Retreating gracefully

Since before Christmas, I’d been feeling the need to go on retreat. I used to take every Tuesday as a prayer day, leaving the phone on voicemail and spending the day praying, musing over the bible and leaving my mind ajar for God. But my husband’s early retirement required an alternative plan. Staying silent is all very well in solitude but in company looks like Sulking Day rather than Prayer Day.

I went for an Advent Quiet Day locally, but it was more Advent than quiet. It did help, but wasn’t all I’d hoped, especially as January looked to be stressful: my husband was going into hospital, far from home.
 

I booked into a motel so I could visit every day, and googled local churches to find one open in the daytime. A Catholic one was, with Mass and communion followed by three-hour silent vigils each weekday. It was right behind the motel. But was I meant to go back to a Catholic church? Wasn’t I a Baptist now? It was hard not to laugh when, walking into the building, the first thing I saw was a baptistry in the centre, as well as the usual font. ‘For adult baptisms,’ the church secretary explained. As a Catholic Baptist, I felt at home.
 

I stayed with my husband through the pre-operation procedures then when he was wheeled into theatre made straight for the church: providentially, the vigil time coincided with his surgery so I could pray right through. But after an hour, the other two vigil-keepers said they had to lock up now; church members did half-hour shifts but the next shift hadn’t turned up and they needed to go. Had I wanted to stay longer? I said not to worry but explained why I was there, and the lady exclaimed, ‘Of course you must stay! Here’s the key - just lock up when you’re ready and drop it into the office.’
 

So I stayed and prayed, with sun streaming through the window, and it crossed my mind that this might be the retreat I’d been waiting for. As I left to phone the hospital, the priest arrived, stopped to chat and promised to pray for my husband.
 

In the recovery unit he was awake and seemed fine, but in the early hours he texted me, in extreme pain. I sat up and prayed, and texted at intervals till there was no reply and sleep claimed him. Perhaps fooled by the brightly lit motel carpark, birds sang outside my window all night. Somewhere a dog-fox was barking. I was not the only living creature awake. It was a long time since I had prayed through the night. 
 

For a few days he was unwell and his discharge date was postponed. I extended my motel reservation. Some friends and family came, others kept in touch, and home church members prayed, but there were long stretches of time alone. I walked, read, prayed, and veggied out in vigils in church.
 

He said, ‘You don’t have to stay,’ but looked forlorn and I prayed for a prompt from God so I’d know when to leave. Prosaically, it came. Walking past a café one morning I heard, ‘Go in here and have a bacon sandwich,’ and as I finished it, ‘It’s time to go home!’
 

I felt I was abandoning him. The train journey was long and the house empty and cold. But after church next morning, good news came: he was on his way home, with a good friend driving him, and armed with crutches, syringes, dressings and pills. 
 

He’s on the road to recovery now. I thank God for the unexpected retreat: it was not the one I’d planned but it certainly kept me praying and God was close in time of need. 
 

So would I choose to do it again? 
 

No way.