by Jacci Turner
“For me as well,” agreed Christine.
Father Paul chuckled. “I’m very glad to hear that. Have you had a chance to join us for prayer?”
“I’ve been coming to the morning prayers,” said Christine.
Amy was impressed. Those were at 6:35 in the morning.
“Except today. Today I slept in.”
Father Paul chuckled again. “As you should on your retreat Sabbath. How about you, Amy?”
Surprised he remembered her name, Amy felt glad she had a positive answer. “I’m planning to come tonight, right after this.”
“Very good,” he said, smiling.
“My grandfather was from Germany,” she added. “Wuppertal.”
“Ah,” he said, “not far from where I was born in Bonn! Have you ever been there?”
“Oh yes; I’ve been there twice. I loved it. And we traveled a bit, so I saw some of Bonn. We toured the beautiful old government buildings.”
“Excuse me,” said Christine. “I’m heading back into silence. It was great sharing dinner with you.” She stood and took her tray as Amy waved and smiled, hoping they hadn’t chased her way.
“Sprichst du Deutsch?” he asked.
“Sehr wenig,” she replied, holding her fingers up to indicate she only spoke a little German.
“Ah, well,” he smiled. “I get homesick sometimes.”
“I bet,” she said.
“Well, I must get ready for prayers. I will see you there?”
“Yes, I’ll be there.”
15
Amy followed other silent retreatants across the parking lot to the monastery chapel. She was curious to experience the Catholic service, since she’d never been in one. Maybe she’d missed her calling as a nun.
Inside was a room much smaller than the big chapel but similar in style, with wooden walls and pews, instead of chairs, in a horseshoe shape around a plain altar. Hanging from the open-beamed ceiling on cables was an African Jesus statue hanging on a cross.
Amy was guided into a pew and handed a book that looked like a hymnal and the monk that guided her whispered, “Please don’t sing along with us,” which Amy found odd.
She could tell there were people here from the community as well. At the front of the room a monk came forward to lead. The order of the service felt foreign to Amy, a displacement experience, she realized. She could not follow along very well with what was happening and was always surprised when people near her stood or knelt. The monks took turns singing, and she tried to keep up in the book. When it ended, she was glad she had come but still not entirely comfortable. So much for her calling as a nun.
At the end she managed to smile at Father Paul and head happily out the door. The air was warm, so she decided to go sit by the lake. She found a plastic chair facing the water and settled in. Closing her eyes, she felt the soft air touching her face. Something about the night made her feel sad. Was it the silence? No one to talk to but herself? She’d come to this retreat angry. Now she felt less angry but more sad. The things she’d always believed were now in a heap of things she might want to discard. How was she supposed to navigate this?
A tear slid down Amy’s cheek. More than anything she wanted to talk to someone about it. She was so used to processing things with her friends. Now it was just her and … God. Do you still speak to me, God? she wondered in the direction of the stars. Do you still like me? I don’t like me much. I’m judgmental, bossy, and a people pleaser.
Random thoughts flitted through her mind as she reviewed the week. It was like taking a jar of river water and letting the sediment settle to the bottom. The water became clearer as she sat. She could see herself more clearly too and wasn’t loving the view.
After about an hour, she dragged herself back to the room. Maybe she’d just go to bed early. Maybe she was just tired. She got ready for bed then looked at the clock. She was surprised to see it was barely eight. Did she really want to go to bed this early?
She pulled out her journal and started writing.
* * *
Suddenly it was morning. What had woken Amy up? Her neck was sore from falling asleep in an awkward position. At some point, she must have crawled under her covers. Her phone buzzed, a text from Josh.
Josh: Call me!
It must have been the phone that had woken her. She quickly pulled on her yoga gear and, rubbing sleep from her eyes, she dashed down the hall and out of the building. The morning sun was just coming up and the sky was a brilliant pink. The air was cool and moist against her skin. It was six o’clock in the morning, which made it four in the morning for Josh. Was he okay? Quickly she walked to the one spot on the grounds she’d found the best signal, across from and to the right of the statue. How had his text gotten through? She pressed his name on her favorites, hoping for a good signal.
“Amy!” said his happy voice.
“Are you okay? It’s the middle of the night.”
“I know but I’m so happy I couldn’t sleep and waited as long as I could to call you—Peter proposed to me! I’m getting married!”
Amy rocked back on her heels. Married? Joshua was getting married? Part of her was delighted—he was so happy. Part of her was concerned. Marriage equality had just come to Nevada, but it still was not a great place to be gay. And part of her was jealous. Even my gay friends get married before I do! “Tigger, that’s fantastic! Tell me everything.”
He spoke in a rush. “Well, we’d gone to the movies—you know, the one downtown—and after, he said he wanted to walk around. So, we were just strolling around. It was warm and beautiful out, and I’m totally clueless, and he takes me to the bridge on Virginia Street—you know, the one they rebuilt? The one you threw your ring off of? And we’re leaning over the edge and he says, ‘This is the bridge the people who came to Reno in the fifties, to get those quick divorces, used to throw their rings off of.’”
“What?” said Amy, getting caught up in the excitement of his story.
