Sabbath observance, and Mary began to explore the possibility of a month or so of rest from her job so that she might deepen the exploration of her creative life and relationships, with people and with God. A remark-able set of decisions followed: she applied for and obtained a leave of absence from her work, the financial situation fell into a workable shape, she was energized by the very process of planning for this time of rest. She would not have to remain rest less. As we discerned an enthusiastic openness to continue in the year ahead, Mary noted that this decision to take time for herself and God was a direct consequence of our attentiveness to God in our meetings, especially the one last fall.

My experience of God in this experience with Mary is rich and full and floods over many of the rigid features of my own personal landscape of assumptions, values, habits and cultural conditioning. I notice that some of my hardest edges have been reshaped, maybe smoothed, by this season of trust. I have often feared the power of God's spirit, sensing that it would sweep away the self-importance of my "little ego," my achievements and my self-image. Surrender to the flow of God's grace and providence does in fact expose me to transformation, but it is like a spring flood that fills reservoirs for the dry seasons ahead.

Yielding to God came at a number of moments in my listening with Mary, and one of the clearest was with the word restless. The word was filled with holy echoes, including St. Augustine's discernment that our hearts are restless until they rest in God. Our culture encourages external searching and movement, uprooting us from our lives and relationships at the very moment that God is inviting us to go deeper, to go "vertical." Mary's crossroads brought into focus for me questions of financial security, fear of silence and unscheduled time, anxiety about what we may find on the inside of ourselves when we are not absorbed with external tasks. Living into my own questions for God during this year has freed me to examine many ways in which I accept the bondage of my own fears and the anxieties of my culture.

The practice of discernment for me is characterized by the routine awareness that God is present in all tasks, relationships and times. When we practice that awareness in ordinary and regular ways, the big decisions or crises simply offer a different scale for the same process. Listening, noticing the movement of God's word within us, reflecting with faith-filled friends, letting obstacles be recognized and released, observing the fruitfulness or barrenness of our actions and decisions, confirming and celebrating the truth that shines in retrospect, opening to the present and future moments with trust in God's grace: these are for me central aspects of discernment.

Diane is a participant in Shalem's Spiritual Guidance Program, class of Winter 2006. This article is taken from one of her program papers.

Shalem Society for Contemplative Leadership

by Carole Crumley

For many years, graduates of Shalem's extension programs have asked us for ongoing support for their continuing journey, especially in their roles as spiritual leaders in the various ways the Spirit calls them in their lives. They have told us that their desire to live from a contemplative orientation, to be led by the Spirit, is easily undermined in an often unsupportive society and culture. They also have expressed a need for an ongoing personal discipline, communal support and stimulus that reinforces their desire to live from that deeper place of the Spirit that a contemplative orientation helps foster.

For the last two years, we have felt the strong urging of the Spirit to respond to these needs and have dedicated ourselves to praying about how we might be called to do that. We have tested ideas in a variety of settings-with program participants, at regional gatherings, and in a questionnaire sent to 400 of our extension program graduates last year. The feedback from all of these efforts has been overwhelmingly enthusiastic, confirming both a readiness and willingness for more dedicated commit-ment and mutual support among many of our graduates.

We now believe that we are being called to give as much sustained, dedicated support as possible for the continued deepening of Shalem graduates as they serve in both formal and informal spiritual leadership roles so that, in turn, they can offer the fruits of that deepening to those with whom they live and work.

The result of all this thinking and praying is the formation of the new Shalem Society for Contemplative Leadership, open to all of Shalem's extension program graduates. The Shalem Society for Contemplative Leadership is a community of Shalem graduates dedicated to fostering deeper spiritual grounding for self, church/faith community and world, with the vital help of a contemplative orientation and practice. It will be built around three major components: an annual gathering of Society members, ongoing sharing of resources and spiritual insights, and commitment to a shared discipline adapted to individual situationns.

Society members will come from various vocations which may include those who serve in designated positions as spiritual leaders as well as those who act as spiritual leaders in less formal ways. Thus spiritual leadership includes: heads of faith communities, congregational clergy and lay leaders; chaplains; spiritual directors; leaders of prayer, meditation and retreat groups; teachers; parents; advocates for peace, justice, social vision and care giving; organizational, business or government leaders who share a grounding in contemplative openness to God and are dedicated to living and leading from the spiritual heart.

