solace of place
Even as a child I knew the value of a holy place. When I was given a Bible in third grade, I took it behind a shrub at the corner of our suburban home and set up a makeshift cross that only I could access.
Last April, as Notre Dame burned, I witnessed the shock and sorrow of the world. But quickly I saw a miracle—people (even news commentators!) started talking about Jesus. Some talked about a deep connection to their faith. Some talked about the history of a place that had been filled with prayer for centuries. People seemed to intrinsically understand that we were not merely losing a tourist attraction built of stone. One man described it as losing the heart of Paris—Our Lady of the heart.
A place, any place is a repository of memories. Each place has a spirit all its own. Many of us don’t really find the right way to deal with place. We either overvalue it, consumed that every detail be perfect, as though we live in a Pinterest Post. Or we undervalue it, as if every place is an opportunity to “Flip or Flop”—buy it, use it, redo it, flip it.
We have a guest house in California that we’ve loaned out for everything from honeymoons to individual and group retreats. One of the things that amazes me is how people respond to the space. They enter and are moved by it. It is an unusual design certainly, dramatic in appearance as you come through the door. But what people respond to is a serenity. Some of that may be due to decorating choices, but more, I’m thinking, is because of the way it has been used. So many have come there to pray, to sing, to find spiritual solace. It’s as if for the last 20 years the wood of the ceiling has soaked up a sweet incense, the stone floors have risen up to sing with the echoes of praise.
There’s a sunroom in the house that we dedicated as a sort of prayer chapel. For a few years we’d gather friends there three days a week to read scripture and pray. If this house in its brief history carries an aura of holiness, think of the atmosphere of a church that has functioned for 800 years, seeing 30,000 visitors a day who came to stand in awe and pray, to whisper their deepest desires to God. Even on fire, Notre Dame witnessed to the power of God, as masses gathered outside to weep and pray and sing hymns.
A year before Notre Dame burned, my husband and I attended a writer’s retreat in the Texas Hill Country. On the grounds was an art installation called “Threshold”. It is an invitation to encounter holiness in solitude. I was so inspired by the place that I wrote two poems. Over the next two weeks I will share them with you.
In the meantime contemplate these words of Henri Nouwen: “You are called to go toward solitude, prayer, hiddenness and great simplicity…it is clear that something in you is dying and something is being born. You must remain attentive, calm and obedient to your best intuitions.” And I would add, you must find the solace of a holy space. Do you have one in your life?
Love, Liz
