A Story about the Spiritual Journey

by Sharon Garlough Brown

  Now that she was sitting with the large group again, hearing testimonies about insights and discoveries from the prayer walk, she became even more annoyed.

  One woman spoke about the gift of walking the labyrinth with so many other people. She said she was reminded that no matter how she was struggling, there were fellow pilgrims making the same journey toward the heart of God. The community of faith encouraged her and gave her hope.

  Another spoke about his discovery that just when he thought he had reached the center, the path would whip him out again to the farthest exterior loop. He talked about noticing his strong desire to arrive at the destination and wondered if God was speaking to him about enjoying the journey, detours and all.

  The personal reflections avalanched as people enthusiastically shared their spiritual insights. Charissa was glad no one at her table spoke up. At least her silence wouldn’t be conspicuous. Or maybe she wanted to be conspicuously disapproving. She wasn’t sure.

  She shifted in her seat and fidgeted impatiently on her keyboard. C’mon, c’mon. Katherine Rhodes was yielding far too much control to tangential discussions. What a waste of a morning.

  Just before noon Katherine wrapped up the discussion. “One thing I’ve discovered is that navigating our external world is often a piece of cake compared to traveling the labyrinth of our inner world. I’m glad to hear some of your stories about how the labyrinth became a metaphor and mirror for the Spirit’s movement in your lives. Feel free to come any time to walk and pray in the courtyard.

  “As I said at the beginning, you’re likely to experience distractions and confusion as you journey. There may be times when you’ll feel discouraged and be tempted to give up. But if you persevere—if you press on in hope and confidence that the Lord himself is directing your journey and is with you as you travel—it will be a marvelous adventure. It’s also a special gift to walk with trustworthy companions. We need each other. God doesn’t want us traveling alone. So I pray you’ll come to know one another well, even as you come to know God better.”

  A marvelous adventure? Not likely, Charissa thought. Not if they would be sitting around, talking about flaky personal revelations from New Age practices. She couldn’t believe they weren’t getting a syllabus. How would she know if it was worth coming back?

  “The early desert fathers and mothers retreated to the wilderness to find God and to know themselves,” said Katherine. “We don’t need to retreat to a far-off place or abandon our daily lives to encounter God. But we do need training in how to discern the movement of God’s Spirit in ordinary and everyday circumstances. We need designated time for stillness and listening. It takes time to identify the baggage we’ve been carrying that weighs us down. That’s some of what this journey will be about.

  “Just one last practical bit before I offer a closing prayer. For the next two weeks, consider your images of God. Notice especially how your current images have taken shape and changed over the years. Who is God to you? And remember to keep a travelogue of your pilgrimage. I’m confident the Holy Spirit will be revealing many things as you take the time to slow down, be still, and listen.” She paused. “My fellow pilgrims, the Lord is with you. May you find ways to be with God and with one another.”

  Charissa clapped her laptop shut and shoved it back in its case.

  Meg lingered after the others left, hoping to speak privately to Katherine. When the room finally emptied, she approached tentatively. Katherine was cleaning up the back table, loading dirty plates and coffee mugs onto a pushcart.

  “May I help you with that?” Meg asked.

  Katherine turned around. “I’d be grateful,” she replied, squinting to read the name tag. “Thank you, Meg.”

  While Katherine gathered her papers, Meg cleared the rest of the table. Even clearing dishes caused her to choke up, and she scolded herself. That was the thing about grief. It was so entirely unpredictable, launching stealth attacks through the simplest of triggers. How long had it been since she’d cleared away dishes in front of someone else? Though Becca had only been gone six weeks, it felt like a lifetime. And Mother—

  “So, Meg, tell me. How did you find the morning?”

  Meg quickly wiped her eyes. “I’m afraid I didn’t come very well prepared,” she said quietly.

  “How so?” Katherine sat down and extended her hand, inviting Meg to sit beside her.

  “I-um . . . I wasn’t sure what to expect and didn’t dress very suitably.” Meg pointed to her high heels.