“I know, right? Then he bends down, like he’s going to tie his shoe, and says, ‘Oh my God, look! I found one!’
“And I look down and he’s kneeling on one knee with a wedding ring in a box!”
“No way! Oh my gosh—he didn’t! That is awesome!”
“I know, right? It was crazy. But Amy, I’m so excited. And we want to get married next summer, and I want you to be my best man.” Amy could practically see his smile on the other end of the line. She laughed. It felt so good to share his joy.
“Hmmm,” she said. “Do I get to throw you a bachelor party?”
“Of course!”
They talked more, and finally Joshua was tired enough to sleep. Amy was enjoying the morning and decided to walk around the lake. “Early phone call?” asked Stephen, who’d jogged up from the opposite direction and turned to walk with her. He was wearing his 49er shirt and sweating.
“You’ve been out running already?”
“Yeah, I like to run—it clears my head. You look happy. Good news?”
She smiled. “My best friend, Joshua, got engaged last night! He asked me to be his best man.” Then she bit her lip. “Don’t know how you feel about all that.”
“Oh, I was in my sister’s gay wedding in May. You know, love conquers all.” He smiled at her. “I really appreciated your story the other night. Thanks for sharing it. Sounds like you’ve been through a tough time.”
“Thanks,” said Amy. “I realized I completely forgot to tell you guys about the cups! That was how the story started.”
“Well,” he said, smiling, “tell me now.”
Amy wished he wasn’t so good-looking. His wedding band flashed in the sunlight. She suddenly became aware that she had run out of her room without even brushing her teeth. Did she have morning breath? She turned slightly away from him as she spoke. “I took this broken mug to my room. It had Monet’s water lilies on it, with a broken-off handle. And I sort of saw how it was like me.” He nodded and she went on as they passed the statue of St
. Benedict, hands reaching over the lake. “As I looked at the broken handle, I felt like the things I held onto are gone: my church, my idea about missions, my potential marriage, my identity as a Christian—at least as an evangelical Christian. But then it was like God said, ‘The cup is still beautiful and useful. It’s not broken beyond repair.’ And I realized that my life is still beautiful and useful, and I’ve realized this week that my faith is not broken beyond repair.”
“Wow! All that from a cup? Wish I’d gone to that session. What do you do now—since the church blowout?”
“I’m in grad school—social work.”
“Oh, that’s right. You said that the first night.”
“I’m supposed to be finishing. I need to start writing my thesis, but I’m not sure what I want to do it on.”
“I’ve got a couple of observations, if you’re open to hear them.” He smiled and she noticed he had a dimple on his left cheek but not one on his right. She quickly glanced away.
“Sure.”
“Two things come to mind. One, you seem to have a heart for the LGBTQI population—you could do something on that.”
“That’s funny! Someone else mentioned that.”
“And … are you still interested in working with trafficked people?”
“Yeah, I guess I am.”
“Are there any trafficked people in Reno?”
Her mind whirled at the thought. “That’s a really good question.” Was anyone working with trafficked victims in Reno? “Prostitution is legal there. Oh my gosh—I’ve lived there my whole life and never thought about that before. I need to find out what’s going on in the area with trafficked kids. Wow Stephen! You’ve just given me the best idea for research I’d actually enjoy!”
They had finished the lap around the little lake and were back at the entrance to the retreat center. Stephen pointed across at St. Benedict. “I always think he looks like he’s doing an end-zone dance.”
Amy laughed. “Are you kidding? I thought the same thing the first time I saw him! I called him Benny and decided he was a 49er.”
Stephen held open the door for her. “My kinda girl! You should come down sometime for a game. I have season tickets.”
Amy smiled as she passed through the door. “That’d be great.” You, me, and the wife, she thought, unsure what to think of the invitation. People inside were in the breakfast line. They joined the end of it and the guy with the hipster beard started ribbing Stephen about his 49er T-shirt.
Amy’s mind was full of ideas and quickly tuned out their football banter. Reno, sex trafficking. It was a natural—why hadn’t she thought of it before? Natalie and Brooke waved at her, gesturing that they should eat together. She nodded, glad for a chance to connect with her friends. She said good-bye to Stephen and moved up the line to join them. She had so much to tell.
16
“I can’t believe this is our last full day,” said Natalie over breakfast. “In the middle, it felt like it would never end, and now …”
“Seriously,” Brooke broke in, “this has been off the hook. We need to keep in touch.”
“Yes!” said Natalie. “I have so much to process.”
At that all three girls pulled out their phones, laughed, and started sharing their information to each other.
Natalie’s giant doe eyes got bigger as she leaned in conspiratorially. “You guys think we could maybe … meet here again next year?”
Brooke jumped in. “Or maybe find another event somewhere else like it to attend!”
“That would be amazing!” said Amy.
“Let’s all look at our faves and send each other ideas,” gushed Natalie. “I’d love to see Brené Brown or Elizabeth Gilbert.”
“Or Sarah Bessey or Nadia Bolz-Weber,” added Brooke.
“Or Rachel Held Evans or Anne Lamott,” said Amy. She didn’t know some of the names but thought anyone Natalie and Brooke were interested in would be fun to see.
