A Story about the Spiritual Journey

by Sharon Garlough Brown

  “Excuse me,” Meg mumbled. She grabbed her purse and slipped quickly out the exit door, leaving her Bible behind.

  Mara wasn’t sure if Meg had left for the restroom, or if she intended to go home. Poor thing. Meg looked as anxious on the outside as Mara felt on the inside. Instead of running after her with the Bible, Mara decided it might be good if Meg had a reason to come back. For Meg’s sake.

  No. For her own sake.

  If Meg didn’t return, Mara might end up all by herself at the back corner table, and there was nothing lonelier than being by yourself in a room full of people. She knew that from experience.

  She broke off a piece of her cinnamon raisin bagel and chewed slowly, surveying her fellow travelers. Most of the thirty pilgrims were women. A few twentysomething guys with backpacks stood near the front, drinking out of water bottles and chatting comfortably. Several couples sat close together, arms draped loosely around one another’s shoulders. Mara wondered if the men had come willingly. And if they actually wanted to be there, did those women appreciate the blessing they’d been given? Or did they take their spiritual partnerships for granted?

  Mara tried to squash her feelings of envy, but she couldn’t help herself. She had spent years wishing Tom would show the faintest interest in spiritual things. Years. But the harder she prayed, the more resistant he seemed to become. So she walked the road of faith alone. Always alone.

  At that moment Meg returned to the table, looking sheepish. Mara wasn’t sure if she had come back to pick up her Bible or to sit down. Meg seemed uncertain too, with one hand hovering over the Bible and one hand touching the back of the chair.

  “Welcome, everyone! I’m Katherine Rhodes.”

  Meg plunged into her seat, gripping her purse tightly.

  “I’m noticing we’ve got a few tables without many people,” Katherine said, scanning the room. “I’m wondering if a couple of you would be willing to move to that back table in the corner, and maybe another couple to the table up front here. Let’s aim for four or five per table. Then go ahead and take the next few minutes to introduce yourselves. Maybe say why you’re here.”

  Mara watched as two women approached their table from the opposite side of the room. One was tall and sylphlike, elegant in a plum top, black denim jeans, and gold hoop earrings. She looked like she had stepped off the front cover of a magazine—the sort of magazine whose airbrushed women taunted Mara with tips for sexually satisfying men, keeping fit, and maintaining youthful skin. Mara preferred magazines offering real-life glimpses of celebrities with cellulite.

  She had long ago given up any hope of satisfying Tom or keeping fit. As for maintaining youthful skin, her cupboards overflowed with anti-aging, wrinkle-firming, collagen-enhancing, antioxidant-ing products. She was determined to preserve by rigorous regimen the only physical asset for which she had ever been commended: Mara had “nice skin.” Though she knew it was the sort of compliment people often offered to overweight women, Mara did have a dewy soft complexion that invited speculation about what her skin care secrets might be. Someone had also once told her that she had “lovely feet.” But in a world obsessed with faces and figures, beautiful feet didn’t get you very far.

  As she observed the covergirl’s diamond wedding ring and glossy manicure, Mara suddenly felt very self-conscious over her nail-bitten stubs. She closed her left hand into a fist to hide the offending fingers and tried not to think about all the other pretty and privileged girls who had made her life miserable. The rich, stuck-up, judgmental—

  Stop it! she commanded herself. You don’t even know her. She hasn’t spoken a single word, and you’re already judging her.

  Why, why, why? Why, after all these years, why did those same buttons still get pushed?

  She wished the nine-year-old girl who lived inside her menopausal body would just grow up.

  Trying hard to ignore the olive-skinned beauty, Mara eyed the other newcomer. She was about Mara’s height—maybe five-five or five-six—but she was average weight, without any visible curves. Nothing about her attracted attention: no color, no makeup, and no jewelry, except for a cross necklace. It required a certain measure of courage not to fuss over a middle-aged face, and Mara supposed she was either confident in her unremarkable, simple features or one of those rare women who simply couldn’t be bothered to fret about her appearance.

  She certainly didn’t seem to fret about her hair. Her chin length, light brown hair was damp, hanging limply around her face. Mara decided she could benefit from a few layers and a blow-dryer—and perhaps some overall color and highlighting to conceal the streaks of gray.