We are inviting all extension program graduates who feel called to be part of this new Society to join us October 2-6, 2006, for the Society's inaugural annual gathering at Bon Secours Spiritual Center in Marriottsville, Maryland. Our time will include:

fresh input from Shalem leaders;
workshops and opportunities to probe issues of spiritual leadership with others in one's own vocational setting;
time to envision and collaborate with a larger body of contemplatively oriented leaders;
significant time for guided and unguided solitude;
time with others to form or reconstitute peer support and accountability groups;
commitment to a shared discipline during the following year, which is intended to maintain support and accountability for one's spiritual life and leadership.

It is exciting and life-giving to envision the transformational power and impact such a dedicated community could have in today's world. It could be a vital part of the Spirit's shaping of a global movement that claims a deeper and more inclusive spiritual ground for all dimensions of religious and societal living. Such a movement could contribute to the desperately needed recovery of deeper common ground that will draw people together with hope and collaborative action across the many fault lines that divide and threaten us today.

We welcome your wisdom, feedback and prayers as we embark on this pioneering effort and together seek a more enduring and evolving contemplative way.

Body Theology: Living the One Desire

by Karen Day

Although I have been moving improvisationally for many years, I was surprised by the power of improvising in a contemplative setting. I'll begin with the highlight of our experience at the Shalem Clergy Program residency and then offer some details.

Tears, wet down the cheeks, sliding into/out of nose, mouth, ears. Sounds, deep knowing bursts out in need. Our silent Sabbath movement time has led to this, Julie on her knees sobbing, the three of us circled round, holding, waiting. No need to do anything. We sit as a living, breathing sculpture, my fingers running through her hair, Michael's hand gentle round my injured wrist, the other Karen completing this round form. All of us knowing this is just right, all sensing God with us; breathing our sighs, embracing our wounds. This circle is larger than we could ever make it. There is nowhere to go, nothing to do, time shifts. This musty basement room and harsh concrete floor become our chapel, resounding in silence, our pianist absent. Assurances come to me, 'This is exactly what you're meant to do, to be, right here." Then to myself, "I love these people, this movement, this life. Thank you, thank you, thank you." I'm intoning this one basic prayer of gratitude.

"You have only to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves." Mary Oliver's promise sounds like a gift from God to me here. Having let a simple point of contact move us, we've come into the presence-something of us, radiant in us and yet flowing through us. Like breath, spirit, ruach. Like touch, connection, tikkun.

I say if we're breathing we're dancing, but when two breathing bodies make contact the dance enlarges and electrifies as though the barriers keeping me from sensing God's presence melt into the flowing of that point. Who knew? That the skin's desire could lead to healing, that the touch of a stranger could magnify the divine mystery? We've read ancient stories of healing hands but never expected to receive that gift today, right now, leaning back to back.

How did we get here? In response to Tilden Edward's image of stepping into the wide space from the little self-space, Julie shows us her witchy voices. Our small group enlarges the sounds and movements. Later I invite Julie to share some contact improvisation and Mark to create music. Michael and Karen want to play, too. Before long we're all letting a point of contact lead our movements. We reflect on how this movement stirs our souls, wakes up our creativity and "allows us to experience the grace we tell people about" as Mark says. Deciding to meet during the silent Sabbath opened our awareness to the depth of the spirit moving within and among us.

"Must remember this," says Julie's journal which she e-mails me two months later. Her words are a gift to me, reminding me how to begin to articulate the wisdom of our bodies.

When I thought about writing on body theology some piece of my mind was overwhelmed with words-the concepts and ideas that make up most theology I've read. Even though I knew to start with experience, I couldn't get there. Instead of ideas it's the sensations that make it possible to revisit that moment, to relearn that wisdom. Leaning back-to-back, stroking Julie's hair, pushing Michael's shoulders, yes, I remember how that felt. From there I can trust the desire, the grace that led my body to that contemplative place, to the one desire. Letting "the soft animal of the body love what it loves" allowed me to rest in the embrace of the sacred, in the wide spacious place of just rightness, of nothing more is needed.

