Near the beginning of September, I spent two nights at the abbey in Mount Angel, Oregon.  I had wanted to spend time there for more years than I can count. 

It could have been any monastery, as I frequently passed a beckoning sign on trips to see or retrieve Courtney during her college days. 

The time was always wrong with the obligations of daily life. Then, the pandemic dictated movements, and later, the guesthouse at Mt. Angel was closed for remodeling.

As I approached turning 60, coupled with what the last handful of years had contained, it seemed the fitting time to end the stalling and make a reservation.

I had visited Mt. Angel before, strolling the grounds with Courtney, ducking inside the church during prayer time, and walking areas open to visitors. The breathtaking setting draws visions of Maria in The Sound of Music with outstretched arms, spinning to take in the 360-degree view of nature, high above the world below.

I have a deep need for silence and solitude. I didn’t understand this need during my younger years, nor did I make room for it, as there was always so much to be done. 

About a year ago, my counselor asked if I had ever stayed at Mt. Angel, and with a sigh, I recounted much of what I wrote above. She usually gently encourages me, but in this instance, she strongly encouraged me to stop waiting and make it happen. 

As I reflect now, not in that particular session but another time, she asked what I did when I had a challenging or demanding day. I remember pausing because I didn’t have an automatic answer. 

After a moment, I said, "I don’t know. I suppose I just kept going.”

I am not unique in this approach to living; many of us keep moving amid hard times. What I have come to realize is that this type of response leads to unresolved or unmet emotions. Add in the noise of life, and any space to unwrap and untangle feelings becomes nearly impossible. 

It was time to seek silence and solitude intentionally. As the abbey only takes reservations a month in advance, I scheduled an email to send on the morning of the first day of August. 

I could write many words about the beauty of Mt. Angel Abbey, from the setting to the guesthouse to the serenity. I will be forever changed by spending time alone (mostly) with God over those days. Being alone with hours before me was unfamiliar when not playing tourist. 

“Silence is frightening because it strips us as nothing else does,
throwing us upon the stark realities of our life.”

~Dallas Willard

I want to share three small gifts I learned during my time away.

It’s okay to be lost sometimes.

I had three different experiences while participating in prayer time at Mt. Angel.

The first happened a few hours after my arrival during Vespers before dinner.

As the bells were tolling, I walked inside the church and sat in a pew. Although this was not my first time in this church for prayer,  I neglected to take one of the binders to follow along with the brothers. I sat and exhaled as joined voices sang psalms. I felt my eyes fill with tears. I was deeply moved.

My time at Vespers made it easy to attend Compline to end my evening. This time, I picked up a binder and looked at the board for the page number for Compline. I sat in my pew, found my place, and followed along like a pro. 

After a night of deep sleep,  I rose for Lauds, arriving at the church as the bells completed their ringing. I found several open binders with ribbons marking the starting place, laid on a wooden table. I assumed this was a tender gesture for the non-Catholics in attendance.

I was relieved to know what page to be on. 

Something happened during the service: I was always on the wrong page. I noticed congregants and the brothers turning pages that didn’t make sense to me. I was turning pages and skimming and finally gave up. I placed my binder on the wooden surface of the pew and listened with irritation.

One pew bore three different experiences.

In each case, I was lost and found.

In two of the three instances, I was lost.

One instance brought peace, while the other one carried frustration. 

The third instance filled me with relief to be on the right page. 

Prayer is never wasted. 

It isn’t always about saying the right words in the correct order at the right time.

Prayer is often about not knowing where you are, even when you believe you know exactly how an utterance should be answered. 

Sometimes prayer is about ceasing activity and knowing deep within your spirit you are surrounded by a space full of more mystery and love than can be fully absorbed. 

Yet, I do want to know the right words.

I desperately want to be on the right page in prayer and life. 

One of my earliest blog posts described how often life felt like my bookmark had slipped out of my book. It’s equal parts normal and scrambling for control to want to know everything.
I am not sure if I should feel comforted or discouraged that in middle age, I still deal with the issues of my younger years. 

Life has plenty of plot twists, and it is only fitting that we sometimes need to take many deep breaths to catch up. 

May I sit and allow myself to savor the life before me.

May I sit with wonder when I receive a clearer picture of my life.

When I can’t figure out where I am, may I sit and wait to hear His words.

Noise is everywhere, as are preferences.

Over the last year, I could feel my need for silence and solitude ramp up as I observed myself becoming a bit snappy when our home became noisy to my ears. 

Why does everyone make so much noise?

Upon arriving at the guesthouse, I checked into my room, sat on my bed, and marveled at the peace.
The quiet was a love song to my ears. 

I wandered the four floors of the premises, marveling at the attention to detail and stunning artwork while feeling a gentle hush throughout. People were present, including some of the brothers, but conversations were held with low tones, bringing a sense of calm and lowering my heart rate. 