  Katherine chuckled. “Not great walking shoes, huh? And I’m guessing by looking at you that you’re probably not the type to throw off your shoes and go barefoot.”

  Meg smiled, shaking her head.

  “So you have the labyrinth to look forward to next time. Come early enough, and there probably won’t be anyone around to watch you.”

  Meg sighed. “Everyone had such profound things to say today. But I’m afraid I’m not very profound. I’m thinking maybe this group is too advanced for me.”

  Just speaking the words out loud caused her eyes to burn with tears again, and she looked away.

  Katherine’s voice was full of gentleness as she replied, “Jesus said, ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.’”

  The verse sounded familiar, but Meg didn’t know what it meant.

  “You begin the journey with a wonderful gift, Meg, if you already know you are poor in spirit—if you already see how desperately you need God. Humility is always the starting place for those who want to draw near to God.”

  Meg looked up and met Katherine’s compassionate gaze.

  “Of course,” Katherine continued slowly, “there’s also a disabling sort of poverty that sneers you’re never good enough, no matter what you do or how hard you try. The right kind of spiritual poverty is a pathway to seeing God; the other kind prevents you from seeing who God has created you to be.” She paused. “Perhaps your journey will take you from one to the other.”

  Meg shook her head. “I don’t think I understand what you mean.” There was so much she didn’t understand. How could she be forty-six when she still felt so much like a child? Her age had crept up on her when she wasn’t paying attention.

  Katherine settled back into her chair. “I remember years ago when I was first starting in ministry,” she said. “I had a dream I’ve never forgotten. In the dream I was applying for a job at a police station—of all places!—and the officer was really surly. He told me that if I wanted the job, I would have to lift three hundred pounds.”

  Meg laughed out loud.

  “I know. Look at me!” Katherine chuckled, pointing to her thin arms. “So I told him I hadn’t done anything athletic for a very long time. And he scowled and growled and said, ‘Well, that’s the job requirement, lady. Is it gonna be a problem for you?’ And I looked him straight in the eye and said, ‘No, it’s not going to be a problem for me, because my Lord Jesus will do it for me.’ Then he took me over to this enormous machine—it was absolutely monstrous—and he strapped me in. At first I could hardly move. But then suddenly, I was lifting huge weights high above my head over and over again.”

  Meg grinned, watching her demonstrate the weight-lifting motion.

  Katherine’s blue eyes were twinkling as she went on. “Sadly, I woke up before I found out if I got the job. But I knew the dream meant something important, so I asked the Spirit to help me understand. And when I prayed, I had the strong impression the Lord was saying, ‘Kitty, this is humility. This is how I want you to live: knowing you have no strength on your own, but being absolutely confident that you can do everything through me.’” She paused. “Does that make sense?”

  Meg spoke slowly. “I think so. My pastor often talks about coming to the end of ourselves and having nowhere to look but up.”

  “Exactly.” Katherine clasped her hands together. “When Jesus spoke about the ‘poor in spirit,’ he was talking about people who were totally helpless and entirely depe
ndent upon God to supply all their needs. That kind of weakness is a place of blessing, Meg. It’s a gift to be able to say, ‘I can’t, but God can!’” Katherine peered intently into Meg’s face. “Actually, that’s one of my favorite prayers. I’ll inhale saying the words, ‘I can’t’ and exhale saying the words, ‘You can, Lord,’ over and over again throughout the day. Those simple words help keep me going in hope and faith when the way gets hard. And sometimes it gets very hard, doesn’t it?”

  Meg sat in silence, listening to the rhythm of her own breathing. Could prayer really be that constant? That simple? Her fears were like breath to her—frequent, regular, and so habitual, she hardly noticed. Could prayer become like that? Could her awareness of God’s presence and power actually become life and breath to her?

  Meg’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I’ve had years to practice saying, ‘I can’t.’ I’m not sure I can undo it.”