Of course as much as I want to remember it slips away. Until I can move again, lean in again, am surprised again at the mysterious beckoning moves of my constant dance partner, the one who breathes me, who dances me. There are no solos. In this dance of life there is always a point of contact. Completing a sacred dance with this human animal partner allows the body to love what it loves. The grace of this moment reveals the One partner who is always dancing my whole bodyself, heart and mind, body and soul.

Karen, a Unitarian minister, is a graduate of Shalem's Clergy Spiritual Life & Leadership Program, Class of 2005.

Learning from the Dying How to Live

by Rose Mary Dougherty

For years the dying have been my teachers: the sister who had asked me to be with her when she was dying and sing, "Be Not Afraid," who trusted her process enough to tell me, just three hours before she died, that I was singing too soon; the priest who knew that though there were many people who wanted to be with him he needed to be alone with "the few faithful friends who could pray (him) into God"; my old friend, Ray, who despite years of cherished independence and privacy let go into life, not only bearing what life had sent him in his final illness of cancer, but welcoming all of it, including the twenty-four hour personal care in his home; Joe, who weeks before he died had chosen psychological isolation, unwilling to communicate even with his doctors, and then within hours of his death, reached out his hand to take my hand as I sat with him.

So many lessons I've been taught by the dying: lessons about trusting my own process; the need for spiritual community, for willingness, and surrender, and above all, love. And the list goes on. Much being offered; much to acknowledge and integrate.

Most recently my classroom has been Joseph's House, a hospice and palliative care home for formerly homeless men and women, most of whom have AIDS. There I see over and over again the transformative power of love and am taught by those who are transformed.

One of my greatest teachers has been Sam, a man who died just this week. Sam came to Joseph's House three years ago, about the same time I did. He was, from the beginning, an avid recipient of the foot reflexology I offered. One night about six months after I had been doing his feet, he said to me at the end of our time, "Now you sit down and take off your shoes and socks. It's my turn to do your feet." So I did. He was so happy with himself, and I was delighted. He wanted to learn more so he would have something to offer the others there.

Another night I was sitting with a friend of Sam's who was dying. Sam had known him from years back and wanted so much to be with him in his dying. But he was afraid. So he would come to the door, stand for a moment or two, and then take off. Finally he came in, sat down, and took my hand. He breathed deeply, as though bringing his whole self-his love, his fear, his courage, into the moment. Soon he began to sing, in a strong, clear voice, "Precious Lord, Take My Hand." He sang until it seemed his friend had reached the other side, then sat quietly with me.

Somewhere around that time, Sam and some of the others at Joseph's House had begun calling me "Granny." Often after that when I would be sitting with someone, Sam would show up and say quietly, "I'm here, Granny. I'm going to sit with you awhile." Each time he sat with me, I felt the strength of his presence.

Sam was a large man so it was hard sometimes to see how ill he was. And he would keep on showing up-for community meeting, for memorial services for others, for meals, often just to be around. Some weeks ago he began to decline rapidly and was acutely ill. He spent hours in the emergency room of a hospital waiting for a room. At one point in my sitting with him I spotted a Bible and asked him if he would like me to read him some Psalms. He nodded "yes" and seemed content through several readings. However, when I reached Psalm 51, "Have mercy on me O God for I have sinned against you," he knew he had had enough, and he let me know it: "You can stop reading now, Granny. I have it all in my heart." And I knew he did. I was grateful to be reminded of what was in his heart/in my heart.

Sam's active dying took days. I am used to saying that someone "lingered," but I don't think Sam was just lingering. I think he was actively present for those who loved him. Probably for a variety of reasons it seemed Sam found it hard to trust love. His final days, I think, were a continuous act of giving love by being willing to receive it. May I learn well/live well this lesson.

Joseph's House is my classroom for now; the dying there are my teachers. But in a sense, we are all dying; and every circumstance is impermanent. So we become our own teachers and the teachers for one another. And life itself becomes our teacher. Perhaps it's just that at given times, we need/are given an intensive learning situation that fits our need. And so it is for me right now.

Audio CDs from Rose Mary's November 2005 lecture and workshop on Companioning Those Who Are Dying are now available. Visit Shalem's Online Store, or call the Shalem office, 301-897-7334 for more details and to order.

