Two years ago, my Pentecost Sunday started with a cup of coffee and a James Baldwin essay on a stony terrace behind a lakeside apartment in Minnesota.
Twelve women, including me, had arrived earlier in the week from various corners of the country to attend a weeklong writing workshop at Collegeville Institute. Somewhere between our writing exercises, soft-spoken interactions between sessions, and walks to and from meals, there’d been some conversation about what we’d do for Pentecost Sunday, which fell a little more than midway through our residency. Services were being held at the few churches nearby, but the program faculty made it clear to us we were free to do what we wanted—what felt right to us for that day.
Too often and too usual the case with me, I had come to the workshop stressed with too much to do. Unsettled with going and doing another thing, I chose to take the day to be still, to steal away to Jesus alone.
I was parched—spiritually and emotionally—and desperately needed the quiet. I grabbed my coffee and laptop and sat inside in the living room at first. The apartment had floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased a full view of the lake. It was nice. I exhaled as I sunk into the soft, well-worn, brown leather couch. Then I heard it. A familiar sensation of a voice spoke both from within in me and outside me—maybe from the terrace?
“I’m outside,” the voice said. “Come sit with Me.”
A reverential fear of God instilled in me as a child taught me enough to know I should not keep Him waiting. Yes, of course, my heart answered.
I quickly gathered my things and moved everything outside to the iron and glass dining set located on the other side of the picture windows. I plugged my power strip into an outlet I found nearest the porch while simultaneously scanning for large insects, snakes, and rodents. All seemed clear, and I sat down again.
And I just sat.
There wasn’t much more God said. His call to join Him outside didn’t seem to be about His speaking as much as it was about my being. Being still. Being present. Being... He was being too. Being present with me. Being water from which I could drink and never thirst again. Being nourishment so I would be filled. Being Creator, who was excited to bring me into His space to show me what He’d done with it—to hear me say, “Oh, I love what you’ve done with the space, God. You thought of everything,” so He could say, “Yes, and as I was creating this place, you were My inspiration—you, in this moment—the whole time.”
Being.
We were being—together.
Between the laments and call-ins of Baldwin’s native son, I exchanged long glances at the dewy green view suspended in the cool, humid atmosphere. I sat there for hours, the wholeness of the moment enveloping me, healing me like a steam room, filling my nose and cleansing my lungs as I breathed it in, hydrating me as it rested on my skin.
I went back inside at some point—rejoined life, I guess, though I don’t remember how I made the transition. I do remember the next day and how the other women reported the beauty and sacredness of their Pentecost Sunday.
Everywhere at once, God sat with me on a stony terrace on a Minnesotan lake at the same time He met with the others in their chosen activity. All-powerful, He restored my soul while at the same time restoring theirs.