Formed by the ordinary
Bathing in sunlight and gazing at mountain peaks that looked as if they were brushed with oil onto the sky, I found myself pondering an unexpected lesson from this year's clergy retreat: God often dwells in the moments we barely notice.
Each year, the Diocese of Western North Carolina gathers clergy and staff for a fall retreat. Every retreat is different. Sometimes a speaker teaches on a particular topic; other times, a theme guides our time together. This year, our speaker was Mark Dannenfelser, founder and clinical director of the Mindfulness Center of Atlanta. He introduced us to mindfulness, the practice of training the mind and body to become more attentive to the present moment. Through presentations, conversations, and guided exercises, we explored how paying attention to ordinary experiences can deepen our awareness of God and ourselves.
One of the first things I discovered was how difficult it is to be still. Fully and wholly still.
As we practiced breathing exercises with our eyes closed, I expected the challenge to be physical. Instead, I found my mind racing. As soon as I focused on my breathing, thoughts began appearing: unfinished tasks, emails I needed to send, responsibilities waiting for me back home. Again and again, my attention drifted to what I needed to do next.
The invitation wasn't to eliminate those thoughts, but to let them pass and return to the present moment. I focused on my breathing, the chair beneath me, and the sounds around me, even the way they distracted me. Slowly, I became aware of how much of my life I spend somewhere other than where I actually am.
The retreat offered something rare: space.
For a couple of days, I stepped away from the busyness of ministry and entered a different rhythm. There was time with colleagues, time in nature, time alone, and time with Go
Then, during one of the lectures, tears came unexpectedly.
I could feel the weight of personal grief from the losses that I carried from the course of the year. As I sat quietly, thoughts, emotions, and memories surfaced and drifted away. Rather than resisting them, I simply let them be. Something within me seemed to loosen its grip. When the exercise ended, I felt lighter, as though I had been carrying burdens I hadn't fully realized. The experience moved me from autopilot into a deeper awareness of both body and soul. It healed me in a way I hadn't anticipated.
The retreat was not all silence and reflection. Spending time with fellow clergy outside our usual vocational setting was refreshing. Conversations were more relaxed, laughter came easily, and we had room to simply enjoy one another's company.
I also found time to walk along a nearby stream. The sound of flowing water has always calmed me. As I wandered along the riverbank, I picked up a few stones shaped smooth by the current. I even spent some time learning a bit about archery, something I rarely get to do.
Later, as I looked at those stones, I noticed the lines etched into them and their rounded edges. None of that shaping had happened all at once. It took years of flowing water, countless collisions with other rocks, and thousands of ordinary moments.
It occurred to me that we are shaped in much the same way.
Every retreat changes me, but so does every experience in life. Most of the time we notice the major milestones, the life-changing events, and the dramatic moments. Yet much of who we become is shaped by small, seemingly insignificant experiences. Conversations. Habits. Quiet moments. Daily routines. Ordinary encounters.
Like water shaping stone, these moments gradually leave their mark upon us.
As I drove home through the beauty of western North Carolina, I noticed my mind returning to familiar habits. Part of me wandered into the past while another part rushed ahead to everything waiting for me at home. Yet the retreat had given me a simple practice: return to the present moment.
When I did, the landscape around me seemed more vivid. The rolling hills, autumn colors, and changing light drew my attention. Nothing about the scenery had changed. What had changed was my willingness to notice it.
During this year's clergy retreat, I was reminded how often I miss the wonder around me because I am preoccupied with what has happened or what might happen next. Mindfulness is not simply about relaxation. It is about paying attention. It is about being fully present with God, ourselves, and the life unfolding before us.
The smooth stones I carried home now serve as a reminder. Just as water shapes stone through countless ordinary encounters, God's grace often works through the ordinary moments of our days. Formation happens slowly, quietly, and often without our noticing.
Perhaps the invitation is simply to pay attention.
Abraham Joshua Heschel expressed it beautifully:
"Our goal should be to live life in radical amazement.... get up in the morning and look at the world in a way that takes nothing for granted. Everything is phenomenal; everything is incredible; never treat life casually. To be spiritual is to be amazed."
Only by grace, Tara+
Comments