Silence

I packed to cry: tissues, eye drops and waterproof mascara. I just knew it was coming. And I was less than thrilled.

Our internship director challenged us about halfway through the WND internship to spend a weekend at a retreat center called “Resurrection Gardens.” We were required to go for 48 hours of alone time with God, where a vow of silence was optional, but encouraged.

A retreat like this is something I’ve always wanted to do. In fact, for a long time, I’ve been pushing off conversations I know God and I have to have for just such an occasion.

Right as I put my backpack on to leave, my nose started to bleed. If you know me very well, you know that nosebleeds are my body’s universal signal for “Hey, you’re freaking out right now.”

Tons of excuses for why I should stay at home popped into my head.

Still, as I sopped up the blood, managing to avoid ruining my unstained tan “nice” pants, I told myself, “You can do this. It will be good.”

I still wasn't convinced.

My journey to Resurrection Gardens was interesting in itself. I ripped my pants entirely down the side on a matatu, picked the only boda boda (motorcycle) driver who didn't know where the gardens were are was asking me for directions, and immediately broke my vow of silence in order to find someone to let me into my room.

(Side note: This means that currently, I have one pair of pants that are whole. I feel like a homeless person.)

Since the nose bleeding had begun, my nervousness had increased. I wondered how long it would take me to walk back to the main road. I’d gone to the center, right? I could go home without feeling guilty.

I looked at the clock. I’d been on retreat for around 5 minutes.

Ask

The stubborn part of my personality won out and I ended up staying. The next 48 hours included a lot of silence, quite a bit of granola cereal, multiple walks in the gardens and a few prayers next to nuns. Which, for the record, is extremely intimidating.

But it didn’t include tears.

Like I said, I packed to cry. I thought I needed it, I thought it would help. But I just couldn’t. I came bearing so much brokenness ... but tears didn’t fix it.

I spent time praying about what I’d seen this summer, thinking about my future and confessing my issues in life. I slept late and went to bed early. I took a ridiculous number of showers just because the water was freakishly hot and there was incredible water pressure. Because yes, that was exciting for me.

But what I didn’t realize was that my fear, the nosebleed and the anxiousness were all connected to an agenda I had going into the entire experience.

I wanted specific answers from God. I went to talk to him about a few certain things and I desperately wanted to hear what he had to say about them. Which I thought, was a good idea. I mean, what better place or time?

But at the same time, I was afraid of what I’d hear him say. Afraid of what exactly he would ask of me.

You see, I have a slightly irrational/yet entirely probably fear when it comes to God’s plan for my life. When I was little, I remember praying for God not to make me a missionary. I prayed for him not to send me to Africa.

Now that I’m older, I realize that it’s never a good idea to ask God “not” to do things in your life. Which I think is particularly demonstrated by the fact that I’m currently typing this while living in Africa.

Instead, the child-like fear of being a missionary has now morphed into something bigger. Now, I’m afraid that God will call me to the wilderness, where I’ll live out my life alone, serving God until I’m eaten by a lion or tiger at the age of 65. When of course, I’ll still be single.

Granted, irrational. But in moments when I let fear take over, it’s really easy for it to see like an entirely plausible request from God. At least to my slightly screwed up mind.

Answer

At the end of the retreat, I’m happy to report that God did not, in fact, call me to a future I hate. I don't think my future life will include any scenario where I’m eaten by any sort of creature. Instead, he confirmed some ideas I already had and helped me to understand myself more deeply. He gave me rest and much needed peace. He helped me to find joy in the tasks that he’s given me and showed me the importance of the moment right now.

But he didn’t answer what I'd brought on my agenda. Particularly when it comes to the brokenness part. I set aside the entire last evening at the retreat center to work through this specific aspect of my life. I thought this would be the time, of any, to cry.

And I still didn’t. I asked God my questions. I prayed and praised and asked again. I waited and rested, got sidetracked and then almost locked in the chapel by the nuns (they didn’t see me). But still no answers.

Maybe it was something where God’s answers would come to me when I least expected them, I thought. So I showered again and got in bed.

Nothing.

I woke up early the last morning with the intention of spending a few moments in prayer, hoping that God would tie things together for me. After all, I was leaving at 8:30, so time was running out. Even God couldn't argue with that.

So I prayed and I sat. I wrote and I pondered. I ate more granola.

And I still didn’t get answers.

So I left. I talked to the rest of my team about what I'd experienced, I spent the day in Kalangware slum, I ate ice cream and pizza with Americans, I watched Harry Potter and I made a new cab driver friend on the way home.

But As far as I could tell, God was still silent. And I still hadn't cried.