Respite Retreat
- Christine Labrum
- Sep 7
- 7 min read
Updated: 2 days ago
An imaginative writing... a story from "Prayers on the Trail." (Consider how the Psalms speak of God tending us - Psalm 23)
The calendar tells me that spring is coming, but there are no signs of change yet. It has been a long winter. My feet are numb—I can barely feel them anymore. I have been plodding along the snowy trail for months and limping the last few days. My brother gave me a walking stick as we journeyed through autumn leaves and winter drew near–I lean heavily on it now.
Despite the colorless beauty, the winter journey has been brutal: navigating frigid temperatures, icy trails and snowdrifts, hiking through storms. The days are short and setting up camp each afternoon is more about survival than rest. Hibernation seems more appealing than traveling the frozen landscape.
I long to rest for just a while, but the trail seems endless. I have sensed the Spirit, Ruah, pressing me forward as if a destination is near, so I keep going. Although there is nothing on the map, I notice a wooden sign up ahead. I can't quite read it yet. A gust of wind brushes my cheek, and I know Ruah is present. I cannot see her, but she frequently reminds me that she is with me. I know Jesus is near, but I haven’t seen my big brother for days. I long to hear his voice and feel his hand on my shoulder.
There is an allure to the winter journey, but I did not foresee the challenges: the storms, the obstacles, the depletion. I long for a reprieve from the perseverance required. Finally, I come to the unremarkable weather-worn, wooden sign. It reads "Respite Retreat" and marks a path branching off the main trail and leading into the woods. With low expectations, I follow it.
After a short walk through the trees the space opens up, and I see the entrance to a stone building, a small castle of sorts complete with turret pointing to the sky. The windows of the inn glow against the snow-covered landscape. I trudge up the shoveled path which is disappearing quickly beneath another layer of snow. A placard hangs by the wooden door—“Respite Retreat.”
Reaching for the handle, I pull open the door. Warmth rushes out and snow blows in. Quickly I step inside and forcefully push the door shut again.
I pause and look around. There is no one at the wooden counter, but I see a few folks in a small dining area off to the right, a café of sorts. With my snowy glove, I tap the old-fashioned metal bell, set my pack down, and lean my walking stick against the counter. It has been a long journey—I still hope, but resilience feels tenuous and threadbare.
A voice from the café calls, “Coming! Just a minute.”
I am too worn out to be impatient, so I just rest against the counter and wait. My gaze finds the large stone fireplace by the edge of the café. A worn leather couch and a couple chairs are strategically positioned around it. I take note that I will settle myself there after I check in. I just need to sit and get my bearings. The warmth of the inn seeps into my bones as the snow on my coat starts to melt, dripping on the carpet.
A white-haired man, more timeless than old, strides toward the counter. There is a warmth about him, but also a posture of strength and authority. Strangely, he seems familiar to me.
“Welcome to Respite Retreat. I am so glad you are here, especially since the storm is beginning again. It has been a long winter, hasn’t it?! I have a room available on the third floor – the Turret Room.”
“Thank you, I was hoping there was space for me.”
“Well this room has your name on it. I have been watching and waiting for you.” I glance at him, wondering what he means and how he knew I was coming, but I am too fatigued to pursue it.
He hands me an old metal key with a wooden tag labeled, “Turret Room–just for you” and continues, “The staircase to the left of the counter leads to your room, and it will be ready for you in a short bit. You can leave your pack behind the desk. You are starting to drip on my rug, so why don’t you sit by the fire and dry out a bit.”
I glance down at my coat, and much to my chagrin rivulets of melted snow slide down its surface. “I am so sorry, sir.”
“Please call me Pop, everyone does. The rug can handle a little dripping, but you need to warm up and dry out. I just put a fresh pot of coffee on, and it will be ready soon. Would you like a mug of something hot?”
I can feel myself begin to relax. “Coffee sounds wonderful, thank you, sir... Pop.”
Pop comes out from behind the counter and picks up my backpack. “Oh my, this is wet from the melting snow just like you. We should set it by the fire. Follow me.”
He leads me to the fireplace and sets my bag down on the hearth, but not too close. The fire crackles, and warmth surrounds me like an embrace.
