Shelter: Seeking Refuge, Finding Miracles

Lent Reflection #2

Last week I began a series of Lenten reflections. I had a lot to say about mercy. So much, that my first draft was five pages long. In the process of editing it down, I managed to cut out an important part; the part that made the connection with the Psalms.

I’ve loved the Book of Psalms since I was a child. I used to retreat to my hiding spot behind the sofa at my grandparents’ house and draw pictures inspired by the Psalms I heard at church. I was always searching for a quiet, safe, and cozy place to be creative. As I got a little older, this place became whatever space I could find to put on my headphones and pull out my journal. Someone once encouraged me to write my own Psalms and I started adapting these verses of scripture to my own experiences, emotions, wonders, and curiosities.

I’m still drawn to the Psalms. I read them regularly, like I do the words of other poets and authors. This Lent, I’m reading the Psalms with intention. Seeking to draw new water from these old wells of wisdom and instruction. What do these words mean for us today? How has their message changed? Has it? Do today’s social and political realities impact our interpretation? Is there something in the Psalms to quench the thirst of our personal and communal longings?

When I read Psalm 51, the Ash Wednesday scripture, I couldn’t move beyond the first verse, “Have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love.” Last week’s Well was stirred by my wrestling with God’s mercy. The week is less of a wrestling and more of an encounter I had with finding shelter as depicted in Psalm 91, the lectionary reading from last Sunday.

“You who live in the shelter of the Most High, who abide in the shadow of the Almighty will say to the Lord, “My refuge and my fortress; my God, in whom I trust.” (Psalm 51:1-2)

As I often do before beginning a walk, I paused to take a few deep breaths. And whispered “miracle find me now.” I learned this practice from my work with the amazing artist and my creative mentor SARK. That morning I was struggling with the details of a writing project, feeling like the thousands of words I’ve already written have lost their direction. Where is this story headed? What exactly is it I am trying to say? Should I scrap it altogether?

My feet hit the muddy ground and I allowed the air to lead the way. Open to exploring and embracing new paths and perspectives. I know this path. The water, the trees, the birds, the ducks, the swans, the deer, the light house. Just before the light house, the path bends to the left. Something caught my attention and kept me from veering off. Behind the lighthouse, there was an opening I’d never noticed before. And it looked like there was a person at the entrance waving me over. Was this real? Was this safe? Is this new? Why don’t I remember seeing this before? Was it buried in snow and ice? Is the ground dry enough to walk on? Will I sink in the mud?

Even with my questions, doubts, and worries, I headed toward the entrance. Quickly realizing it was not a person, but a statue that invited me in. Who made this? Who placed the bells and beads over the branches making them look like a necklace and scarf?

I looked to my right. There were several little cottages on the ground between the trees, reminding me of hobbit homes in the Lord of the Rings. Magical and mysterious. Who made this wonderland? Why does it feel like the secret spot behind my grandparents’ sofa?

I looked to my left and it felt like I was standing at the edge of Santa’s workshop on the North Pole. Gifts and creativity on display. Art pieces hanging from trees. Paintings leaning against tree trunks. Tables made of wooden benches and stones, covered in trinkets and memories, like those on a Day of the Dead ofrenda. Signs, notes, scribbles, empty bottles, candles, piles of wax, sunglasses, feathers, an old phone. Is this a trap? A mirage? A sign of delirium?

No. It was real. I was really there. In this shelter that someone created.

When I think of shelters, I think of places to ride out storms and find protection from dangers. Tornado shelters. Hurricane shelters. Bomb shelters. In our society, we talk about shelters as places for the unhoused to get sleep or for those experiencing domestic violence to seek safety and refuge.

Because you have made the Lord your refuge, the Most High your dwelling place, no evil shall befall you, no scourge come near your tent. (Psalm 51:9-10)

The Hebrew word machaseh translated to refuge comes from the root word chasah, which as a verb means to seek shelter, to find protection, and to trust. There is certainly an element of trust involved in seeking shelter during a storm or difficult season. And trust, more than curiosity, is the reason why I veered off the known path and ventured to that opening in the trees in the shadow of the lighthouse. I trusted the Spirit and I trusted my own intuition. I trusted that what I asked for and what I was seeking was housed in that space. Even though I wasn’t entirely sure what I was asking for or seeking, I trusted that something I needed was there.

For many years, I wore mistrust of others and myself as a shield of protection. A perceived safety from harm and betrayal. Layer by layer, log by log, stone by stone, I’ve deconstructed that shelter. In this process I’ve come to realize that the foundation of that shelter was built on cracked religious beliefs and unleveled theological teachings.

Standing under a blue sky on a wonderfully warm March morning in an unexpected refuge among familiar trees, listening to large ships pass by on the river and birds chirping above, I felt the physical presence of trust. Trust surrounding me. Filling me. Encouraging me.

Teaching me that even when I’m wandering, I’m where I need to be.

That even when I feel vulnerable, there is power in sharing my words.

That even when I feel afraid, there is meaning in showing up.

That even when critics rise, there is purpose in creating.

That even when I don’t know, there is value in the questions.

That even when there is no storm, this is something to encounter in the shelter.

That even when I cannot name the miracle I’m seeking, it finds me. I find it. We find one another.

One of the items on the wooden table prepared in that shelter was an old phone. The writing project I’ve been wrestling with is a memoir about calling. About my personal experience of answering a call to ministry and making the decision to hang it up just as it was getting started. The more I wrote the less confident I was in the details and direction of the story. What to leave in? What to leave out? What is it I really want readers to know? To feel? To do in response? In my early morning writing time, day after day, the image of an old phone kept coming to me. And now, in this secret shelter there was literally a phone right in front of me.

So, I did the only thing I could. I picked it up and said hello. And I listened. And I heard a voice, as clear as my own, speak about the expansiveness of calling. Pointing me back to the water where 10 Camels began. Inviting me to consider Lent as a path of possibility not penitence. Wilderness as a form of shelter.

Asking, what if shelters aren’t just for riding out storms and hiding from dangers? What if shelters are spaces where trust leads us in and miracles follow us out? What if there really is someone on the other end of the line patiently waiting for us to pick up?

When they call to me, I will answer them. (Psalm 51:15)

Water-fully Yours,
Rebecca & 10 Camels

Friday Field Trips is a monthly second serving of words and water for paid subscribers to Wednesdays at the Well. This Friday I’ll be sharing a brand new poem inspired by my visits with immigrants held in a detention center awaiting deportation.

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