… being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus. Philippians 1:6

I recently went to a poetry writing retreat. It’s been years since I went to a workshop and I was very excited to have an entire weekend with nothing to do but write. I’ve misplaced the poetic part of myself – and here was the perfect opportunity to find it. Additionally, the retreat was at the Benedictine Monastery in Cottonwoood, one of the prettiest places on the Palouse. For almost three days, I could watch the rising sun burst over the prairie sky, take long walks on the hillsides where deer browse and find some peace which is sorely missing right now. And of course write, write, write. Hopefully, something more than doggerel would emerge.

And so I went. I packed my journals, a new yellow legal pad and my favorite pen, along with my computer, just in case. I also took my hefty Bible and, naturally my I-phone which has attached itself to my life. Driving to Cottonwood, I could feel the poet starting to wake up!

Our retreat consisted of ten women, average age of 65. The first session began on Friday evening. The teacher was an engaging young man of thirty who exuded passion about all things poetry. The back table was filled with books of poetry and books about poetry. He gave us permission to browse. I recognized only half the writers. “Jordan” introduced the workshop with quotes about poetry, history of and explanation of what is/isn’t poetry. Well, OK, I thought. This is just a warm up. Then came another 30 minutes of poetry basics which I used to teach in high school English and literature classes. By 8:30 the direction had turned to “spirituality expressions and poetry.” Uh, oh. Something was amiss here. This sounded like “Poetry Appreciation 101” with some esoteric soul searching thrown in. I wanted “Poetry Writing 300.” Or more. Where was that retreat flyer anyway?

I had definitely misread it. In my excitement to sign up, I didn’t see the subtitle “Poetry as a Spiritual Journey” or at least didn’t quite get the intent. On Saturday, there were four more two hour sessions. Each began and ended by us joining him in a circle. A little Tibetan gong rang to change activities. There was meditation and breathing and relaxation and centering ourselves. We stayed in the present, awaiting the muse. There were more short lectures interspersed with writing exercises. We wrote several 17 syllable haiku. I wrote collaboratively with others. (Never mind how that one worked for me.) I attempted to write on six squares of folded paper and shape that mess into a six line poem. There were post cards and crayons to play with . All in all I was so busy in the class sessions, I didn’t have time to write anything on my own. My yellow legal pad is untouched. I didn’t unpack the computer and never made it up the hillside.

To be honest I was annoyed. Poetry writing is very spiritual for me. As the Holy Spirit breathes into my heart and mind, poetic images and phrases often come. However, recent personal events have been a very heavy burden and I simply could not relate to the spiritual fol de rol. The last thing I wanted was to “be in the present moment” when my present situation is the problem. It’s hard to “center” and relax when the enemy is trying to knock the tar out of you. I’d come to write poetry because when I write, somehow the Lord shows up and sets my heart free. When I am broken, I need Jesus to comfort me, not gongs, visualization or yoga breaths.

It was not Jordan’s fault nor the retreat organizers. My expectations were wrong and the disappointment mine alone. No one knew the weight on my heart.

By Saturday night I was done playing. Instead I went to my room, shut the door and sought the Father. Suddenly, I remembered a song by Stephen Curtis Chapman: “Be still and know that He is God.” It was on You Tube, so I plugged in ear phones and listened and listened until the dark weight slowly lifted. The healing tears flowed for God is holy, faithful and Father. My part is to be still and allow God to be God. Holy Spirit, the Comforter did come, reminding me of a second song, “Blessed Assurance.” The simple poetry soars.

Blessed Assurance, Jesus is mine
Oh, what a foretaste of glory divine.
Heir of salvation, purchased by God,
Born of the spirit, washed by His blood.

This is my story, this is my song
Praising my Savior all the day long.

Sunday morning I rejoined the last session and it was OK. Some of Jordan’s techniques looked doable so I’ll try them out. I didn’t write much but I left much calmer and richer. “This is my story, this is my song.” Jesus is my blessed assurance of salvation and eternal life and because of Him, I hold on to hope for all those I love who are afar off. God purchased my life through Jesus on the cross and my life includes hope for my children and their children. It is a promise. God’s Word from Genesis to Revelation is both prose and poetry. I trust He will complete the lyrics and the melody of His Promises.

Often my life is a story; sometimes it is a song. When it is dull prose which seems to have no clear narrative or purpose, (something like “Chronicles”), suddenly, poetry breaks through and everything changes, like a sky full of rainbows. Like the “Song of Songs.” The poetry will come back. Now, where are those postcards?