The morning I arrived at Cherimoya Farm was wrapped in a sacred quiet. The road leading to the retreat center was shaded by tall trees that seemed to whisper peace with every rustle of their leaves. I rolled down my window and inhaled deeply—the cool air carried the scent of soil, flowers, and something indescribably fresh, like the promise of renewal. After days of constant movement and mental noise, it felt strange, almost uncomfortable, to slow down. But the stillness around me seemed to insist on it.
As I stepped out of the car, gravel crunching softly under my feet, I decided not to rush to start my schedule. Instead, I lingered, allowing myself to take in the quiet details that surrounded me. I walked around and paused by the garden to admire the flowers in full bloom—pink, yellow, and white blossoms swaying gently in the breeze. A few chickens clucked busily nearby, while ducks glided across the small pond, leaving delicate ripples on the water’s surface. The distant mountain stood serene and steadfast, its outline glowing faintly under the morning sun. For the first time in a long while, I let myself just be, breathing in the rhythm of creation that seemed perfectly in tune with God’s peace.
This was only Day 1 of our three-day silent retreat, and yet, even before the sessions began, I could sense that something deep was already being stirred in me. I felt a quiet gratitude rising as I looked around Cherimoya Farm—a place that seemed touched by grace. I silently thanked God for Lita, whose generosity made this retreat possible for us. It was included in our Spiritual Formation fee, but standing there amid all this beauty and stillness, I thought, It’s all worth it. No amount of money could measure the peace beginning to settle over my soul.
Still, my body was weary. The past few days had been consumed with work deadlines and responsibilities. I had been up late finishing tasks, believing I was being diligent, when in truth, I was merely running on empty. I came here with only three hours of sleep, my mind buzzing with unfinished business and worries. Beneath the calm surface, there was still an undercurrent of anxiety—a restlessness I couldn’t quite shake.
As I settled into my room and looked out the window toward the fields, a wave of longing came over me. I suddenly missed my husband, Jayvee deeply. He is now in a faraway land, faithfully doing the work of the Lord with Benji through LWLT. Though I am proud of him and the ministry God has entrusted to his hands, his absence felt heavy at that moment. I wished he could see what I was seeing—the stillness, the mountains, the way the sunlight kissed the trees. Yet, even as I missed him, I sensed God whispering to my heart that this time apart was also sacred—that the same Spirit who fills this place is the One accompanying him wherever he serves. In that realization, distance turned into prayer, and longing transformed into gratitude.
This is the view of his cabin in that faraway land
When I finally sat down and opened the provided tablet, I opened a document titled, “Dispositioning: Entering the Holy of Holies,” The words pierced my heart. It felt as though the reflection had been written specifically for me. I painfully realized that I had come to this sacred space unprepared. I had not slowed down internally. My mind was still in motion, preoccupied with things that had no place in this moment. I had prepared for so many things—projects, meetings, and people—but not for meeting Him.
It grieved me to recognize this truth. God, my Father, deserves my first and best, not the leftovers of my energy. I imagined how it must look from heaven: my Father waiting patiently, while I rush from task to task, thinking I will come to Him “after I finish everything.” Yet by the time I finally do, I am spent and half-present.
As I sat in silence, the realization broke me open. I whispered a simple prayer: “Lord, I’m sorry. I came here tired, distracted, and unready. But here I am.” I felt the gentle nudge of grace—the kind that does not condemn but lovingly corrects. In that moment, I sensed His invitation: Slow down. Breathe. I am already here.
In the afternoon, after lunch, I took a short nap. But even as I lay down, I realized it wasn’t just physical rest that I longed for; my soul was weary too. The stillness of Cherimoya Farm seemed to hold me gently as I drifted into sleep. When I awoke, the late-afternoon sun bathed everything in a warm, golden glow. The trees swayed softly, their leaves shimmering like they were alive with praise. I walked outside and stood quietly for a while, the wind brushing against my face, the scent of the earth grounding me.
It was there, in that silent moment, that I began to understand what it truly means to enter the Holy of Holies. It isn’t about entering a physical sanctuary but allowing my spirit to enter into His presence—fully aware, fully surrendered. God wasn’t waiting for me to come perfect or prepared; He simply wanted me to come.
As the evening approached, I saw my companions, Precy and Alvin, outside. No one spoke, but the silence was full—alive, even. The air felt sacred. I could sense that God had already begun His quiet work in each of us. The stillness that once felt awkward now felt necessary, even holy.
I found myself reflecting on something my dear friend Jerri told me when I talked with her:
“Friend, this happens occasionally, so focus and grab the opportunity while you have it.” Her words reverberated in my heart. She was right—moments like these don’t come often. Life outside these walls is noisy and relentless, and silence, once missed, is hard to reclaim. I resolved then to fully surrender—to give this retreat my undivided heart.
Later in the evening, I met with Joey, my spiritual director, who graciously helped me process the anxiety that had quietly followed me into the retreat. His calm voice and prayerful presence helped me recognize that the unrest I felt wasn’t just physical fatigue; it was the noise of a heart that hadn’t yet learned to be still. Joey encouraged me to trust the process—to let silence do its work. I left that conversation lighter, as though a burden had been lifted.
I thought again of Lita and how her generosity had made this possible, and gratitude washed over me. I thought of Joey, whose patient guidance had steadied my heart. I thought of Jerri’s reminder to seize this rare gift of silence. Every person, every detail, seemed to have been woven together by God’s loving hand to bring me here, to this moment of surrender.
Preparing to meet Him, I realized, is not about perfect rituals or eloquent prayers—it’s about the posture of the heart. It’s about laying down everything that distracts and drains, and choosing to be present with the One who never stops being present with me. It’s about realizing that stillness is not emptiness but the space where His presence fills all things.
As night fell, the farm grew even quieter. The stars began to appear, one by one, until the sky shimmered with light. I stood outside, and whispered again, “Lord, I was not prepared to meet You—but You met me anyway.” And that, I realized, is the beauty of grace. Even when I come weary and unready, He meets me where I am, gently drawing me back into rest.
I know this is only Day 1, but already my heart feels different. The noise within is softening, the tension easing. I am beginning to understand that meeting Him requires both stillness and surrender—a willingness to let go of control and to let His peace settle deep within.
So tonight, as I end this first day of retreat, my heart’s prayer is simple:
Lord, forgive me for coming to You unprepared. Teach me to disposition my heart before You each day. Thank You for this place, for Lita’s generosity, for Joey’s guidance, for Jerri’s wisdom. Thank You for the silence that heals and the grace that waits. May I always come before You not in haste, but in holy awe—ready to meet You, my Beloved, in the quiet of Your presence.
BELOVED 
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