I walked back to the house slowly. My eyes scanned the neighborhood for any sign of life—a car pulling into a driveway, a porch light turned on. I had never felt so desperate for connection. Small talk with a complete stranger sounded strangely euphoric. Alas, I made my way through the streets without but a hint of human connection. Like a scene from a post-apocalyptic film I opened the door to the house feeling as though I was the last man alive.
This was years ago. I was one week into a three-week solitude retreat in a small town on the Puget Sound. The fundamental task for the week was prayer. Familiar companions of activity were cast aside—no books, no phone, no television, no computer. In their place, new friends were to keep me company—solitude, silence, stillness. I was not permitted to leave the retreat house, but for a brief walk during the day.
The heroic spiritual adventure I had in mind had been swallowed up by a bewildering mixture of anxiety and loneliness. The retreat had proven to be a time in the darkness of Gethsemane, not the bright light of the Mount of Transfiguration. The silence and solitude had exposed sin, fear, anger, idolatry. I wanted to escape, to leave the mirror behind and forget the face I had seen. But I couldn’t move, literally. I couldn’t go for a drive, shuffle along busy city streets, go for a long run. The task was to “remain here, and watch” (Matt. 26:38). Read More
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