“Have a seat, dear one. One hot cup of coffee coming up.” He tilts his head and squints his eyes a bit as he looks at me, “I would say, a large mug of strong coffee, a little cream and a smidge of sweet. Right?!”
With a tired laugh, I respond, “That sounds perfect, how did you know?”
“Pop knows what his guests need—you are family here.” His eyes twinkle, and he heads for a door off the café that I suspect leads to a kitchen.
He calls me Daughter
A bittersweet feeling stirs as I realize that Pop reminds me of my dad. Tears fill my eyes, and I feel a familiar ache. We lost my dad abruptly just a couple weeks ago. It still feels surreal, and I can’t quite believe he is gone. After all the storms and challenges of this season, and there have been so many, I just didn’t anticipate that one.
I pull off my boots and place them in front of the fireplace. There is a coat stand nearby so I hang my coat, hoping it will begin to dry too. Curling up on the big leather chair, I tuck my feet beneath me. There is a quiet hum from the activity in the café, but it is rather comforting after the solitude of the trail.
I fix my gaze on the flames and my thoughts turn inward, whether a campfire on the trail or a fireplace at an inn, the effect is the same. I settle and slow, and I watch the flames burn.
“Daughter.” I hear a comforting voice, but the term of affection doesn’t register.
“Daughter. I have your coffee for you, my dear.”
I turn towards the voice–it is Pop. And again, he seems unusually familiar to me. I see the big pottery mug he is holding out to me. Steam rises, and I smell the earthy aroma of coffee. I see the caramel color of coffee mixed with a little cream. Tears well at his thoughtful care of me, and I lift my gaze to Pop’s kind eyes. I see a knowing in his expression that I don’t really understand, but the safety and security I feel are tangible.
Without really thinking I ask, “Why did you call me, daughter?” I am curious. The intimate address was not offensive but rather comforting to me. Pop’s presence is balm to my battered and depleted, body and soul.
“Well, that is a significant question.... do you have time to visit for a bit.”
I can’t shake the sense that I know Pop from somewhere, and perhaps even more so, that he knows me. Somehow I sense I belong here. I look towards the window where the snow is falling furiously. “Well, it looks like I am going to be here for a while.”
He smiles, “Yes, that seems to be the case.” He pulls a chair over from a café table nearby and sits down.
Pop leans toward me, “You feel like you know me, don’t you?” Hesitantly, I nod.
“I have known you for a very long time, my girl. You were created in my heart, long before you were conceived or born into this world.
I was there the first day your mom and dad held you, the first day you took a step, the first day you said a word, and I was there when you first turned toward me. You have been talking with me from before you can remember.
I am Abba in your prayers and in your journals. I am God the Father in the Biblical story: Yahweh, Adonai, Jehovah Rapha, I am that I am, and the Father of the prodigal son and his older brother.
Jesus, my Son, is your Brother, your Savior and King. He often walks the trail with you, and even when you cannot see him, he is nearby. And Ruah, my Spirit, is with you always, sometimes hidden and sometimes felt like the wind, both gentle and strong.
We know that the journey this winter has been excruciatingly painful and difficult. You know I am with you, but you don’t often see me as you do now.” Pop pauses, waiting for me to absorb the words he has spoken. I don’t know how to respond, but Pop’s words feel uncannily accurate, soothing and believable.
Pop grins at me, “I know, not exactly what you expected from the innkeeper.”
“So my dear, I called you daughter, because you ARE my daughter. And right now, you really need your Abba.” Pop’s gaze is warm and attentive, not invasive or threatening. I sense him giving me space to take it all in.
“You are deeply loved. The Respite Retreat is for you, and those like you. It will be found by those invited here in difficult and stormy winter seasons. I have been waiting for you. Your Brother pointed you in this direction, and you were drawn here by Ruah—she knew you needed rest.”
I drop my gaze to my wrinkly hands, still red from the cold. I had put my damp gloves on the hearth to dry out in the heat from the fire. I lift the hot mug, and the bittersweet liquid warms me from the inside out. Abba’s words comfort my aching heart, and this protected space comforts my weary body.
“You got it just right, Abba, the coffee is perfect, a little cream and a smidge of sweet.”
This prayer emerged from my own prayer and was re-written to invite you to engage with your own story.
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