Learning to Listen in the Stillness
- Apr 6
- 4 min read
I didn’t go looking for a silent retreat.
It was part of an assignment.
In my spiritual direction training, we were told we’d need to complete two individually directed silent retreats during the program. The facilitator said it so calmly, like it was completely normal. But I remember thinking, What does that even mean?
Three days. No talking. No plan. No schedule packed with sessions or sermons.
What was I supposed to do with all that silence?
That was the assumption I carried into it: that I needed to do something.
I’ve since learned that there is, in fact, something happening on a silent retreat, but it’s not the kind of doing I’m used to. It’s not checking off a spiritual to-do list or working through a study. It’s more like learning to be still enough for something deeper to rise. The kind of “doing” that happens in silence isn’t about effort. It’s about entering the quiet and becoming open to God’s presence already moving.
Our facilitator shared what his own silent retreats look like. There wasn’t much activity to speak of. But even in the simplicity, something was being done.
Not by him.
But in him.
I didn’t know it then, but my own retreat would become a place where something deep would be unearthed too.
The first hours of that retreat were not peaceful.
I had just learned of my daughter’s life-threatening illness, and the weight of that news hung heavy in the air around me. I arrived carrying deep uncertainty, not just about her health, but about my role as a mother, and about the kind of ministry I was beginning to realize I was called to.
There was more unraveling beneath the surface than I could name then.
At the retreat orientation, we were invited to share what we were seeking. I remember asking, What do I need to release to serve my daughter well?
That question has never left me.
It wasn’t a question I planned to ask. It surfaced in the quiet, in that strange, uncomfortable pause that happens when life slows down and there’s no schedule to distract you. I believe silence often makes room for these kinds of questions. Not the ones we try to chase down, but the ones that find us when we’re still long enough to listen.
We often fear what will rise in silence.
Not just the quiet itself, but what the quiet might uncover.
And yet, these are the very questions that shape our spiritual life well beyond the retreat.
Thankfully, I wasn’t left to sort through those questions on my own. Each day of the retreat, I met with a spiritual director. Her name was Terri.
She was a wise, steady presence. There was no pressure to be polished or profound. I simply showed up and talked. I talked about the tension I was carrying… the crossroads I was standing at… the weight of not knowing what would come next.
Terri didn’t try to fix anything. She didn’t offer a plan.
What she did was listen.
She listened closely enough to reflect back what she heard, naming the tension with compassion, honoring the difficulty without dismissing it. She affirmed that the uncertainty I felt was real. And that God could be found in the very middle of it.
And God was.
Through scripture and prayer, I began to sense clarity, little threads of peace woven into the quiet. When I finally spoke aloud what I needed to release, Terri didn’t just hear me. She bore witness. It felt as though my words had been handed over to God, placed gently in hands far more capable than mine.
That too was part of the retreat.
Not a fix. Not a resolution.
But a moment of release.
That release stayed with me. It changed something in me.
When I left that retreat, I was both grateful and a little surprised.
Grateful for the rest I had received, real rest, the kind that settles into your bones.
And surprised that no one had ever told me about this before.
I knew then that retreats would become a rhythm in my spiritual life. Not a luxury or a break, but a necessity. A space where I could lay things down, listen more deeply, and make room for God to meet me again and again.
That’s why I now offer these retreats.
Because I’ve seen what God does in the quiet.
Not just in me, but in others who’ve taken that first, curious step.
Sometimes it starts with uncertainty or even resistance. But something happens when a person says, “I’ll try it.” That simple yes, quiet and maybe even a little unsure, opens the door for something sacred. It’s an act of surrender, and God always meets us in that place.
If that yes is stirring in you, you don’t have to step into an individual retreat alone.
If you find yourself feeling drawn toward the idea of retreat, but aren’t quite sure how to begin, I’d be honored to walk with you.
Personal retreat design is one way I offer support. It begins with listening, really listening, to your story, your season, and your hopes. From there, I prayerfully shape a retreat rhythm that helps you enter the quiet with peace and intention, so you can see how God might meet you there.
If you’d prefer to start small, you might begin with our self-guided retreat, Meeting God in Nature. It’s a gentle way to experience retreat at your own pace, surrounded by nature and grounded in prayer.
You don’t have to figure it out alone.
Stillness is not a performance. It’s a doorway.
And sometimes, all it takes is a small yes.
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