by Tina Brown

Today I remember the wilderness retreat as one grand, pristine moment of grace. So many images sweep my mind: the nippy chill of the mornings; awakening seemingly with a smile on my face; the steamy, campfire--perked coffee embracing all my senses as I cuddled my hands around the cup. Images also of people being present to God in the way right for them--in quiet; sharing a thought occasionally; joyously singing; savoring food; laughing; swinging on a swing hanging from a mighty big tree; so many images they go on and on.

I remember hiking with my family as I was growing up, and there always seemed to be a magnetism for me in the natural surroundings of the woods, an alluring call that has always carried a sense of seduction for me. And yet I see now that somehow this natural attraction has been laid aside for years.

I remember the strong pull for me to go on this retreat the minute my eyes read about it. I could hardly believe this pull. I couldn't ignore it. I tried. I tried because first of all the timing seemed quite inconvenient. A number of meetings and plans would have to be foregone. Once I got by this I remember being just plain scared. The very attraction of nature that I revered for so long quickly revealed another side. A side that leaped into anxiety with occasional nightmares and a few very restless nights. I remember the fear setting in after I sent in my registration and signed some sort of release paper with the word "death" in it. Death. What was this all about?

Many thoughts scared me. I remember one "daymare" where I awoke in the morning and looked out to see dozens of snakes surrounding my tent! And thoughts around the darkness of night, alone in my tent, came often. Even the six-hour drive into unfamiliar country concerned me. What if I got lost? Would I be able to put up a tent--I'm so unmechanical. I remember nearly calling Shalem to say I'd changed my mind; I'm not going.

Monday morning, September 19th, arrived. I pulled out of my driveway at 5 AM, clutching a cup of coffee. It was still night. The waiting and anticipating were over. My fears seemed to dissipate, and a strange sense of freedom filled me. I felt like I was driving "home." HOME. What was this about?

Driving west the full moon seemed like a welcoming beacon. I was going someplace to live simply, to be somehow closer to God, more available to God. No schedules, open-ended time, and no fuss with clothing choices and makeup. I was struck with how complicated the previous weeks of planning were just to go somewhere to live simply, to live lovingly, to just be. I sensed I was leaving the wilderness of my everyday life and going to a clearing of some sort. I desperately wanted this, I desperately wanted to feel God. For so long my prayer life had seemed flat, impoverished. Maybe this time would help somehow. While the moon descended, I saw the sunrise in my rearview mirror. Never before had I seen the setting moon and rising sun simultaneously.

For three days I tasted the luxury of simple living. Time was not much of a factor. In fact, it didn't have to be a factor at all. I decided I wanted to join the rest of the group for supper, reflecting with one another about our day around a campfire, so I needed to have a little sense of time.

But things weren't quite as simple and serene as I thought. Now I can see that there were times when I introduced a bit of complication. This mostly had to do with trying to capture the essence of some moments forever, like freezing the moment I suppose. I had brought my camera with lots of film, brought a journal to write in and write a lot, brought my bible to read scripture. Yet whenever I moved into taking pictures, writing or reading scripture, I felt a dissonance. How could this be? These are all good things to do. And yet my intent seemed more to capture the moment or to force an expansion of meaning into the moment. I was moving away from exactly one of the things I went for. Just to be--to be in the moment. Thankfully, I was open to God who I heard say, "Tina, not now," when I was taking pictures, writing or reading. This was a time to just be in the moment as the moment came and went. This was a time to soak in the holiness of God in everything and everyone. Just to soak in God's love.

I know at least one of the times, though, I didn't listen to God. That occurred as I set out for a long hike. I had named a particular destination which after hours of hiking I never found. I kept on hiking, looking for the place, long after the place seemed no longer important anyway. It's as if I were frozen in a moment that occurred hours before, the moment I decided to go to a particular place. I remember some dissonance on that little trip but paid no attention to it until just a few moments ago.

"Home" seemed like a place where I would shed the shackles of everyday life, a place where each moment was to be lived gently, not forced in any way. But no, even there, high up in the mountains, living simply in my $30 tent, I managed to move into some of my old ways. And yet I'm glad, because God used that time to etch into me a little more deeply how important it is to listen to God, to listen through the din of daily activity no matter how "good" I think I'm doing. Even here, back from the wilderness, I can shed some shackles, be kinder to myself around scheduling and follow more closely the Holy Spirit in all of my choices. "Going home" can happen every moment, whether I'm on the mountain top away from my daily wilderness or whether I'm at my earthly home here in Pennsylvania. I just need to listen to God, to listen, listen more, never stop listening. And when I miss God's guiding presence, God won't give up on me. I trust that God will eventually get my attention. I know that now ever so more deeply. Yes, I do!

Tina is a graduate of Shalem's Spiritual Guidance Program and Group Leaders Program.