  Katherine smiled encouragingly. “Spiritual disciplines are all about forming new habits and new rhythms,” she said. “If you’ve mastered the ‘I can’t’ part, then you can start practicing the second part along with it: ‘The Lord can.’ God’s grace is so big that even our weaknesses become wonderful opportunities for the Spirit to work in us. Our fears, our temptations—even our sins—can draw us closer to God.”

  Meg thought a few moments and then murmured, “My fears almost kept me from coming today, though.”

  Katherine had a knowing look to her. “And yet, God gave you the courage to come—and to stay.” Meg felt her face flush, and she put her hand to her cheek. “I am absolutely confident, Meg, that the Lord will give you everything you need for walking the road to freedom. He’ll be walking with you.”

  Meg tried to push down the lump in her throat. “Thank you,” she breathed.

  Katherine squeezed her hand and rose from the chair. “God bless you, Meg. I’ll see you next time.”

  Meg exited through the courtyard doors and walked the tree-lined path to the labyrinth. When she arrived at the courtyard, she was surprised to find Hannah sitting on the rose-bowered bench. At first Meg considered trying to retreat unobserved, but it was too late. The click of her heels had given her away.

  Hannah looked up from her writing and waved.

  “Sorry,” Meg said, pointing to Hannah’s journal. “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”

  “I’m almost finished anyway,” Hannah replied, scooting over on the bench so Meg could sit down. Meg brushed some pink petals to the ground. “I was just writing some things down before I forget. Did you come out to walk?”

  “No, I’ll save that for next time. I just wanted to take another look.”

  They sat, listening to the wind whistling through the trees, until the sound of Hannah’s protesting stomach disrupted the peace. Placing her hand on her abdomen, Hannah peered into her tote bag. “I should’ve thought to pack some snacks,” she said. “Guess I’d better get something to eat before I head back to the lake. Any recommendations for something other than fast food? Maybe a place nearby where I could grab soup or a sandwich?”

  Meg named the first place that came to mind. “Corner Nook. They’ve got great homemade soups and breads.”

  “Perfect! Is it easy to get to from here? That’s the other thing I didn’t pack with me—a map. I only printed out directions back and forth from here to the cottage.” Hannah paused, smiling. “Not a very well-prepared pilgrim, am I?”

  Meg pointed to her heels. “Join the club.”

  “Well, we both know better what to expect next time, don’t we?” Hannah commented, putting away her journal. “So . . . can you point me in the right direction?”

  “Actually, it’s on my way home. Do you want to just follow me?”

  Hannah didn’t respond immediately, and Meg wondered why she was hesitating. She appeared to be thinking hard. “You might already have lunch plans,” Hannah finally said, “but you’d be welcome to join me.”

  As she looked into Hannah’s dark and weary eyes, Meg the Pleaser overpowered Meg the Griever.

  There was no point in both of them eating alone.

  The restaurant was buzzing with the hum of comfortable conversation when Meg and Hannah chose a corner table near the fireplace. “Hey! I haven’t seen you for a long time!” the waitress greeted Meg.

  “No, I haven’t been here for a while,” Meg replied. She and Hannah both turned down the offer of coffee.

  “How’s your mom doing?” the woman asked, filling their water glasses. “I haven’t seen her for ages!”

  Meg swallowed hard as her face flushed. “She passed away a few months ago.”

  Hannah immediately suffered a pang of grief for Meg and a knot of discomfort for the waitress.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” the woman said. “I remember you guys used to come in here a lot together. Your mom always ordered the same thing, right? Cherry chicken salad on wheat.” Meg nodded, her large brown eyes brimming with tears. “Take your time,” the waitress said, patting Meg’s shoulder before she moved on to another table.

  Meg looked down at the menu, attempting to conceal a trail of tears.

  “I’m so sorry, Meg.” Sorry on two accounts, Hannah thought: sorry for Meg’s grief and sorry for the unintended role she had played in opening the wound. Feeling the familiar burden of responsibility bear down on her shoulders, she hunched forward. Help, Lord.

