I watched for the Holy Spirit while on retreat last spring, hoping for some sort of reassurance in an endlessly chaotic world. But she was selective in her appearances.
That’s the way it typically works — the Spirit doesn’t just present herself when I demand an audience. No appointments are accepted. Manifestation is not for my convenience. She shows up in her own time, when the grace you might not have realized you were waiting for happens.
Before breakfast one day, I’d stepped inside the campus’s tiny chapel in Eastern North Carolina to read the service of morning prayer and hold up the name of a dear human facing a brutal diagnosis.
I’d stopped myself — just barely — from reminding God that evildoers run amok in this world; maybe she could start picking on some of them and leave the kind and tenderhearted, like my friend, alone. It is a conversation, a negotiation, a pissed-off proclamation that I’d indulged in lately. It felt like the team that followed the rules was getting battered while the cheaters on the other side laughed at their own dirty fouls and emerged unscathed.
My soul was not entirely peaceful as I finished the litany and headed out, only to discover the Spirit sitting on the steps, as if waiting for me, in the form of an albino squirrel.
Wildlife was everywhere on the campus where the retreat was held, and squirrels abounded, but a white one was unique. I froze, but she clearly wasn’t as startled by me as I was by her. With her tail swishing and head tilted in consideration, she stared me down for several seconds before scampering off.
Her presence jolted me out of a circular what-if headspace into one where what-is offers celebrations, too. Without diminishing the world’s hurts, I could dwell in small things that were going right and the hope for better days that they offered.
The Holy Spirit is the truth teller among the Trinity who reminds us of Jesus’ teachings. She comforts and empowers us within the earthly challenges of life, and in that way can feel most directly engaged even in the mundane. When I experience her presence, she can seem startlingly proximate, as what happens through her offers clarity and comfort.
In seasons that range from minor tribulation to outright catastrophe, there are moments when something reassuringly decent emerges and grabs hold — even for a second — or, rarely but gloriously, when true transformation happens. The Spirit’s message comes through to me like a text message.
“Haven’t talked in a while. Checking in.”
From the weeks before and in the weeks that have followed that chapel-side encounter, I considered where else there had been reassurances of the Holy Spirit’s presence:
A visit with our toddler granddaughter whose favorite word is “BUBBLES!” and who always puts a book in whatever bag she is dragging behind herself. You never know when you’ll have a spare moment to read.
An invitation to dinner from a young friend who had been struggling, but who now has a new job and her own apartment. She feels settled, on track, ready for what’s next.
A rallying of forces by church, friends and family for a roll call of beloveds in our overlapping worlds, all facing precarious times. Their needs were robustly, maybe excessively, enveloped by our love, attention and cooking. So much cooking.
A growing recognition among acquaintances who had seemed tuned out to the cascade of injustices unleashed on those with the least protections and the most to lose. Those in positions of advantage needed to do more, could do more, and some — not all — actually have.
Even on my retreat: a week of magical writing, wisdom sharing and joyful community where my fellow retreatants and I tended to ourselves and to each other.
None of that has eliminated underlying pathologies or overarching harm, but each can make them a little more bearable. A reminder that joy, progress, healing, compassion, creativity still exist.
The Rev. Dr. Pauli Murray wrote, “We need to remind ourselves … that the Holy Spirit is God’s abiding presence with us at all times and in all places, in every possible situation — at home, at work, in school, in the marketplace, in social life, in politics, in joy, in the depth of sorrow, sin, sickness, and despair — the ever-faithful companion, friend, and Counselor, the Eternal One working in and through every moment of history in the affairs of mankind.”
As our retreat week was ending and re-entry to the wider world loomed, various pressures began weighing down our group. I took a call with my cousin who has been thrust into the role of caregiver — an unexpected responsibility that has dragged her under tiers of grief compounded by slow-moving legal and medical systems. I typically end our conversations unsure if anything has been resolved, but she always seems relieved. Like prayers with an edge of querulous critique, sometimes we most need to say the hardest things out loud and be reassured that someone is listening.
But back to the Spirit.
She’d made herself scarce after that initial what-is-up-with-you encounter. I’d searched hard to find her, but that’s not how she operates. Then, on that last afternoon of our retreat’s final full day, as we made our way from lunch, there was a pale flash in a low clump of shrubbery.
The Spirit, less interested in us than we were in her, paused — maybe posed — for pictures this time. Not as white as I remembered, more ivory. Perhaps the offspring of a true albino and one of the khaki-hued variety so abundant here — a swirl squirrel, if you will. She flung that tail and grabbed a snack before scooting off until next time, communicating with her attitude what she couldn’t share in words.
“I’m still here, girl. Even when I don’t text.”
