by Rose Mary Dougherty

At Shalem's Winter Retreat, I was in a small group where we gathered once a day to share what was going on for us and to support one another in our prayer. One of the things we talked about was what it was like to be in the larger circle with others three times a day when we weren't feeling particularly prayerful. One person said it was hard to come into the circle when her desire for God felt so faint and tentative. It was as though she wanted something more to bring to the group. She wanted to be able to join her prayer with that of others, but this was difficult when all she was aware of was emptiness. Another said that it was precisely when she was feeling so empty that she needed to be with the group, because the prayer of others sustained her. Someone else said that it was particularly hard to bring unwanted feelings like anger and jealousy into the circle for fear of contaminating the group. And so the conversation went until we came around to seeing the circle of our gathered presence as a symbol of our individual and collective presence for God--a simple, all inclusive presence that allowed space for everything.

Then someone turned to me and asked what it was like leading retreats when I wasn't feeling particularly inspired or prayerful. Was it difficult? Did I sometimes feel I was "praying on command?" My initial response was to laugh and say that I didn't have enough discipline to do anything "on command." But I couldn't let it end there. I added that I honestly didn't feel pressured. I had too much evidence of God's Presence and caring love for each of us to feel responsible for activating that Presence or for making prayer happen for myself or others. More often than not, I felt nourished by the prayer of those gathered with me and others who prayed for me during those times.

Sometime later, I realized with gratitude how much the content of my response had become a reality for me. I really had come to trust implicitly God's work in my life and the lives of others. Leading was not a burden. It was a gift, mostly to me. More and more, it brought me home to myself and challenged me to view my way of being present in other aspects of my life from the perspective of trust.

Yet I realized that this wasn't always the case. There was a time when I fretted through both the preparation for and leadership of events. It was almost as though the fretting was what I had to do to feel responsible. Of course prayer was part of that responsibility, also. So I prayed mightily. I prayed that God would give me what I needed to be effective. However, I wanted to be sure that I had what I needed ahead of time. So I would pray and then set about creating what I thought I needed. During the time of actual leadership, I prayed frequently and fervently, "God, please give me what I need for these people. Let me be open to what you want to give me for them." Then I would get caught between wondering if God would leave me on my own to "deliver the goods" and trying to figure out what the goods were.

I'm almost embarrassed to remember what leadership was like for me then. But that's what I knew and God was very faithful through my diligence. I'm not embarrassed about my preparation and prayer. There will probably always be some place for these. It's just that my way of approaching these preoccupied me with my responsibility. The preoccupation overshadowed trust and receptivity. My work seemed more my show for others, rather than God's show for me and others. I think I missed a lot of what God was wanting to do for me. Then was then and now is now, and something new has been given. When was it given? How did I come to claim the trust that is mine now?

I think the seeds of that trust were planted several years ago when I went with Tilden Edwards to South Africa to work with spiritual directors there. Two things stand out for me about that time. First, before I went, I read everything I thought relevant about the people of South Africa. I listened to anyone who had something to tell me about the spirituality of the people. Then I tried to picture the people I would be with and what their needs might be. I prayed for them and set about preparing input and experiences according to my sense of what was called for. Somewhere in the midst of my diligence I realized that I really didn't have a clue about what I was preparing for. I couldn't possibly know what these people needed because I couldn't ever really know what their experience was. I needed to trust something beyond my ability to imagine what was called for. I sensed that whatever I was to say would be given me in the moment but not one moment before. I trusted that sense (perhaps it was the only thing I could do), but I think I knew at some deep level that what was going on in me was trustworthy. And so I relaxed. Instead of fretting through preparation, I spent my time reading novels. Of course I couldn't shirk responsibility completely, so some of them at least were about South Africa. But I only read what I enjoyed. It was wonderful!

The second thing that happened through this time was that I had a growing belief that I was going to die in South Africa. As that belief crystallized, I began to question, "What is it that I need to do in South Africa? Why am I going there?" I turned my questions into prayer, asking God to let me know my real mission in South Africa. I was sure that if this was to be my "last hurrah" there must be something very special that only I could bring. But as much as I tried to fantasize about what that might be, nothing even remotely heroic or profound showed itself. What finally came to me was that my time in South Africa was primarily God's gift to me, God's way of readying me for the next part of my journey. There was no need to be concerned about my "mission." I only needed to appreciate what was given.

Obviously I didn't die in South Africa. But then again, perhaps some little part of my false self did die there. All I really know about that time is that lessons were taught me that I can't easily forget. When I fall back into old ways of being super-responsible with people in their prayer, I soon become very uncomfortable. Something just doesn't fit with the way trust has beckoned me.

However, this trust has not yet found its way into other parts of my life. Midway through an academic course I was teaching this fall, I realized that I was taking responsibility for what the students would learn, acting as though I believed I really had to deliver the goods to them. I was so intent on my role as teacher that I missed much of what they had to offer me, particularly from the wisdom of their life experience.

Often a similar dynamic is operative when I participate in meetings. As I write this, I am coming to the close of a North American meeting of some thirty sisters of my own community, a meeting I came to primarily because I had strong feelings about a question being put before us. I even thought I knew the answer before I came. Yet something is happening to me in the course of this meeting. I am beginning to realize that there is much I don't know, that we don't know together. And I am willing to hear the little parcels of truth each of us brings. More importantly, I am trusting God to take us beyond what any one of us, or all of us together, can see, and I am learning to appreciate what God is doing in me.

I no longer try to pray on command not only because I know I can't, but also because I know it doesn't fit with my experience of trust. Perhaps now I am being weaned from the need to know on command or decide on command. What will be next? Learning on command? Receiving on command? Perhaps next, or at least finally, will be the graciousness to see the giving and the receiving, the teaching and the learning, all as one and to live trustingly in each moment.