Mama, Pause.

“Go where they can’t find you,” she charged, and I fled to the cover of pine forest. Head down, heart pounding, I parted from the others and passed groups of children–the buzz of their giggling mixing with the light rain. I looked up briefly to scan faces. My own girls were not present, thank God. That would have been the end of this experiment in solitude. “Mama!” they would call. “Mama!!” more insistent if I did not answer the first time. “Mama!!!!” and I would once again be swept up into my routines of responding, all the constant demands, the pressure, the noise.

10415878565_3e40478198_oTwenty minutes. I just needed twenty minutes away.

I scanned the edges of the path and saw a row of faded red cabins stationed along the tree line. Here? Or should I keep going? These were unfamiliar woods and I didn’t know where everyone else was headed. But what if there were people staying in these cabins? No, they looked empty, alone like I longed to be. I just needed to decide quickly–already I could hear the crunch of gravel, moving in my direction. Just decide. Decide.

Slipping off the path, I  jogged to the backside of a particularly abandoned-looking structure and crouched on the porch behind a low wall. Voices swept down the path I had just left, and I wondered if someone would make a turn for the woods and see me there, hiding. I pressed myself into the corner, back against the wall, and felt dampness seep through my jeans. Darnit. I was sitting in wet pine needles, but there was nowhere else to go. I closed my eyes, wishing them all away.

* * * * *

We were in the woods for a church retreat, the first retreat my small urban church has taken in the ten years I’ve been there. I was surprised by how many people signed up–when retreats had been proposed in the past they were quickly shot down with protests:

Nuh huh, I do not do spiders.

Do you really want to get eaten by some bear?

And my personal favorite:

Don’t you know there are crazy people in those woods? And no one, I mean No One, will even hear you scream.

But by some miracle there were seventy of us gathered for this weekend away. Granted, the hotel-like lodge and cottages represented the near-opposite of roughing it. The buildings were clean and new with sparkling bathrooms and spacious common areas.

The problem (for me) was that they were also full of people, and because the dorms were single-sex, I had the girls on my own. On the drive to camp, I had tried to explain my unease to my husband.

“I don’t want to do this,” I said, and he looked at me, confused. “Do what?” I stared hard at the highway, groping for the right words. “People,” I tried, “I can’t take this many people right now. Meals in the dining hall. Sleeping in dorms. Large group gatherings. Small group discussions. I, I… I just don’t want to be here. I’m not sure I can do this.”

It was mid-May, and the month had been full of marathons, figurative and literal. The school year was almost over, and every moment away from the kids was filled with summer preparations and other responsibilities. I was on overload–a lot had taken place, but I hadn’t had time to process it all. This combination is difficult for anyone, but murder for an introvert like me.

It’s like this: imagine my introverted brain as a water pipe building up internal layers of calcification. Any kind of stimulus–people, events, emotions–are the calcium deposits. As long as I have time to deal with them as they come–silence, journaling, walking, prayer–they don’t build up. But if I don’t, if they just keep coming, then the pipe gets clogged.

And when the pipe gets clogged I can’t think anymore. Or make good decisions. Or live with seventy other people and my kids in dorms, and discuss God or church or each other’s lives or whatever it was we were going to talk about all weekend.


When you’re driving to camp with a trunk packed full of sleeping bags and two excited children jabbering away in the back seat, what you think you can do is no longer terribly relevant.

* * * * *

When our speaker introduced the weekend’s theme I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. “This weekend,” she said, “we are going to talk about solitude.”

Pulling out a book by one of my favorite writers, Henri Nouwen, she defined solitude as being alone with God and hearing that you are loved. If we didn’t take this time, she warned, we would try to find affirmation in the shifting sands of human relationships. If we didn’t begin with solitude, we could never find authentic community because we would always be trying to find our identity in other people. You need to get away, she said, and listen to the voice that has been speaking to you all along.

“So go”, she said, “Twenty minutes of solitude. Go where they can’t find you.” And she released us into the woods.

There at my faded red cabin, back pressed up against the low wall, it took a long time for my heart to stop thump-thumping in my chest. It took longer for my breathing to slow, and it took longer still for my thoughts to settle. By now I was crying, all the emotion of the month pushing out of me slowly. My mind was churning, but I didn’t have the energy to fight it anymore. I just sat and stared into the woods.

After a long time I noticed the swamp cabbage lining the creek bed. The leaves looked over-sized, like a prehistoric display in a museum. Suddenly, a bird chittered ten feet above my head. I laughed with surprise. The smell of the wet pine needles lifted up on a small breeze, and I breathed in a deep draught of humid air.

1114159624_705676c9a9_oThe pipe was beginning to clear; there was room now to take it all in. There was room now to let some things go.

I remembered our speaker’s words: Solitude is being alone with God and hearing that you are loved. I grinned and spoke to the sky, “You have anything you want to say?”

There was no response, but that was okay. I already knew.


Photos by Ed Suominen and Sharon Mollerus

11 Thoughts.

  1. Love this. I’m the opposite, I love the crowded dorms and get nervous when we’re meant to find a quiet spot.

    But you put it so beautifully – the process, the pipe beginning to clear, making space to take in more. And the moment of communion, so sweet, even when quiet. Love this sweet story.

  2. Jen, I love reading everything you write… thank-you for sharing yourself with the world this way. I love the way you describe this way of feeling to a pipe getting more and more clogged. I think I feel this way pretty much all the time and can’t figure out how to clear it out, so it’s always good to hear someone else feeling the same way and how they find their way though.

    • I think that there are a lot of us who feel this way. I remember reading that the brain of an introvert actually has longer ‘processing pathways’ than the brain of an extrovert. Through these are generalities, I think it’s helpful to recognize that some people get more quickly/easily overstimulated and that we need a bit more time and space to ‘clear out’.

  3. Love you, Jen! I was crying tears in the woods that day, too. Still trying to figure out to meet everyone’s needs- including my own. Love the pipe metaphor- I feel it too and begin to be panicky, shallow- exhausted. I need to dig out that book- it’s always been a favorite! Thanks for your words and your friendship!

  4. Jen, even as an extroverted Mama I can completely relate to that need for just 20 minutes to myself! And now that my daughters are old enough to have cell phones, that’s even more rare—they almost always have access to me! (Ha—one of my daughters just texted me as I was writing this. No joke.)

    Thank you for this—especially for giving us such a wonderful metaphor for the way your mind works when you’re feeling overwhelmed, and for the Nouwen-inspired definition of solitude.

  5. I could not love this more. Your writing is so compellingly rich and draws me in every time. Thank you for sharing a piece of yourself in this post. What Nouwen book did you reference? I am a huge fan of his, and haven’t been able to read anything for awhile. But I’d love a direction of inspiration. Love you, Jen. 🙂

  6. I loved the juxtaposition of your piece with Kristin’s piece, Jen. It amazes me how God connects with us using the tension of our own personalities. What a gift (if sometimes a struggle). Thank you for sharing this.

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