  The woman’s wrinkles were prominent, aging her face. She wore the brow of a deep thinker. Or a worrier. Or maybe both. And her dark eyes were ringed with weariness. Mara had never seen such dark circles. Beyond the weariness, however, was a knowing look which would have been unnerving if not combined with soft gentleness. There was something trustworthy and true in her eyes that invited confidence, even secrets.

  Or maybe it was Mara’s imagination. Maybe it was the cross she wore that made Mara instinctively trust her. She had never seen a cross like it—fashioned from nails and dangling from a black cord. She couldn’t help staring at it.

  The woman met her gaze and smiled. Mara liked her.

  “Hi, I’m Hannah Shepley.” She looked at Mara’s name tag. “Nice to meet you, Mara . . . and Meg . . . and . . . sorry—I can’t quite see your tag.”

  “Charissa Sinclair,” The Model replied.

  “Charissa?” Mara repeated. “Haven’t heard that name before. It’s pretty.”

  It figured. She even got the glamorous name. Maybe she had made it up. Did real people actually have names like Charissa Sinclair? Mara watched her pull a laptop out of her backpack and tried not to feel resentful.

  “So, why don’t we each say a little bit about why we’re here?” Hannah suggested, folding her hands in front of her as if she were getting ready to pray.

  Meg lowered her eyes. Charissa turned off her cell phone. The rest of the room was buzzing with indiscernible conversation.

  “I’ll go ahead,” Mara offered, glancing around the table as she cleared her throat. “I’m Mara. Mara Garrison. I’m married and have three boys. Brian is thirteen, Kevin is fifteen, and Jeremy is thirty with a baby on the way. Don’t know how that happened. Time passing, I mean, not the baby part.” She giggled with a kind of chortling unrestraint that always embarrassed the boys and amused her friends.

  Hannah grinned while Charissa shifted in her seat.

  Mara continued, “So anyway, I’ve been feeling totally stuck in all sorts of areas of my life. I’ve never done Bible studies or prayer stuff in a group before, and I’m pretty nervous about being here. Don’t know what to expect, you know? But my therapist suggested that this group might help me dump some of my junk, so here I am. Ready or not.”

  Crap. Had she just said that out loud? What was wrong with her? “TMI, Mom,” the boys would say. Way Too Much Information. Charissa was regarding her with scrunched up eyebrows.

  The Model probably didn’t have a therapist.

  Hannah’s voice broke the awkward silence. “I’m sure you’re not alone in that, Mara. We’ve all got burdens we need to unload so we can travel more ‘freely and lightly’ with Jesus, right?”

  Mara inwardly thanked her, grateful for the effort to ease her discomfort. Maybe she had a therapist too.

  “I guess I’ll go next,” Hannah said. Charissa was concentrating on her computer screen, and Meg was gazing longingly at the exit door. “I’m Hannah. I’m up here from Chicago, staying at a friend’s cottage at the lake for the next nine months.” Charissa raised her eyebrows, and Mara wondered if Hannah were an unwed mother, seeking anonymity. Maybe that’s why she looked so weary and sad.

  “Are you a writer?” asked Charissa.

  Huh, thought Mara. That never would have occurred to me. Shows you where my mind goes.

  Hannah smiled wryly. “No.
I’m a pastor who’s been forced against my will to take a long sabbatical in an absolutely gorgeous place. And I don’t have a clue what to do with it.”

  That explained the weariness, then. Compassion had carved the indelible lines on her forehead. She wore a pastor’s brow.

  “Have you got family with you?” asked Mara, embarrassed over imagining her with a therapist or a love child. Too many tabloid magazines.

  “No,” Hannah replied. “No family nearby, anyway. My folks live in Oregon, and my brother and his family live in New York, and I landed in the middle. That’s about it. Just waiting to see what God has for me.”

  Though Hannah’s lips formed a smile, Mara noticed her smile didn’t light her eyes. Those dark, tired, sorrowful eyes. Mara wondered what her story was. What kind of woman wouldn’t want a long rest in a lakeside cottage? She wished she could have a sabbatical from a husband and teenagers. She wouldn’t need nine months. She would be happy with a few weeks of not having to take care of anyone but herself. Pure bliss.