“Time for yoga,” said Natalie, getting up from the table and gathering their dishes.
“You guys wanna meet in the parking lot tonight after the examen?” asked Brooke.
“One last time,” said Natalie. “I’m in.”
“Me too,” said Amy, glad she’d have one more chance to visit with her friends before they all took off for home in the morning. She stacked her tray on the racks for dirty dishes and followed her friends to yoga.
* * *
In the morning session, the seats were in rows again. After the breath prayers, Tom put a picture up on the screen. It was an odd picture to Amy. It looked like three people sitting at a table. It was not a pretty picture. It was definitely something religious, like the art she saw in the hallways of this building.
“Today we are going to talk about reading icons.”
Amy remembered Celeste had said something about icons. What was it?
Tom began clicking through a PowerPoint full of names, dates, and pictures as he spoke. “Images of Christ and the apostles were painted right away after Christ’s death, but soon church leaders said it was wrong to have images because people could worship them instead of Christ. When Constantine made Christianity the state religion, icons were allowed and iconographers thrived into the eighth and ninth centuries. Icons were called ‘windows to the divine’ or ‘windows to heaven.’ They were not drawn; they were referred to as ‘written,’ and they were meant to be read. The method of writing them was passed down through the centuries and involved a lot of prayer; they were made to teach the liturgy, to teach theology, and to open a window into the very presence of God.
“Unfortunately, they fell out of favor once again during the Reformation. The Protestants thought there should be no images adorning churches. Today, most icons can be found in Eastern Orthodox churches, although you can see some around here if you look closely. But Protestants are rediscovering the joy of praying an icon, and we’re going to try it today.”
Praying an icon, thought Amy. She’d never heard of that. How had she missed out on so much? The screen once again held the original picture of the three people at the table.
“The first thing you should know,” said Tom, “is that icons are written in inverse perspective. It’s the opposite of the perspective we are used to seeing where the vanishing point is deep in the painting. With inverse perspective, the vanishing point is back behind you, inviting you into the painting.”
Amy had taken an art class and understood about vanishing points. Her eye was used to looking into the painting, with the far-off things small and the near things bigger. She wondered if it was the inverse perspective that made these pictures look ugly to her.
“This,” said Tom, gesturing to the picture, “is Rublev’s icon of the Trinity. This is both the story of the three angels that appeared to and ate with Abraham at the Oak of Mamre and a picture of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit inviting you to sit with them.”
Wow, I never would have seen all that, thought Amy, noticing that the figures were indeed angels with golden wings behind them and halos over their heads. She wondered if the original audience would have been able to see all this without an interpreter.
“See the tree behind them—the Oak of Mamre—the house of Abraham, and the mountain in the background. Notice the color of their robes. The Son, in the middle, is wearing the red-brown robe with a blue cloak. He represents the divine in heaven and earth. His hand points toward the Spirit on our right. The Father sends the Son; the Son sends the Spirit. He is both human and divine, touching the earth and blessing the chalice on the table. His head is inclined to the left, toward his Father. The Father, in the golden robe, represents heaven. He has his hand up in blessing toward the Son. The Spirit wears pale blue and fragile green, moving among both the earth and sky. All three figures hold a staff of authority.”
Amy squinted at the screen. She had not noticed the thin lines of a staff next to each figure. This was interesting.
“And the Spirit gestures to an opening at th
e table, an invitation to the empty place, where you are invited to join them. See how their heads each incline to the other in a circle of love and fellowship. That is where you are being invited in, to the hospitality of the Trinity.”
Whoa. For some reason, that felt scary to Amy—the idea to pull up to the table with the three parts of the Trinity.
“What I’d like you to try as you gaze at this icon is allow yourself to sit at the table with them. Interact with each part of the Trinity. See which part you feel most comfortable with, which is most uncomfortable to you. We’ll do this for the remainder of the hour. Perhaps talk to them about your feelings.”
Amy looked at the painting and tried to put herself at the table. She closed her eyes to picture it. She gazed at the Father, and all her old Sunday school images came back: long white beard, white robe. Her mental image of Jesus was pretty Sunday school–ish too: the white—despite being Middle Eastern—guy with the brown beard who was usually portrayed holding a lamb or a child on his lap. The Holy Spirit was harder to picture, and she was reminded of a book she’d read called The Shack, where God was portrayed as a black woman and the Holy Spirit as an Asian woman. Was it the fact that they were portrayed as women that made them both seem much more accessible to her?
Closing her eyes was not working. She gazed at the picture and quieted her mind and pictured herself at the table. Feeling what it would be like to sit with the Father. Good. She felt comfortable there; her image of God was good and loving. She let herself reach over to Jesus. That felt good too, safe. Jesus had been her friend since she was small. But when she faced the Holy Spirit, she felt uneasy. I guess I don’t know who you are, she said in her mind. My church never mentioned you much. Maybe I need to try to get to know you better, she concluded. And she felt as if the fuzzy figure replied, “I’d like that.”
* * *
Amy made sure to sit with Celeste at lunch. They exchanged contact information too. And Celeste had shared her joy over Joshua’s announcement and Amy’s description of praying the icon.