My arrival at St. Anthony’s in the Sierra Nevada
foothills coincides with a powerful July heatwave. It is 106 F in the breeze,
according to my car thermometer. Just carting my luggage from my car to the
lobby -- across blacktop pavement -- melts about a quarter-inch off the soles
of my sandals.
My simple room, thank the graces that be, is strongly,
deliciously, air-conditioned. Summer is the off-season here; and I relish the
quiet, which is made more palpable, somehow, by the constant hum of the cooling
unit. I am here for three days to pray, read, and write in semi-solitude. There
will definitely be no hiking. A few others are gathered on this hot mountain
for different varieties of retreats: a Mexican nun, a guitar-playing mom and
liturgist, and about two dozen Hindus for communal bhakti yoga practice. (Since
the majority of the retreatants are vegetarian bhaktas, our meals include
basmati rice, delectable curries, kefir, nuts, and fresh fruits and vegetables.
Every bite is exquisite—who could have guessed that the best Indian food in the
Sierra is served at a Catholic retreat center?)
I spend most of my time in my room – leaving it mainly
for morning mass and for meals in the dining hall. But one afternoon, having
discovered how to operate the air conditioning in the Friar’s Chapel, I trek
there for a solitary hour of silent prayer. This chapel, situated at the far
end of a hall of meeting rooms, is adjacent to the large space where the
bhaktas gather for afternoon presentations and teachings. As I tip-toe past the
shoes they have left outside of the open room, I glance discreetly at their
gathering. They are all sitting on the floor listening intently to a teacher, a
clear-voiced man speaking Hindi. After entering the chapel, I quietly close its
thick wooden door, which blocks out most sounds. Still, though, I continue to hear the voice of the teacher. I have come to the chapel to enjoy a lovely
peaceful space for prayer, and for a brief moment I consider returning at a
later time, thinking that the sounds from next door might be too distracting.
However, the bhakta’s voice – muted somewhat by the sound of the air
conditioner – is no disruption. I find, as I settle in to my seat and open
myself to the spaciousness and stillness of the chapel, a subtly comforting
loveliness in the rising and falling of the teacher’s voice. I have no idea
what he is saying and no notion of the specifics of his presentation. I allow
myself to settle in to the richness of this moment, and even though I am “alone”
in the chapel, I am also “accompanied” -- gathered alongside a community of
devotees whose presence is, apparently, bringing forth an unexpected tenderness
and gratitude in my heart. As I remain sitting in silence, letting go and
opening and surrendering to a current of prayer, a quiet radiance blossoms and
spreads. A field of blessing is here.
* * * *
Later, in the dark heat of the evening, about fifteen of
us gather outside under the stars, lining up next to the statue of St. Anthony.
Fr. John has invited everyone to gaze through his telescope. The bright, clear
views of Saturn’s rings elicits several oohs and ahhs. I am struck by how large
and near the planet seems after viewing it through the telescope. Then, as I
look with unaided eyes at other parts of the sky, the unimaginable vastness of
the cosmos feels – somehow -- close, touchable, within reach. “Look over there,”
I say to the people next to me, pointing to one of the celestial lights just
above our horizon. “That’s Venus, right?” “Yes it is,” someone answers. “Bright
as the full moon at this time of year.”
A turbaned man turns to Fr. John. “What is it that you say,” he muses, chuckling, “…the kingdom of heaven is at hand?”
A turbaned man turns to Fr. John. “What is it that you say,” he muses, chuckling, “…the kingdom of heaven is at hand?”
* * * *
On my final evening of my stay, I sit in my room,
browsing through a small booklet I found at the St. Anthony gift shop: “The
Appearances of the Blessed Virgin Mary.” It is pious, straightforward, sentimental –
not my usual fare when it comes to reading about religion and spirituality. I
am drawn to it, though, for several reasons. One: I had a childhood fear of
(and fascination with) Marian apparitions – spurred in part by multiple
viewings of movies like The Song of Bernadette; Two: I am writing a work that
spends some time narrating and exploring those early fears; and three: the
booklet includes accounts of apparitions from around the world, including ones
that I had not encountered before, such as Our Lady of Akita (Japan), Our Lady
of Kibeho (Rwanda), and Our Lady of Soufanieh (Syria). Flipping through the
booklet, I also notice and appreciate a caveat in its first few pages: “We must
keep in mind that apparitions are adapted to those who receive them and that
visionaries perceive them according to their own capacity.”
I glance up to ponder this point, and outside the window
there is a sunset so stunning that it makes me gasp. Talk about an apparition, I say to myself, laughing and shaking my
head. I grab my cell phone and head outside. Here’s one vision that will be captured by phone-camera, at least.
The face of my phone lights up to reveal a text-message.
It is from my sister in the Midwest: “Prayed for you at church today. Love you.
Hope you felt the presence of the Holy Spirit around 7 p.m. CT. Hugz.”
Now, this is wild and strange and uncanny. First of all: My
sister does not know I am on a short retreat, and she has never texted me
before in such a clearly time-specific way about prayer. Secondly: The time she
indicates (7 p.m. CT) reveals that her prayer occurred while I was praying the
previous day, in that field of blessing with the bhaktas. Thirdly: St. Anthony’s
Retreat Center is in an area serviced solely by AT&T, and I do not have
AT&T as my cell-phone carrier. I even checked, on the first day of my
retreat, noticing that my phone indicated “no service.” I should not have
received her message until much, much later, until after I had driven back down
from the mountains. (I also immediately tried to send a text-message back to her in
response, and my phone simply said “unable to send message.”)