  She looked at Hannah and tried not to feel jealous.

  Charissa’s voice interrupted her wandering thoughts. “I’m Charissa Sinclair. My husband, John, and I celebrated our first anniversary last month.” The others murmured their congratulations. “Thanks. I’m currently working on my Ph.D. in English literature at Kingsbury University. I’ve always had a passion for learning, and when I saw the flyer for this class, it looked interesting. One of my professors knows the director, and he highly recommended it.”

  Great, Mara thought. Beautiful and smart. What if she was surrounded by really smart, super-spiritual people? Did anybody else have as much baggage as she did? Anybody? Everybody seemed so put together. Well, almost everybody. Meg looked pretty freaked out. But a pastor and a Ph.D. student? If Mara had known it would be like this, she wouldn’t have come. She was obviously in way over her head. What was Dawn thinking?

  Help.

  Katherine’s voice spoke above the noise of animated conversations in the room. “Go ahead and start wrapping up,” she said.

  “How about you, Meg?” Hannah asked. “Don’t want to leave you out.”

  Mara saw Meg swallow hard. “Not much to tell,” Meg’s soprano voice quivered. “I’ve got one daughter, Becca, who is spending her junior year abroad in England right now. She’s a literature major.”

  Mara felt strangely comforted as she watched a red band of fear become a choke chain around Meg’s neck. At least Mara could conceal her fingernails. Meg was a neon billboard for anxiety.

  Poor thing.

  “Glad you’re here, Meg,” Hannah said.

  Bless her heart, Mara thought.

  Just then Katherine extended both her hands and invited everyone to bow their heads to pray. Closing her eyes, Mara wondered if Meg would still be there when she opened them again.

  Katherine’s voice had the gentle, soothing flow of rippling water as she led the group through a Scripture meditation as part of their opening prayer. “I’m going to read a text from the beginning of Mark’s gospel,” Katherine said. “As you listen, imagine you’re part of the story. What do you see? Hear? Feel? Where are you in the story? Then simply sit with God and pray through what you noticed.”

  Mara listened with eyes closed while Katherine read. Jesus was beside the Sea of Galilee, calling disciples to follow him. Mara imagined herself on the beach, watching from a distance, a warm breeze on her face and sunlight in her eyes.

  “Follow me,” Jesus was saying to the others.

  Mara watched with envy, aching to be one of the Chosen Ones. She witnessed their joy as they got up, one by one, and left work behind. They dropped nets and waved good-bye to family and friends, their faces full of light and life.

  Bitter tears stung her eyes as the scene unfolded in her mind. Jesus was not going to choose her. He was going to pass by and keep on walking. Mara couldn’t bear to watch him leave with the others, so she stared at her feet.

  Suddenly, there was a touch on her shoulder. She looked up, and she was face to face with Jesus. He was smiling. She had never seen a smile quite like it—welcoming her into his circle of light. “Mara, come with me,” he said. “I choose you. Come walk with me.”

  Immediately, Mara saw how much she was carrying. She was surrounded by trunks, bags, suitcases. How could she follow him?

  Jesus grinned. “Just leave it,” he said, chuckling. And the chuckle crescendoed to the most lyrical laughter she had ever heard. He threw back his head, looked to the sky, and exclaimed, “Thank you, Father!” Then he took her hand, and they walked away together.

  Mara pressed her palms firmly against her eyes to drive back the onslaught of emotion. She had never experienced anything like that before. Of course, she had never imagined herself in a Bible story before. So what was she to make of it? She certainly didn’t trust her imagination. She had simply projected her own wishful thinking and longing for attention onto the text. Right? It was like a waking dream—some kind of processing of her subconscious thoughts and hopes. Or maybe the result of reading too many romance novels, imagining herself being loved and chosen by the hero.

  But it had seemed so real. If only it had been true. If only . . .

  She reached into her bag and fumbled around for a tissue, trying not to disturb anyone with her sniffling. A light touch on her shoulder, however, revealed she had already given herself away.

  Hannah was offering her a pack of tissues and a pastor’s smile.

