With what shall I preface the book? I realize that I write very little about summertime and cloudless moments. The retreat chapters ahead were written mostly in other seasons. As I shake my head and smile at myself, I guess I don’t need to wonder why. Summer is my Sabbath time without even needing to attend to it as such. And, the seasons are always turning, aren’t they? Summer succumbs to the harvest and death of the colorful fall that lets go to the cold waiting of winter, which melts into the struggle and new growth of the spring seed, which delights, blossoms, and rests in the return, again, to the warmth and light of summertime. I exist from and in a deeper place in the summer, and God’s healing touch just seems more accessible—like it hangs in the humid, teeming air that engulfs me and all of creation. Knowing this summer place in myself provides guidance. I can recognize it as the place that I am often reaching for and trying to touch in other seasons of my life. It all comes around, again, and again, and again, but summer is a great place to start.
Not unlike many Midwesterners, my family has a place on a lake up north (an expression that refers to a getaway place anywhere north of where we are). It is my summer place. It holds depth, stillness, warmth, light, and an ancient and eternal connection for me. On the 4th of July holiday, my extended family gathers there, and, it seems, we all find a place to rest in ourselves, in God, in beauty, and in the many ways that summer at the lake gives in abundance to each of us. We have few cares except to sit and watch the loons raise their babies and to listen to them cry out over the water in search of each other. In that summer loon cry, though, beneath cloudless summer skies, there is a haunting call—a song that reminds of longing, of deeper love, of loss, of babies growing up, of summers gone, of a deeper summer ahead, of a need to listen, heal, and grow, and to receive the next season to do it. I invite you, as a preface, to listen to and sing a summer song as you start this journey with me and to hear that call that will take you into this moment of retreat.
The Healing Song of Now
The Loons
Not a cloud in the sky.
Fourth of July.
Lake’s buzzin’ shallow and deep.
The loons float on by.
I’ve not a care in the world except for the loons.
Calling, oooooooooooooh
Calling, oooooooooooooh
Calling, oooooooooooooh
Calling, baby, sweet baby, where are you?
Grandma’s frying the eggs.
Mom is shining the bar.
Sister’s singing old hymns
as she strums her guitar.
I’ve not a care in the world except for the loons.
Calling, oooooooooooooh
Calling, oooooooooooooh
Calling, oooooooooooooh
Calling, baby, sweet baby, where are you?
Kids are soaked to the bones.
They’ve got fire on their minds.
Flames of sunshine and rockets
shine in their eyes.
I’ve not a care in the world except for the loons.
Grandpa’s revving his boat.
Uncle’s pounding a nail.
Dad’s grilling his catch.
The dog’s chasing her tail.
My heart’s free as a bird,
maybe free as the loon.
How she haunts me with a song that says
that free hearts call out too . . . oooooooooh.
Calling, oooooooooooooh
Calling, oooooooooooooh
Calling, oooooooooooooh
Calling, baby, sweet baby, where are you?
acknowledgments
I wish to express my gratitude for this non-exhaustive list of people who have provided guidance, love, encouragement, help, humble service, and generosity to me in the writing
of this book. I acknowledge:
My girlfriends, my spiritual sisters, bearing
witness to the growth from this journey
and helping to edit it too:
Amy, Colleen, Lisa, Marita, Dawn, Ellen,
Tracy, Cindy, Lindsey, and Kim
The authors who graciously offered time and
contribution to this, my first book:
Arthur Boers who wrote the Foreword
Pastor Fred Reklau who proofread and
copy-edited the manuscript
introduction
This moment sings the soul of an angel
will you tend to its rhyme?
Its melody fills you,
silences keep you
in blooms hidden under the vine.
On fleeting blue wings,
the butterfly sings
to the blind stampede going by.
The song becomes cries
as this moment dies.
And Now a new moment arrives.
The soul of this moment asks, “Do you have a moment? Do you have a moment to tend to my song?” Can you hear it? Slow down. Listen. Quiet. Still. Breathe. Do you hear the song of this moment—its melodies and sweet silences? Do you notice the fragile blooms underneath the vines of your busy days? Do you hear the guidance of angels that point you to the beauty of the butterfly? Could this moment be a moment of retreat? Will you step away, courageously, from the blind stampede and attend to, listen to, and delight
in this moment of retreat?
Welcome, my friend, to this new moment. This is a moment of retreat—a moment of retreat to the present—a moment to listen, see, and breathe—a moment free of distraction from yesterday and tomorrow—free from the time on the clock. This is a moment of retreat—of retreat to the song of the here and now sung by the birch, the milkweed, and all of creation. Yes, all of creation is singing in every moment, and, if attended to, can provide melodies, words, rhythms, and silences that heal brokenness, encourage growth, and deepen relationship with God for all who listen.
These moments of retreat are eternally available. They can be one deep breath or even one shallow breath. They can be thirty minutes of meditation at the beginning of a day or an outdoor walk in city or woods. These moments can be a weekend of solitude at a retreat center, a day of solitude at home, or even the prayerful attention to a five-minute song. There can be—in fact there is—retreat available in this very moment. Moments of retreat beg more moments of retreat, and, over time, can teach a way of being in each moment. They teach life as ceaseless prayer and a call to deeper engagement with God in all—in each moment that is given—to heal and to grow.
Being in each moment is not what society, church, school, or family taught me. I learned doing—working, caretaking, fixing, worrying, producing, competing, judging, planning, controlling, holding on—doing, doing, doing. Moments of retreat have challenged me with teachings of being—stillness, openness, unhurriedness, non-judgment, powerlessness, creativity, acceptance, letting go—being, being, being. Unlearning the old takes many moments of retreat, but the moments are always there. Actually, they are not there, but here—now. I simply must be disciplined in my attention to them. This book is