I’ve never been a retreat person.
I am, after all, a shameless homebody. As a college student, I was never the type to “go out” or even visit the gullies (the super sketchy, tree-y area behind the dorms where the desperate kids went to make out). I was generally in bed by 9:00pm except for the rare occasion my RA duties called or my crush wanted to jam on some new worship songs together (yes, I am that cheesy).
Even now, in my mid twenties, if I’m given the option to go on adventure or stay home in my pjs, I will default to the latter. I just like to be home. And retreats take me away from home. They take me away from my fluffy comforter, my coffee mug, and my chickens.
Especially now, three years into marriage—home is a safe haven. It and my husband are where I go to find rest. Retreats mean leaving that rest in search of a promised, greater Rest—with a capital R. “Impossible!” I’d say. The task of packing alone throws me into such a frenzied stress, any hope of capital-R Rest diminishes. As I stare blankly at an empty suitcase calling to me, “Fill me! Pack me! Know what you want to wear three days from now,” the urgency of it all overwhelms me and I collapse on the bed, defeated. With only a little more control than a toddler throwing a tantrum in Target, I whine, “I don’t want to go.” I justify my apprehension with my stage of life. A young adults retreat? Why do I have to go? Can’t I stay home with my husband and water my plants? My basil needs me.
Inevitably, I arise from my defeated state and throw whatever clothes crest their piles in my suitcase; I summon the courage and muster the strength to leave home.
I go reluctantly. I am not in the least expectant. I go out of duty, not in faith.
But surprises awaited me.
The first surprise, snow.
September 24 and snow. In my hurried packing state I packed Birkenstocks and trail running shoes. I have boots, yes, but they somehow failed to jump in my bag. So I walked around all weekend in trail running shoes. Good thing I already found my number one. ;)
Second, the volunteers.
As an intern, I arrived knowing I’d work my tail off. But I didn’t expect to meet people who didn’t have to work and did anyway—with a better heart and attitude than I’ve ever had serving. Heather, Zach, and Dakotah were Jesus with 21st century skin on. In the middle of tasks to check off a list, balloons to blow up, and breakout sessions to teach, these men and women ministered through their smiles and presence. They were available, hopeful, and filled with the Spirit. Though they got no credit and no recognition (the things my mis-guided heart so often craves), they were simply faithful. Joy was theirs as they saw Jesus move.
And the third surprise: this promised, capital-R rest.
Surprisingly, Rest didn’t come by way of the retreat itself. It wasn’t delivered by the simple act of getting away or retreating from the busyness of life to a beautiful, quiet place. Rest didn’t come by catching up on sleep, in fact, I went to bed later and more exhausted than my wedding night. Neither did Rest come in solitude as I found a mere 30 minutes of “me and God time” the only morning the sky didn’t release cold, white flakes on the unsuspecting ground.
No, Rest came in surrender.
It was in surrender that my soul rejoiced in freedom and by surrender that the burden lifted. Like the first signs of spring after a long, cold winter, my meeting of surrender with God was long overdue.
I was too proud to expect that God would meet me and too doubtful that he wanted to heal my hurt and actually rid me of my sin.
For four years and counting, the sins of envy and bitterness had clouded the best parts of me; and I fought, helpless, to tame the beasts. I prayed, sought accountability, journaled, and confessed to no avail. The darkness consumed, like a cancer through the body. I would feel it rising and be wholly unable to believe that “I am enough,” because, compared to her, how could I be?
In a recent meeting with a mentor, I cried, frustrated with this recurring roadblock and she shook her head lovingly, “You’re going to take this to the grave aren’t you?”
I was so helpless--wanting desperately to rid of my sin, but unable to make any progress. My sin had become so much a part of my heart that I really believed it would be like this forever. All my attempts of “working on it” had utterly failed and I grew complacent in fighting its hold on my life.
I wore envy and bitterness like a push up bra. They offered false confidence to the insecurity in my gut.
I made excuses for my sin because I was insecure in my skin.
Like heroine for the addict, I drew power from my jealousy while harboring and hiding it. Though I was frustrated with myself for not conquering my foothold, I was simultaneously unable to escape it. Paul’s desperate hopelessness in Romans 7 wholly described the condition of my heart, “For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out. For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing.”
It was a tireless battle; one I nearly gave up.
And then, the second night of the retreat happened.
Chad brought anointed words for deprived ears and tired souls all across the room. He spoke to the Marthas in all of us—the part of us that wants to serve for Jesus before we sit with him. Instead, we trust God’s rhythm above our own, cultivate our souls rather than distracting them, and remember our worship appropriates our work. We sit in the presence of the Lord trusting he will fill our cup to overflowing.
It's in this way our time spent sitting with Jesus miraculously fuels us to work harder, better, faster, and stronger. It’s in this way our cup overflows and we plow more ground in the name of Jesus.
And boy did I want to plow more ground.
After a few worship songs Chad returned to the stage. Watching everything with my shameless critiquing eye, I expected the usual altar call and invitation, but I still didn’t realize God was speaking to me. No, God had to be more specific. And so he was.
“What is God calling you to surrender, so there is more heart-room for his Spirit? What do you need to lay down so your cup can overflow? What is God asking you to let go of so he can plow more ground through you?”
Nothing could have pierced my heart like those words. Chad’s challenge hit its mark. In the presence of God in that moment of Rest at the retreat, I couldn’t fake it. I didn’t want to fake it.
The promise of the Spirit’s presence was so real I wanted all of it desperately.
But there was something getting in the way.
My heart wholly exposed, I couldn’t ignore the reality that my vices had demanded precious heart space for far too long. Envy and bitterness had set up shop in my heart and had no intention of moving out. They liked the control they had and what they kept me from. My cup wasn’t overflowing and I wasn’t plowing any ground at all.
Standing there, feeling the weight of my vices, I was ashamed of all the authority I had given them. I lamented over broken relationships and missed opportunities—things lost because of the hold envy and bitterness gripped on my heart. I regretted the time wasted and how many years I had let pass without surrender.
Desperate to be rid of my sin and for the Spirit’s power, I cried out to my Creator and Savior.
And standing there in my shame and regret, God wasn’t angry with me for how long it took to get to this point. He didn’t judge me for what I had believed about myself or how I treated other people. Nor did he say his patience had run thin and I wasn’t accepted into his grace.
No, my Lord wrapped me in his arms and I felt love. I felt freedom and relief.
I felt Rest.
Our worship leader sang over us, “You were not meant to carry this,” and I let it go.
Oh, the promised Rest.