The country night air held a chill. The onyx sky and surroundings clutched tight to the emotions of the seventeen women who ambled into the cold room on a Friday night, their metaphorical backpacks lugging heavier loads than each should haul.
That snapshot set the stage for a weekend to retreat, refocus, renew and return to the safety, assurance and love of a heavenly Father. But the reality? They’ve sparred with hard things, survived battles, arrived with bruises, questions and longings, some too guarded to admit. Emotions were protected This wasn’t a ‘weak in the knees’ crew. Life has dealt them some tough stuff.
These sporadic retreats began when I served in a church, providing a night or two for people leading small groups an opportunity to breathe, process, pray and give them a stake in the ground as a reminder they weren’t alone. They eventually morphed into women’s retreats, as I partnered with a friend/neighbor who was leading the women’s ministry in that church.
And this time—this weekend—Jesus came close.
He didn’t just hover in the background, politely waiting for an invitation. He moved. He whispered through His Word, His presence thick like the early morning mist rising off the lake. He stitched healing into broken places through quiet prayers prayed over one another, and He surprised us with joy and understanding through art, through wild adventure, through the very ordinary things we so often overlook.
I watched as paintbrushes swept color across paper, hearts opening slowly, safely—one stroke at a time. I saw prayer circles become holy ground, where tears slipped down faces without shame, where truth was spoken out loud, softly but with tremendous power. I heard laughter echo under the tall pines as we ventured out in the cold, with bows and arrows in hand, the kind of laughter that cracks something open inside you and lets the light in.
The art became testimony. A witness to the reality that beauty and brokenness can exist on the same canvas, that redemption often comes in layers—messy, unpredictable, breathtaking.
By Sunday, those metaphorical backpacks felt lighter. Some even left them behind altogether, trading the weight of striving for the gentler, sustaining weight of Jesus’ love.
This is what happens when we make space for Him—
when we step away from the noise and step into His presence.
And as we hugged goodbye, eyes bright and hearts tender, I kept thinking:
He is still changing lives.
Through prayer. Through His Word. Through art. Through adventure.
Through weekends like this one, where heaven brushes up against earth and whispers to weary hearts:
I am here. I am enough. I am making all things new.