Everything’s gonna be all right

We found a spot. It was 80 miles from where I lived. I spent the next day clearing my schedule to be missing in action for a few days.

On December 17, 2005, I checked into the Desert House of Prayer in Tucson, Arizona.

I turned onto the dirt road, and was met immediately by a wooden “no hunting” sign. Except this sign read, “no hunting, except for peace.” I drove further onto the property and noticed security company decals on every window – the chapel window, the sleeping quarters, the dining hall, the library, the admin office – all of them had this decal. Upon closer inspection, the sticker actually

I woke up at sunset, around 6 PM, and walked the prayer labyrinth, then headed to the dining hall for dinner. Dinner was also the only time anyone on the property was permitted to speak. It was there that I met the other eclectic group of retreatants. There was a priest from Botswana, a man from Ireland, two nuns who served on the Navajo nation, and a woman named Gwen whose husband pastored a church in Minnesota. She had been there for six weeks already and, by the time I left, still had two more weeks on her retreat. Six people - all of us seeking, searching, and trusting in the efficacy of silence.

When dinner was over, they rang the bell, we returned to silent posture, and I returned to my room.

Now that I am fed and rested, I’m ready to deal. I go to the writers desk. I open the journal and began to level it with what I called “truth bombs”. The first bomb I dropped: “My beloved is a liar!” And I went on from there, dropping bomb after bomb of inconvenient truths about my no longer tenable situation.

When I was done writing, when I had said all that I could think to say, I close the journal, take a few cleansing breaths, and climb back into bed. But I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned for about an hour, but sleep would not come.

Finally I said aloud, not as a prayer, but as a curious awareness, “Why can’t I get to sleep?”

Then it hit me. I had one more truth bomb to drop.

I got out of bed, returned to the desk, opened my journal and wrote, “I still love my beloved.” And with that admission, I sobbed uncontrollably because, despite everything that had happened so far, I knew I was not done with the marriage, and that I would return home and continue to fight for love.

I was at the retreat center for four days. It is one of the sweetest experiences of my life. The anchor scripture for the campus was Hosea 2:14, “I will allure her into the desert and speak tenderly to her.” Asé!

My time there was so restful and provided amazing clarity. I would have stayed longer, but Heaven had one more gift for me. You see, before I checked into the retreat center, I had purchased a single ticket to the Dave Koz Holiday Jazz concert in Mesa, Arizona.

I got dressed at the retreat center, checked out, and drove straight to the Mesa Arts Center.

I arrived to Mesa, parked in the adjacent lot, and waded through all of the red, green, and winter white sweaters. I wore a royal blue shirt, jeans, and black leather boots - I was SO not feeling Christmas that year.

I stopped by the bar before heading to my seat. The bartender, sporting a Santa hat, was trying to hock his spiked eggnog. “No, thank you,” I said. “I’ll take a glass of Muscato.”

Dessert wine in hand, I headed to my seat, nine rows from the stage.

The concert began, and it did NOT disappoint!

Dave Koz and all of these contemporary jazz phenoms performed a two or three song holiday medley as an ensemble. Then they broke off and began to perform mini-sets. The first mini-set was performed by Dave Koz. Following Dave Koz was Mindy Abair. After Mindy Abair was jazz pianist David Benoit. Following David Benoit was Kirk Whalum, a jazz saxophonist from Houston.

When Kirk Whalum was done, he said, “The next person coming to the stage, the song that he is about to perform is the single reason why I feel so blessed to be part of this tour. Ladies and gentlemen, you are in for a treat. Please welcome...Mr. Jonathan Butler.”

The audience applauds. Jonathan comes to the stage. With one hand he’s holding his guitar and the other a stool. He comes down center stage, takes a seat, and begins to play. All of us are clinging to the edge of our seats, anxiously awaiting what is about to happen.

A few notes in, however, I frown. I recognize the song - Bob Marley’s “No Woman, No Cry.” What the hell is so special about that song? I scan the audience to see if anyone else is as confused as I am. They are not; they were enjoying the music. I settled back into my seat, content to let the experience be what it’s going to be, but, real talk, I was super annoyed with Kirk Whalum for setting me up that way.

Jonathan continues on with the song. Verse, verse, chorus, verse, chorus.

Then he begins to sing:

“Everything’s gonna be all right, everything’s gonna be all right, everything’s gonna be all right now, everything’s gonna be all right.”

Suddenly I go from being confused to embarrassed as tears stream down my cheeks. Everyone else is having a good time, and there I sat having a moment. But I’m surrounded by strangers, and I couldn’t care less about what they thought of me. All I wanted was to marinate in that message, to be thoroughly saturated with heavenly assurances.

I close my eyes as he continued to sing:

“Everything’s gonna be all right, everything’s gonna be all right, everything’s gonna be all right now, everything’s gonna be all right.”