  Hannah’s thoughts were clamoring so loudly in the hovering silence, she wouldn’t have been at all surprised if someone had overheard.

  Mara. Something was going on with Mara. Why was she crying?

  Hannah hoped Mara wasn’t upset about revealing she had a therapist. Though Hannah had tried to soothe the palpable tension at the table, one didn’t need to be an expert in the subtleties of body language to interpret Charissa’s reaction. Her stiffened posture and cocked eyebrows had spoken volumes of disapproval. Poor Mara. She didn’t seem the type to be reckless or nonchalant about personal disclosures. Her crimson blush after her confession revealed that her lips had spoken without her mind’s consent. Help her, Lord.

  And Meg. Poor Meg. Hannah tried to catch a covert glimpse of her, but Meg had drawn her blonde curls like curtains around her face, and Hannah couldn’t see anything. Please help Meg, Lord. Please give her peace.

  Katherine’s voice broke the stillness of the room and momentarily silenced Hannah’s internal noise. “The psalmist sings to God, ‘Blessed are those whose strength is in you, whose hearts are set on pilgrimage.’” Katherine was smiling warmly as she looked out at the group. “It’s a joy to welcome each one of you to a sacred journey.”

  Hannah scanned the room, wondering about the circumstances that had brought each of her fellow travelers to this place. Transition? Loss? A desire for a deeper life with God?

  Hannah had come because of Nancy’s prompting and encouragement. “I left that New Hope flyer for you on purpose,” Nancy had said when the two of them spoke earlier in the week. “It’s a bit of a drive from the cottage—maybe forty minutes or so. But I loved the prayer group I went to over the summer, and some of the women were telling me about the sacred journey group. It just sounds like it would be a wonderful experience. I’d like to do it someday. Maybe next summer.”

  “Have you met the facilitator?” Hannah had asked.

  “A couple of times. Katherine seemed like a really neat woman—she just had this soothing sort of presence, without having to say too much.”

  Though Hannah had tried to gather information about Katherine Rhodes, her Internet search yielded nothing except a few entries about Katherine’s position as director at the retreat center. Hannah did find a discussion forum on the New Hope website, however, where a number of people had commented on their experiences in the sacred journey groups. The testimonies intrigued her:

  “The sacred journey helped me understand and navigate the landscape of my inner world so t
hat I could walk more closely with God.”

  “I started to see the things that move me toward God and away from God.”

  “I grew, not only in intimacy with Christ, but in intimacy with my own self.”

  “I learned new ways to be with the God who is always with me.”

  Perhaps the sacred journey was an opportunity for Hannah to learn how to lead a new kind of spiritual formation group at Westminster—something other than the Bible studies and small groups she had been coordinating for so long. It had been years since she had enrolled in any kind of continuing education for herself, and maybe this was a chance to sharpen her own pastoral skills so she would have more to offer others. She could go back to Westminster even better equipped for the work of ministry. If she was going to be forced to rest, at least her resting could be productive.

  Very productive.

  Hearing Katherine’s voice shift into a storytelling mode, Hannah tuned in to listen. “I have a three-year-old granddaughter named Morgan who is a little butterfly of a girl,” Katherine was saying. “She loves to talk—she chatters constantly—especially when she’s in her car seat. She’s always telling my daughter, Sarah, to look at things. And Sarah will often respond rather absent-mindedly, ‘Yes, honey, I see!’ or ‘Wow, Morgan, that’s great!’

  “One morning last week, while Sarah was driving her to preschool, Morgan said, ‘Look, Mommy! Look what I have in my lap!’ Without turning around, Sarah replied, ‘Yes, honey, I see! That’s great!’ Little Morgan didn’t miss a beat. ‘Mommy,’ she said sternly, ‘we do not look with our mouths! Turn around and see me with your eyes!’”

  Hannah wasn’t sure if Meg was smiling shyly at Katherine’s story or at Mara’s boisterous laugh. Maybe both.

  “The spiritual life is all about paying attention,” said Katherine. “The Spirit of God is always speaking to us, but we need to slow down, stop, and give more than lip service to what God is saying. We need to get off autopilot and take time to look and listen with the eyes and ears of the heart.”