Reflections from Shalem's Midwest Regional Gathering

by Lee Goodwin & Lynn Ramshaw

October 24-28, 2005

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"O living flame of love
that tenderly wounds my soul
in its deepest center! Since
now you are not oppressive,
now consummate! if it be your will:
tear through the veil of this sweet encounter!"

What strange contrasts John explores in his poem. To be tenderly wounded seems like a strange affliction indeed. The flame of love could be tender or wounding, but both? And then,

"O sweet cautery,
O delightful wound!
O gentle hand! O delicate touch
that tastes of eternal life
and pays every debt!
In killing you changed death to life."

Such mysterious combinations. What wound is delightful, and how can touch "taste" of anything? How does killing change death to life? Why was I drawn to this poem in those two days of silence at the recent Midwest Shalem Regional Gathering? Surely I had carefully girded myself with books aplenty, why then this one short poem?

In advance I had wondered about those two days, 48 uninterrupted hours of silence. Wondered if they would need filling, need my careful, calculated management. Wondered if the silence itself would seem strange, like a friend whom I had not seen for some time. But, the silence proved to be no stranger. Very much like that old friend whom you see again and take up right where you left off. Thomas Keating says that even after a time away from contemplative practice, you pick up right where you left. Nothing is lost.

Still, this is not to say that this old friend and I did not wrestle some. After all I did have my plans. But the silence came like the Jews traditionally describe the Sabbath-as a queen or a bride. The unfilled time and space had its own personality. It was a sovereign who deserves, even demands honor and respect. And the silent presence was like the lover, playful and free.

I walked, and read and memorized that ancient poem:

"O lamps of fire!
in whose splendors
the deep caverns of feeling,
once obscure and blind,
now give forth, so rarely, so exquisitely,
both warmth and light to their Beloved."

A labor of love it was to learn these words by heart and so to carry and be carried along. The silence, the poem, companions on the way.

Now, thankfully, answering the "why?" seems to matter less. It was one of those gifts which was given without accompanying explanation or obvious usefulness. Like the great silence itself, it was one of many gifts given in that sacred, modest place in the otherwise hurried suburbs. Silence given-between the lines of a preacher's often noisy life.

In The Hidden Wholeness: The Journey Toward an Undivided Life, Parker Palmer likens the soul to a wild animal: tough and resilient, capable of survival in difficult places. The "wild animal" soul is also shy, often preferring to remain unseen, unidentified. Perhaps this is why John's poem has echoed through the centuries. Perhaps only paradox is capable of conveying the mystery of a Spirit-life which has to do with what is tender, yet wounding, wild and shy, dark and light, drawing us into death and life. The Spirit that uses Tibetan singing bowls, ancient icons, labyrinths and silent community has shown an inclination for using the finite to reveal the infinite. And all of it drawing us toward our truest selves that are in God. The Great Silence "speaks" of what is finally really real: being in God, with God and of God all at once.

--Lee Goodwin. Lee is an ELCA parish pastor in northern Wisconsin and a graduate of Shalem's Leading Contemplative Prayer Groups & Retreats, 1996, and Spiritual Guidance Program, 1999.

Poetry is from John of the Cross, "The Living Flame of Love," The Collected Works of St. John of the Cross.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Be the authentic word God creates you to be," I heard myself say. I was one voice among many; we were responding from that place where Love's contemplative knowing, "unpossessable," endless and direct, resides. Tilden Edwards suggested it's the knowledge found within us, midway between our culture's "mind accumulation" knowledge and the utter "unknowing" of The Cloud. It comes from being known and being aware that we are known. Bill Dietrich reminded us of St. Irenaeus' prayer:

It is not thou that shapest God,
It is God that shapest thee.
If then thou art the work of God,
Await the hand of the artist
Who does all things in due season.

For four days, we lived together in the awareness that we are being formed by God.

How wonderful if we could always do that. Being formed as contemplative folks seems an oddity in our fast-paced world, and yet for some, the inner yearning is undeniable. We need not only acknowledge, but then nurture our desire... or let it be nurtured, as it turns out. There were more than forty of us, including several very able staff, and we came from perhaps 15 different denominational and non-denominational affiliations; how rich that is! After hearing Tilden's presentations on the qualities of spiritual leadership and the social vision that emerges from the contemplative life, we responded with nearly as many additional qualities as there were people in the room. So many prayerful approaches, responses, desires and hopes, all grounded in being, just being, in God.

