2. Turret Room

Prayers from the Trail: imaginative prayers of respite on the journey with God.

This follows post 1. Respite Retreat.

For you have been my refuge, a strong tower against the foe.

Psalm 61: 3

The name of the Lord is a strong fortress; the godly run to him and are safe.

Proverbs 18:19 NLT

Rest in the Silence

Pop headed back to the kitchen to give me some space to absorb his words. Now his familiarity made sense. For years I had engaged with God the Father, my Abba, through studying and reflecting on the Scriptures and offering my verbal and written prayers. But here and now, Abba was meeting with me in my prayer of imagination at Respite Retreat, speaking old truths in a new way. I sat before the fire for a long time, settling into this sacred space. Here stillness came easily... so I sat in the stillness.

The old grandfather clock in the entry way began to chime, and I realized I had been sitting by the fire for hours. I was not sure if I had even been thinking, but something was happening in the warmth, the rest, the quiet... in this space of presence to God. I had bundled up with layers of protection against the harsh weather on the trail: socks, boots, gloves, hat and scarf, snow pants and heavy coat; all to survive bitter cold, ice, and wind. But I had also wrapped layers around my heart. And now, just as I had physically removed my winter layers to rest and recover, I could feel myself releasing the inner layers of protection in this restorative space as I watched the flames.

My room was probably ready since Pop said it would be available soon. So I picked up my pack, almost dry now, and grabbed my boots. I decided to leave my coat on the stand until it was completely dry. 

Turret Room

I wandered towards the staircase by the counter in my wool socks, attempting to avoid the wet spots on the carpet and tile floor. Climbing the narrow staircase to the third floor, I reached the landing. There were two doors before me, and one was labeled “Turret Room.” I pulled the antique key out of my pocket, fit it into the oddly shaped lock, and turned it. “Click.” The latch released. Opening the door, I entered my haven.

The first thing that catches my attention is the glowing lamp and single candle stick on the desk in the corner. There is a bed with a handsewn patchwork quilt along the far wall of the large bedroom, and an open door reveals the turret, a small circular room with big windows. I walk over and peek inside. Two comfortable chairs with patterned fabric face the windows, complete with throw blankets, pillows, and two tables with slate tabletops. Looking through the tall windows, I see the snow is still falling, and the path I traveled to reach the inn is now completely hidden. The wind speaks with each move... as I pay attention I hear her voice.

On the other side of the bedroom is a small bathroom with all the essentials. A chest of drawers stands by the bathroom door, and I set my pack next to it. Above the dresser hangs a mirror with a carved wooden frame, certainly an antique, generations old, if I were to offer a guess. 

I catch my reflection in the mirror. A serious face looks back at me, not quite sad. She seems older than I remember, she has more white hair and a few more lines around her eyes. She is not unattractive, but there is a weariness about her and an expression on her face I can’t quite describe. I watch her, and she watches me. If she were to speak to me, I wonder what she would say and what she would ask? I know I need to be present to her, to hear her thoughts and let her feelings rise. My heart aches and longing stirs within me.

Perhaps in the stillness of this place the things that have been pressed down and pushed aside will surface again. The effort and vigilance required to survive, to serve and persevere has taken a toll. I don’t think I see regret in her gaze... there is something stronger, something steadier and deeper, something almost beautiful shimmering in her eyes.

I turn back to the main room, open my pack, and rummage for my journal and pen. Sitting down at the desk I notice a box of matches beside the candle stick. Striking the match against the edge of the box, a spark becomes a flame. Holding the match against the wick, it catches, and the flame rises. I open the leather cover of my journal, find the next blank page, and begin to write. The air moves, ever so slightly, and the flame flickers—Ruah is present. 

After a few pages of writing my hand is beginning to ache, so I set down my pen. I flip back through the pages and grimace at the messiness, my hand couldn’t quite keep up with my mind as I tried to record the events of the day and my interpretation. As much as I love a written page without errors, I have learned that my journal is allowed to be messy, perhaps needs to be messy, complete with crossed out words and added notations in the margin to fully capture the thought or feeling, to let the authentic story be told. As I write my thoughts and prayers to Abba, I wonder if Pop knows what I have written. Certainly Ruah is present as I write, sometimes she asks thought-provoking questions or offers insight, inviting me to a deeper attention and reflection. My story of this place is not lost on me... God is up to something.

I hear a movement outside my room, and as I turn towards the door, I see a slip of paper slide beneath it. A note, perhaps?

I pick up the paper and unfold it. “I hope you had time to breathe, rest and unpack. I am so glad you are here. The kitchen is open for a few more hours. If you are hungry, come down for chili and cornbread. Love, Pop.”

“Oh that sounds good.” I say out loud to the empty room. Well, not completely, Ruah is listening. 

I reach for my backpack and pull out a bag of dirty laundry from being on the trail for days. I wonder if there is a washing machine I could use; I will ask Pop tonight. Unpacking the few folded clothes at the bottom of my bag that are still clean, I put them in the dresser. I exchange my shirt, crumpled from travel, for a fresh long-sleeved blouse. The inn is comfortable and warm, so I don’t need to bundle up.  I pull out a small satchel tucked in the bottom of my pack and my Bible, and then place my Bible, journal, and pen in the leather satchel. The thought of chili and cornbread is nudging me toward the staircase. Suddenly, I am really hungry.

This is chapter 2, so if you have not read chapter 1 here is the link.