  Meg shrugged weakly. “If my mother were here she’d tell me to just get over it. I hear her voice in my head, you know? Telling me I’m too sensitive. And she’s right. She was right, I mean.” Meg retrieved a tissue from her purse and tried to erase the tattletale marks of her sorrow, but her efforts only made things worse. Her mascara was now streaked in black across her face.

  Hannah was just about to invite Meg to speak about her heartache—she was on the verge of trying to shepherd her through some of the grieving—when something caught in her spirit. A little nudge in a different direction.

  Maybe Meg needed a friend, not a pastor.

  “Well,” Hannah said, “according to my baby book, my first sentence was, ‘You hurt my feelings!’” Meg smiled slightly. “I guess I’ve had to learn to embrace my sensitivity as one of my greatest gifts. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. But it’s also a liability I have to manage. It’s hard—exhausting sometimes. A blessing and a curse, huh?”

  “Mostly curse for me,” Meg replied. “Thankfully, my daughter, Becca, ended up with thicker skin.” Under her breath she added, “And that’s a good thing.”

  Again, the pastor within Hannah wrestled. She was ready to seize Meg’s comment and explore the issues behind Meg’s intense insecurities and undisguised low self-worth. Over the years Hannah had grown so accustomed to people disclosing their deepest struggles and most intimate heartaches that she half-expected to leave the Corner Nook knowing everything about Meg’s past. Then she remembered that she hadn’t entered Meg’s life as Pastor Hannah Shepley. Meg wasn’t seeking her out for advice, care, or support. Suddenly, Hannah heard Steve’s nettling voice in her head. Again.

  You don’t know who you are when you’re not pastoring.

  Forget that. This woman clearly needed pastoral care, and Hannah wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to provide it. While Meg excused herself from the table, Hannah ignored Steve’s voice and let her thoughts run their race.

  Meg wasn’t wearing a wedding band. Was divorce another layer of her heartache?

  And she had mentioned Becca a couple of times. Were they close, despite the miles between them?

  And how would someone as timid as Meg decide to come to a group by herself?

  That part didn’t add up. Usually, someone had to be fairly self-aware and confident to join a group like theirs, or so desperate for transformation that discontent overpowered fear. Maybe that’s what had pushed Meg—the disruption to her status quo. Grief always bore the potential for growth, and Meg was grieving. Old things had died, and the new was waiting to be birthed. Meg was preg
nant with spiritual life, and maybe she didn’t even realize it. But Hannah saw the signs.

  Now she was even more impatient. She wanted to know Meg’s story, and she wanted to help. She could be Meg’s spiritual midwife, and Steve wouldn’t know the difference.

  Meg returned ten minutes later with her makeup carefully restored and her hair pulled back with a tortoise shell clip. “You okay?” Hannah asked, trying not to sound too eager or probing. Meg simply nodded.

  Their conversation for the next hour was friendly and autobiographical without being revealing or transparent, much to Hannah’s disappointment. She took the lead, speaking about her childhood, hoping her disclosures would prompt Meg to share intimate details of her story. Hannah talked about the trials of moving every couple of years when she was growing up. Her dad had been in sales, and they had followed his work. They stopped moving when she was fifteen, but she didn’t talk about the reasons why—she never talked about that—and Meg didn’t ask any questions.

  Meg spoke about living in Kingsbury all her life, watching others come and go. She mentioned her love for music and her affection for the many piano students she had taught over the years. “Beginners,” she explained. “I’m not good enough to teach the advanced ones.” She talked about how her mother had helped her raise Becca after the death of her husband and how grateful she was that Becca was such a well-adjusted and confident girl. Hannah would have liked to have asked many questions, but she didn’t sense an invitation.

  No invitation at all.

  She was kidding herself, wasn’t she? She wasn’t at the New Hope Center because of Meg or Mara or Westminster. When would she actually embrace the reality that this sabbatical was for her? Why was that so hard for her to accept?

  As she drove back to the lake, she couldn’t help thinking that the next nine months would prove to be even more difficult—and far more uncomfortable—than she had imagined.