The communal power is particularly evident in being silent together. I love silence and am privileged to live in it a good portion of each day. But this was different. There is a depth that comes in being still, in God's presence, together.

St. Paul talks about our spiritual union in the Body of Christ, and of the essential participation of each member, no matter how seemingly insignificant. Here, the gentle silence of each one nurtured the stillness of the rest; we heard, saw, tasted of God supported by and in one another's vulnerability.

And so, we were fed. The convenient location of the Cenacle Retreat House and Spirituality Center in Warrenville, Illinois, contributed to the overall hospitality of this event. These particular grounds were conducive to lots of walking in our quiet time, and some of us found the labyrinth out among the trees. Somehow the centrality of Christ in all of life came so clear to me, this time around. No matter what is happening, Christ is at the center... no matter what... really! I wondered, with Him, can I be an "authentic word" that reveals Him?

People obviously have prayed at the Cenacle for a long time, and the result is the intangible witness of folks who have gone before. We discovered and added new ways to respond to God in prayer. There were several opportun-ities to listen and notice: seed mandalas, Ignatian meditation, Taize, lectio divina, prayerful conversations, prayer of gratitude, so many. All nurtured our opening to the contemplative gift. We were encouraged to attend these listening and noticeing opportunities only if we felt drawn; they were there for us, not expected of us. Freedom just to be, however we wanted. This freedom might be the most nourishing aspect of such time.

Throughout, we were carried in a rhythm that seemed to meet all needs. Knowing the inclination of human-kind to talk incessantly, even about nothing, the first day and a half were given over to lots of words. Heard and spoken. Not only were there several presentations providing much food for prayer, there were opportunities to share in small groups. We were given words on paper, words from each other, words from speakers, lots of words. I love words but began to not even like them, although all were good, insight-ful, revealing, important. Then, we entered the silence.

It profoundly balanced the conversation; the exaggerated contrast revealed that both are essential to our being. Several folks used the word "dance" to describe our experience in our time together; there was the dance between personal and communal, between listening and speaking, between comfort and challenge. In our day-to-day living, we need to find a different sort of rhythm, though; how can we discover rhythmic dance in our ordinary lives?

I drew a picture of the invitation for me: a woman, vulnerable, firmly planted in the hand of God, surround-ed by several silent faces behind resistant pairs of hands. I was remind-ed of the words given me the night before: "Be the authentic word..."

This is God's invitation to me. To be one authentic word among some people who still have not heard Him. All of us were renewed in our call to that speaking out, somehow. By who we are, by what we say, by what we do, each gifted for our particular oblation. St. Irenaeus' prayer continues:

Offer God thy heart, soft and tractable,
And keep the form in which
The artist has fashioned thee.
Let thy clay be moist,
Lest thou grow hard and lose
The imprint of God's fingers.

This is where our authenticity originates. If we are to speak with the words God gives us, then we are to offer ourselves continually into God's loving hands. Somewhere during the week, Tilden said, "Jesus never had an identity; He always was receiving it." He always was "available in the mo-ment for who knows what." That is our call and our gift; to be always "available in the moment for who knows what." And then to let God do it, through us. Thank you, Shalem, for your profound and faithful reminder.

--Lynn Ramshaw. Lynn is a graduate of Shalem's Clergy Life & Leadership Program, Class of 2003, and a UCC Pastor.

Martha with the Heart of Mary

by Gigi Ross

If you spend any time at Shalem's office, you might hear someone ask a colleague, "How's your prayer?" Sometimes this question arises from the sense of a need to call someone's attention back to "the one thing necessary," "the better part." Often, this question highlights the struggle to integrate what has been mislead-ingly, in my opinion, but popularly named "contemplation and action."

Like staff at any other office, we at Shalem experience periods when we feel we have too much to do in the time allotted. During those times we might ask ourselves how to bring a sense of spaciousness to the feeling of being overwhelmed by too many details or tasks to manage. In the Christian tradition, the classic Bible story of the relationship between our sense of busyness and our desire for God is the one about Martha and Mary.

