2. Turret Room

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

Settle into a quiet space and turn your attention to God and to your heart. Take a moment to ask God to meet you in this imaginative prayer. What is your journey like now: the landscape and terrain? Dark or light? Weather? Obstacles? And what is your sense of God when you attend to 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. I sat before the fire for a long time, settling into this place of respite and retreat. Here stillness came easily... so I sat in the stillness.

The old grandfather clock in the entry way began to chime, and I realize 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 for now. 

Turret Room

I wander towards the staircase by the counter in my wool socks, attempting to avoid the wet spots on the carpet and tile floor. Inadvertently, I miss a small puddle, and damp cold moisture reaches my toes. Ugh.

Climbing the narrow staircase to the third floor, I reached the landing. Two doors wait silently, sentries guarding sacred space, and one bears a faded brass plaque, “Turret Room.” My fingers linger on the cold metal antique key with the big wooden tag in my pocket. I lift it to the oddly shaped keyhole and slide it in. A soft click, and the latch yields. Opening the door, I enter.

A glowing lamp from a small desk shines light on a handsewn patchwork quilt on the bed along the far wall of the large room. 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. Entranced by the view from the turret, I watch snow falling steadily as the light grows dim. 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 golden ornate frame, certainly an antique and generations old, if I were to offer a guess. 

I catch the reflection in the mirror, and my attention is arrested. A serious face looks back at me, not quite sad. She seems older than I remember, crowned with more white hair and marked with a few more lines around her eyes and mouth. There is an expression on her countenance I can’t quite describe... and beneath the layers, a tangible weariness.

I linger, letting her gaze meet mine. 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. The ache is visceral, for I do not know how to create space for her, but longing stirs.

The effort and vigilance required to survive, to serve and persevere, has taken a toll. Perhaps in the stillness of this place the things that have been pressed down and pushed aside will surface again. 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. There was a time my journal pages held clear, small black print, each line visually appealing, nearly perfect. Now the messy pages, complete with crossed out words and added notations to fully capture the thought or feeling, seem necessary, essential even, to allow the authentic story to 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.  She whispers thought-provoking questions, offering insight and reminding me of the Biblical story, inviting me to a deeper attention and reflection. Or she simply companions me, interceding for me as I write my prayers. 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. It reads, “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, this is the link to chapter 3.

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