Held by Silence

Last Fall, emerging from a time of stress and uncertainty, I drove north of the Twin Cities, turned off my phone, and began a three-day silent retreat in the woods. A barebones hermitage without electricity or running water welcomed me with a basket cradling two loaves of bread, a block of cheese, and some fresh fruit to ration during my stay. Without distractions or deadlines, I returned to the basics: how to eat, how to sleep, how to make my bed in the morning, how to sit, and how to listen. For 48 hours, I didn’t know what was going on around the world, only what was happening in my own heart, body, mind, soul. I worried not about decisions to be made upon my return but rather discerned what was the very next step to take.

The utter deprivation of outside chatter was a direct portal into the depths of my soul. As someone who is generally playful, upbeat, and carefree, I was surprised by the weight of feelings that surfaced. Many of these feelings rooted in grief and much of that grief related to violence, inequity, and injustice near and far, which percolates all the way down to grief regarding fractured relationships, political discouragement, and my own perceived inability to spark the kind of change I envision for the world. Silence gave space for everything to come up.

The retreat center and surrounding area had recently endured a brutal storm. While wandering the trails, I noticed dozens of trees uprooted—some leaning on other trees, others partially dismembered, many completed horizontal. Some trees had been carefully chopped into firewood stacked neatly along the path awaiting a new purpose. While sitting on a bench taking in every sight, sound, and smell, I couldn’t help but see the storm-torn forest as metaphor for grief. Nature’s surround sound slowly quieted my racing mind and began to softly mend my hurting heart. At times I even walked around barefoot, because all the ground felt holy. For three days, I felt ministered to by the birds, the bugs, the trees, the wind, the sunlight, and most profoundly, by the dark night.

Throughout that retreat, silence shifted something in me that words and actions had failed to accomplish. Quietly and mysteriously and in spite of all previously attempted remedies, I felt burdens lifted, pain transformed, a warming from the inside out, and a stubborn sense of hope that had been buried.

Before departing, I thanked the patron saint of my hermitage, St. Margaret Mary for her hospitality. Finding Jesus’ life as the embodiment of abundant love, she wrote “In the unconditional love revealed in Christ, we, too, can find the strength to accept the reality of our world and transform its darkness and pain into the love and joy of resurrection.” I savored that reminder as I filled the back of my Subaru with firewood, turned on my phone, left the radio off, and drove home to Minneapolis.

Rev. Jeremy Bork is the Director of Programming & Communications at Mount Olivet Conference & Retreat Center, an ordained minister in the Reformed Church in America, and a certified Spiritual Director.

Throughout the month, leaders of the April 11 Growing Through Grief day retreat are reflecting on the many different ways grief shows up. Register for the retreat HERE, and subscribe to future blog posts below.