Sometimes you think you’re on a road to a particular somewhere, and God plants you someplace entirely unexpected. I’m talking about inner places more than outer, because usually the physical plane remains the same. And in that new space carved out within, you often end up learning ten times more than you bargained to. 

This is what happened to me on a backpacking trip through southern Utah about seven years ago. I should rephrase that: I called it a backpacking trip initially. But it was run by the campus ministry Lifelines, which of course meant that there was depth and ministry in store, a very major detail that I was all too happy to overlook. At this point, you’ll understand, I was in an escapist sort of mood, irritated and less than satisfied with my semester, athletic career, and relationships. (Into all of which I put the utmost stock, mind.) So being proseletized or talked at didn’t sound very savory. 

The state of Utah was mind-numbingly gorgeous, and the people I met were wonderful. The trip got off to a very active start, so all was well; then, slowly, the trip leader began teasing in spiritual reflections and lessons. I was surprised at how open I was to them at that point. In this closeknit group setting, they were definitely more like conversations than discussions. Others’ perspectives fleshed out each ideas and concept that arose; hearing everyone’s stories made the experience so much richer. 

Yet I also found myself waking up each morning far too early, thanks to the time difference, and thereby getting some very potent one-on-one time with the Lord to further digest these shared words and thoughts. I never felt more still, and more perceptive, than I did during those quiet canyon mornings, in those moments of solitude. 

God finds us in the funniest ways, even when--especially when--we try to run away. 

* * *

I tell this story because, when it comes to embarking on a journey of healing and connecting with God, it’s true that doing so with others is a necessary--and joyous!--part of the process. Yet it’s hard to overstate, especially in a world that is sometimes very noisy, the significance of solitude. Deliberate solo time with the Lord is a challenge to find, and for some, even more so to sit in. But its value is so deep and lasting. 

Many people get it drilled into them that they absolutely must have quiet time every morning, for a certain amount of time, no less than thirty minutes, etc. And it begins to feel more like a chore than the life-giving practice that it can be. Yet some of the best advice I’ve received was when a friend urged me to just in my bed upon waking, be still, and listen. And that was when this idea of “quiet time” turned into something new. It was relational. It was meditative. It was a way to create both inner and outer space, and understand not only the nature of my connection with the Spirit and the Creator, but also, my relationship with myself. 

And it reminded me that the Spirit always has something to say--drawing up short sentences or long paragraphs, colorful images or poignant memories, concrete words or simple ideas. When we’re alone with that, we get to absorb it all, in all of its depth and meaning. And it can really change the texture of the day; over time, that of our lives. 

If we choose to listen, anyway. 

* * *

On that trip to Utah, during one of these silent mornings, I received a very potent message: “Give it up.” 

My response: Seriously? Give what up? 

Of course, afterward, I calmed down and brought the words to my then-mentor, who helped me settle into what they really meant. But it seems it has taken until now to fully understand them, and maybe that’s what solitude has ultimately done. To give up is to allow what was to fall away in favor of what is, and what is possible.