Sometimes I feel that life is passing me by, not slowly either, but with ropes of steam and spark-spattered wheels and a hoarse roar of power or terror. It's passing, yet I'm the one who's doing all the moving. ~Martin Amis, Money
For weeks, people plugged this retreat: at meetings, before talks, in emails. As the facilitator of a young adult group in the city, you'd think I'd have been gung-ho to be part of a retreat specifically directed at people in their 20s and 30s. But I found myself constantly forgetting, constantly putting it off as I thought through all the things I wouldn't be able to get done if I was stuck listening to holy talks on the northshore.
But I guess God has a way of getting you where He knows you need to be. Last week was a rough one. Pressure about upcoming state testing left my mind muddled at work and my students antsy. Events in the evening kept me away from home more nights than not. I was days behind in my postings, and the mess I had spent hours righting last weekend was going back to all wrong. The week, with all bullying, just would not end.
Until finally, it did. I left work a little early than on a usual Friday and got home in time to get a few things in before a friend came over. It was supposed to just be a walk, but it turned into more of a hike, without any of the negative connotations that word can carry. The almost five miles we ended up covering was interrupted only by a quick dinner out on the sidewalk and an even quicker stop at a frozen yogurt shop. The rest of the time we kept moving, clearing the air of all the dust stirred up over the week: the fears, the laughs, the frustrations, the stress, the hope. We said hello to people we knew along the way and side-stepped the ones we weren't so sure about. Those five miles were a blessing, but they weren't enough. There were still streets to be crossed where old, sometimes unpleasant memories lived. That bar where I had a first date with one guy. That place where things fizzled with another. For rents signs reminding me it was high time to make a decision about where I'd be in June. School banners taunting me: was all I'd done for my students this year enough? I had to get out. I had to get away from all this. Serenity, now, I begged.
Back home, we said goodbye, only to reconvene early the next morning to cross the lake. The Causeway's 24 mile expanse may not be the most interesting of drives, but the steady thump-thump thump-thump thump-thump of the road was already slowing my heart rate. An hour and only one missed turn later, we turned onto St. Joseph Way to find ourselves surrounded by green grass, a chapel, a pond, a conference room, and a blue beautiful sky spotted with clouds like strewn cotton balls.
Check-in was easy, and there were plenty of hugs to give: friends from this place and that group had shown up, some expected and some not. I was glad to be there, but I wanted to be outside, to lay in the grass, to play a game of something in the open field, not sit quietly and listen in a chapel. My mind, despite the relaxing drive, had not slowed down enough. The "go, go, go" attitude I've developed after years of trying not to fall into boredom would not succumb to my gentle plea to pause. But I suppose I just needed to push a little harder. I walked into the chapel, made myself stop and be serious for once, and pretty soon, I found the day melting away around me. I never took off my watch, but I barely looked at it, either. And when I did, I didn't really care. Between the gentle breeze as I reflected in the shade, and the pointed insights and comforting community of my small group, the day slipped away. But unlike most Saturdays, I didn't want it back. It was perfect and exactly what I needed. At mass, one woman stood up and told us that the retreat's name, Charis, meant gift or grace. What was your grace? she asked. Huddled with the people that had made that day special, I whispered, peace. Today gave me peace. For just a few hours as payment, I found even just a taste of what I was looking for.
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