Martha welcomes Jesus into her home. While she is busy in the kitchen preparing a meal for Jesus and his entourage, her sister Mary sits with the guests at Jesus' feet. Martha, probably after banging around a lot of pots and pans or the first-century equivalent thereof, asks Jesus to tell Mary to come and help her. Jesus replies, "Martha, Martha. You are worried and distracted by your many tasks. There is only one thing necessary. Mary has chosen the better part and it will not be taken away from her."

Those of you familiar with this story are most likely too familiar with it. The first few zillion times I heard or read it, I thought Jesus preferred Mary over Martha, or, rather, preferred what Mary was doing to what Martha was doing. I felt I was being asked to choose prayer, which for me is another word for relationship, over the practical activities of my life. Recently, I've come to a more nuanced sense of what this story might be telling me. I don't believe the message is saying one activity is better than another. To me, the distinction between contemplation and action that I hear many people make feels like a false dichotomy.

These reflections were sparked by an email from one of my colleagues who was wondering what a contemplative would say about the balance between contemplation and action.

The idea of a balance between contemplation and action didn't make sense to me. The balance between action and rest, yes. The balance between contemplation and distraction? Well, those two words seem more like opposites, but I don't have a desire to balance awareness and unawareness.

The tendency to compare contem-plation and action as if, or so it appears to me, they are opposites seems like a device the C. S. Lewis character Screwtape would use to make sure we stayed focused on an illusion. As I sought a way to illustrate this intuitive understanding, I began to wonder how the Martha and Mary story would play if the sisters exchanged places. Here's my version.

Martha welcomes Jesus into her home. While her sister Mary is busy in the kitchen preparing a meal for Jesus and his entourage, Martha sits with the guests at Jesus' feet. As Mary works she inevitably makes some noise. She might even have been humming from time to time. Martha asks Jesus to tell Mary to be more considerate of the guests who want to hear him. "Tell her to stop making so much noise." Jesus replies, "Martha, Martha. You are worried and distracted by your many thoughts. There is only one thing necessary. Mary has chosen the better part and it will not be taken away from her."

It seems to me that this story is more about awareness and desire than about whether contemplation is com-patible with action. Mary could be busy in the kitchen while her awareness and her desire was oriented to Jesus. Martha could be sitting at Jesus' feet while her spirit was banging pots and pans in the kitchen.

Maybe the better part that we are called to choose is a matter of orienta-tion and not what we do or don't do, not whether or how often we pray. Maybe the better part has something to do with orienting ourselves toward God, being aware of our desire for God and for living a God-centered life rather than a self-centered one. If that's the case, then maybe it is possible to find spaciousness in the busiest times of our lives.

The year 2004 was anything but a spacious time in my life. I had accepted the offer to be Co-Director of the Personal Spiritual Deepening Program, while remaining the registrar for that program and another extension program and taking on the registrar duties for the Leading Contemplative Prayer Groups & Retreats Program in the wake of the registrar's retirement. I was also network administrator and I had started working a four-day week the year before. Doing more program work for Shalem while not relinquishing any of my administra-tive duties, I felt I was being pulled in two different directions at once. I spent much of that year in prayer trying to discern what God wanted me to do.

During 2004 I struggled between trying to fit in everything I had agreed to do and doing what I believed I was called to do. I really wanted to give my whole heart to program work, but found it extremely difficult to shift gears from the multi-tasking, attention to detail, and constant interruptions that come with fulfilling registrar duties to finding the spaciousness of time and the solitude necessary to listen for how God was calling me to shape a presentation for a residency or what God was saying to me about the big picture of running a program. By the time of my 10-day retreat in September, I was worried and distracted by my many tasks and disjointed roles.

Sometime between that retreat and the November Personal Spiritual Deepening Program residency, I came to accept that my call at Shalem at this time is to the administrative duties of registrar and network administrator. I had also decided I could give my whole heart to serving in those roles. So, I let go of the co-directorship and am not looking to lead any workshops or other short-term programs unless I sense a nudging from the Spirit. I'm praying to be Martha with Mary's heart.

These days I receive the gift of spaciousness in the busy times more often. I don't believe this is because I chose administrative work over becoming more involved in program work; instead, I take the feeling of spaciousness as evidence that my heart is less divided. If I get more involved in presenting or other programmatic work, I trust that the sense of spaciousness is more likely to remain if I remember the One who called me to the work. If I can be at Jesus' feet in my heart, no matter what the task, I would have chosen the better part.

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