Suddenly he stops singing, stops playing. The entire venue was drop-dead silent. You could hear a pin drop. Now I’m growing nervous. Is Jonathan looking at me, wondering, “Why is that woman on the 9th row crying at my concert?“

Everything is still silent. My anxiety is rapidly expanding as I convince myself the concert stoppage was indeed about me.

Just as I crack open my right eye to see for myself, suddenly, beginning at the back of the venue, like a small ripple that forms at the horizon and grows in size and stature as it races towards the shore, suddenly every voice in the Mesa Arts Center began to sing:

“Everything’s gonna be all right, everything’s gonna be all right, everything’s gonna be all right now, everything’s gonna be all right.”

I hang tightly to that experience. Because of all of that, there are two things I know for sure. The first is everything really is going to be all right. It is. But hold very loosely to what “all right“ looks like. For even though I prayed, fasted, and took definitive actions in alignment with what I was believing and asking God for, I did not get it.

Know what I did get though? I got peace. I got story. And I got the privilege to let weary pilgrims know that there are dedicated spaces marked out to give them respite.

I didn’t have to be a pioneer. I only needed to admit that I was a pilgrim, and that my life had become weary, despite all of the other amazing things that were happening.

I did not know that silence was a thing, for I had been taught to make a joyful noise - at all times.

I did not know that there were dedicated places around the country that I could check into, pay a nominal fee, and receive respite, clarity, and a new spiritual practice: rest.

I’m not one who likes limiting what God can or cannot do. I will say that by me opening up about my weary condition, the solutions begin to materialize.

So tell the truth about what you feel - in all ways. Listen to your life. Rest. Repeat.

Refill

SHAUNNA BARBEE TYUS

Igota teacup, short and stout. It is too small to sit with too long. There’s more bag than water. More body than content. It is quite voluptuous and looks well in pictures. I cannot trust her to share my plans. She does not hold much at all.

Or rather is it me, who is untrustworthy?

Did my husband do right to buy me such a small teacup? He knows I love Joanna’s Magnolia cup... but maybe he knows better that I can’t sit still. “Dot?”, he says gently and lukewarm, “Why can’t you rest?” No, he asks rather, “Why won’t you rest?”

Rest trusts him. He shows up and sups with Rest. He could make a baby with Rest. Me and Rest got a shallow affair. I am not at home, at Rest.

Look at the gift in this belly, the wooden, Trojan horse full of novel virus and uncertainty. She brings so many things. Opportunity and destruction. Introspection. Separation in this virtual, muted dance. I cannot escape the time I’ve been begging to have that she has been able to give. We have lost and gained. Drawn nearer as we have drawn more apart. Relationships, already weird and frayed from my own nature and pursuits, have settled deeper into the dust. They know I’m busy and doing more these days.

I will die from something... might as well be from living.

I don’t want to be this tea cup. I won’t be. Girl, I gotta be Big, big, like a reservoir. Like the ocean. Sail your ships on my belly. I will keep this whole thing afloat and carry all the tides and fish and surfers.

Me, and my cup, (because this ain’t healthy, I know), are gonna get a room. I will think, and draw, paint and write, read and read, shop and save. Plan, and execute. I will not covet. I will not regret. I will refill this thick cup with its limited capacity and try new teas. I will nurse the tea bags with hot water and lemon. Take time to smell the blends. Peach pomegranate and Lemongrass Green tea. I will eat strawberries covered with vegan chocolate and wash them down with a steamy Mint Berry

Blossom. I will turn my phone off this one time, this one day, and not pick up one sock or put out one fire. I will accept God’s gift of rest and caress it, in the land of the living.

Because new tea, being alone in a hotel room and internet therapy are what I need to live a little longer, what I need to refill.

ACT ONE:

Three Loves: Poems Born from Solitude

AERAN BASKIN

The news was on when you said ‘I don’t want to be your man anymore’

I watched the words saw into my body Removing muscle

I went downstairs To wash your dishes

You didn’t follow

That was the season When every broken thing was my fault

I was young then And feared the depth of my shadow Aloneness was a cavernous mystery Wrapped in memory and rot

I don’t have time for such things now

I don’t miss you.

Maybe.

It could be the way you grabbed my hand or how our breath mingled after I cried or the ease you learned to break yourself wide open when I promised the silence would swallow us.

Or how you licked eternity from my fingers as I watched our generations fall from your teeth, leaves to the fire.

I collected our moments and hung them prostrate in the sun to display in empty bottles, our dead treasures a wind chime among the trees.

Maybe.

I don’t miss you.

Maybe.

I miss me.

The wind is Welcome

‘Come out and play’

Burn the fields and sing hallelujah

‘Come out’

The winter is dead

And now you wait for the beginning of ends

‘Come play’

Each dream waging war

‘Come’

As creation sticky children leap in the promise of the cosmos

‘Play’

Can you smell hope?

Morning smoke and yellowed flowers

The tang of solitude

Revealing the suffocating goodness of God

‘Come home’

Yes, your nakedness is Welcome

A joy drunk dance of being

‘Come out, sis, And play’