The first night, I slept without waking until the early church bells of the morning. However, I had trouble sleeping during my last night as I kept hearing doors closing and exterior noises I couldn’t determine. 

I had planned to ignore the morning bells and remain horizontal. However, I quickly learned that the bells' signal didn’t only beckon the call to prayer but also the alarm for work. Workers below my window began to assemble beams for lighting the patios and terraces. Despite being in a place of silence, a well-worn memory sprang to mind of the familiar sound of roofers or yard services descending on my neighborhood. 

Noise is everywhere. 

I shared a lunch table with a volunteer and the Abbott of the Abbey. We had a wonderful conversation over our Taco Tuesday cuisine. At one point, the topic turned to the upcoming weekend when Mt. Angel would be filled with those celebrating Oktoberfest. The Abbott encouraged me to return only if I wanted to leave with a headache. He lamented a weekend of hearing nothing but “OOM PA PA OOM PA PA’s.”

Our laughter erupted as we finished our tacos. 

We all have preferences.

We all have different definitions of noise.

To the town below the abbey, perhaps to them, the bells are noise.

To the monks, Oktoberfest brings a bevy of noise wafting to the heavens.

Noise is everywhere.

Silence is not only found in one place, away from daily life.

I must seek silence when I can find it and be grateful.

I must learn to make peace with the certainty of noise everywhere. 

As a gentle side note, as I neared home after my time away, I took a detour to pick up books from the library and to find food as I had skipped breakfast for sleep.

Upon crossing the threshold of Posie’s to order a breakfast sandwich, I was nearly knocked over by the decibels of the crammed-full coffee shop. I snagged a lone chair in the corner and waited for my order.

Above me was a fiddle leaf providing an umbrella of covering, not from the sound but perhaps protecting what I had found in the previous days—my mini Elijah moment but without the grumbling tee hee.

The body and soul are intricately joined together.

I purchased a candle at the bookstore before leaving Mt. Angel. I will admit to the restraint
required to leave the store with a solitary candle and a box of fudge for the family.

I walked into our living room one morning and glanced at the mantle. I instantly knew something was different. My eyes were still tired from slumber, and without glasses, I wondered why the wreath above the mantle was gone. As I assessed the situation, Caleb entered the room and asked why the wreath was on the floor. It had been difficult to see against the fireplace screen and dark stone hearth. 

He picked the wreath up from its landing spot and said that a candle had also fallen. 

I gasped at these words. I had only been home a few days and hadn’t even struck a lighted match to the wooden wick. Carefully, Caleb and I picked up the shattered candle and thoroughly swept the minuscule remnants. 

I set the candle on a napkin on our buffet and left it alone. 

It was just a candle, but it held meaning and a specific marker in time. 

Upon further examination, we wondered if the candle could be freed from the ceramic exterior and placed in another vessel to be burned and enjoyed. 

I tucked this thought away, and once I returned to the candle, I noticed how many pieces of the exterior had continued to descend. Maybe my family had been right, and I could peel the outer away and retrieve the inside intact. I began to remove pieces, and it became evident that the candle wax bore the same fractured and broken parts of the vessel.

The candle was made of different materials, creating a whole vessel.

It was impossible to remove the outer broken pieces and expect what lay beneath to be untouched. 

We have read and heard about the mind-body connection for decades. 

I wonder if we must remember the relationship between the soul and our bodies. 

How often do we tend to the exterior and neglect our interior lives?

Do we focus on healing the bruises and wounds of life, hoping time brings recovery without addressing what lies beneath the surface? 

How do our souls respond when the body is injured, sick, grieved, or in crisis?

Do we believe if our bodies were relocated into a different container, they would be whole again?

May the gift of silence allow each of us to have deeper access to the needs of our souls exhibited by our bodies. 

I will add one bonus gift to this lengthy post.

Allow yourself to be tired.

Along with my suitcase, I had a tote bag filled to the brim with necessary books, notebooks, etc., for my days away. On an average time away, I could guarantee that most of my items would remain untouched. I had intentionally deleted my social media apps and vowed only to play Wordle and Connections to share in our family thread. My room didn’t have a television or even a clock. How I spent my time was different.

I am pleased to say I used every item I packed.

I am also pleased to say that I took a nap every day I was away.

I took two naps on my final full day.

I allowed myself to be tired.

I didn’t view napping as a waste of time but a necessary need.

I believed in the ministry of a well-placed power nap during college.

I still believe naps can heal us anytime or in any place.

A tender addendum: Carl and I had an open Saturday last weekend, and the weather was glorious. We drove to Mt. Angel, which he had never visited. We walked, sat next to that tree at the top of this post, soaked in prayer, marveled, and found what had been lost.

May you find comfort in being lost and found.

May you seek silence in the midst of the noises of life.

May your body aid you in tenderly caring for your soul.

May you begin or continue participating in the ministry of a good nap.