This is Holy Ground

by Michele Husfelt

(Reflections on our recent writer's retreat.)

Our fall writer’s retreat has begun. Beginning with breakfast that featured Michele B.’s famous quiche, whipped up with fresh eggs her happy chicks produced, we moved into the quaint sanctuary of Mt. Pisgah Baptist Church, a historically black church on the outskirts of Upperville.

The foyer is adorned with pictures and portraits of the faithful men whose legacy lives on inside these walls. The tambourine rests in the fourth pew, where it anticipates the next worship service and the opportunity to sing its praises to the Creator and Sustainer of all things. Banners proclaiming the names of the Father, and the admonition to Be Still… The smell of antique oak, and the thought of all the trees that gave up their branches to adorn this sacred space. If only they could talk…

Katie and Carrie are walking together down the road that leads to the village. Amanda is ahead, perhaps intent on listening to God, as she walks in the same direction. She is making her way to the outdoor sanctuary behind Trinity Church. Michele has found her place on the front porch of the pastorium, not alone, as Hazel Grace (the Goldendoodle) has waited for a morning companion. She’s always a good listener. Jackie is writing on the front stoop of Mt. Pisgah, admiring the many shades of green and pondering the question, “Is green perhaps God’s favorite color?” As she thinks of her recent visit to Colombia, her phone rings with a Colombian friend calling at that moment. Paula is set up in the fellowship hall, computer and journal in hand. And Adria is taking in the sight of a baby deer and the cacophony of sounds as she sits in the gazebo behind the church, surrounded by the farm next door. And I am observing it all. A spiritual high for me is to see others connect with God and each other. In these ordinary and mostly mundane places, God is working among us in extraordinary ways.

At 12:30 we gather back, load up the cars, and head to the Locke Store to buy lunch and pay attention. We diverge for a quick jaunt into Paris where we admire the different homes and roll our windows down to talk to John. He is cleaning out his stone house and will tell us more when we have “cocktails.” (He is our neighbor and friend.) He offers advice when ordering sandwiches at the Locke Store and sends us on our way.

As we enter Millwood, we park at the Mill and collect our chairs and picnic blanket to deposit beside the running stream, beckoning us to come and sit for a spell. We join several others inside to select our sandwiches and various sundries, perusing the gourmet food displays, inviting us to indulge a little more than we’re used to on a Saturday afternoon.

Back at our picnic spot, we sit, we stand, we splash in the stream, we chat with fellow picnickers, and we pass the bread slathered with lemon hummus, an informal and perhaps overlooked reminder that we partake in a piece of the eucharist each time we break bread together. And we savor community.

Satisfied but seeking more, we return to Mt Pisgah and continue to pay attention. The prominent conversation circles around the fact that our time has once again been too short. “It takes a few hours to unwind and settle into the quiet stillness,” one writer reflects. “And we have so much to tell one another when we’re able to share face-to-face,” remarks another. We all agree that we need another day.

In the last hour, we break away to spread out and listen individually. God continues to reveal His goodness. And we, as scribes, faithfully pen His thoughts. As the end of our day draws nigh, we gather again in community, circling our seats to hear from one another. We all partake by sharing and listening, with celebration and affirmation. We pray. This is holy ground. The Lord has spoken.