Photo by Kara K. Root from a retreat with her son, Owen.
By Kara K. Root
Is God really real? The question made my breath catch in my chest. He asked it with his sweet face turned up to me, freckles compressed, brow scrunched in worry. It was unexpected, this ardent, voiced uncertainty, and it would never have come if I hadn’t made space for it.
From the time they started preschool, just before school began every year, I spirited away each of my children individually for an overnight at a little retreat center in the woods. We would pack Legos and books, a change of clothes and our journals, and when we hit the dirt road leading to the cottage, we switched off our devices and unplugged from the rest of the world to spend the next day and night retreating together.
Truth be told, it was sometimes exhausting for me—the discipline of 24 hours of 100 percent attention to my child, focus, listening to every word, responding the first time. Not multi-tasking. Not being distracted. Being fully, completely present with my child made me realize how rarely it happened.
And retreat affected each of them differently. My daughter clicked right in. Her sweet and incessant chatter drew me out. I was invited to see the world through her eyes. The colors and shapes, the beauty and detail. She would point out unusual trees and cloud formations in the sky, notice crawling things on the ground and delight in the forest sounds around us. She was fully in the moment and invited me to be there with her.
My son and I had more time in silence. We entered the experience from the deep end, one tentative toe at a time. We would play side by side quietly. And then he would open up in his own, slow way. A few hours in his usually guarded spirit would begin to shyly venture out. He asked questions. Like the one that took my breath away. Sometimes he would tell me what he was thinking, what he was feeling, and I received his words like a precious treasure.
We developed rituals and patterns, making art, walking trails, drinking tea, reading in bed. Both my kids handwashed the dishes as though it was the most important thing they’d ever done. They’d talk about their technique and skill, eager to do every part by themselves. I scooted the chair closer to the sink periodically so she wouldn’t fall; I moved the chair away when she grew big enough not to need it anymore. We’d find sturdy walking sticks and use them wherever we went. At the end of the retreat, my son and I would hide ours somewhere in the woods, hoping to find them again the next year, but we never did. My daughter would take hers home to use in the backyard for a while; she couldn’t bear to say goodbye to it.
On these retreats we made eye contact. We saw each other. We suffered through the boredom that would set in almost immediately, disconnected from our devices and away from the usual distractions. We’d taste the world-weariness in our mouths and talk about how it felt and marvel at how ill-equipped we were to deal with it. We would appreciate what it shows us about ourselves and our pace of life. And when we waited it out, it disappeared, and that showed us something too.
There were always surprises. Like making friends with a cat who summoned us out with mewing to walk with her in the morning, or rediscovering a prayer he wrote before he could write anything but his name, tucked, dusty and brittle, under a rock, cradled amongst the scribbled joys and longings of strangers.
Life is sacred, and surprisingly short, and it goes by so achingly fast. Most of the time I am only partially present, only somewhat listening, barely pausing the busy long enough to take it in. I want to grasp each moment and hold it, to meet my kids and see them and not miss all the glory of their miraculous lives. Daily, I notice so much I wish I had said or done or hadn’t said or done. The moments slip through my fingers and then they are gone. But we do the best we can with what we have, and we entrust our children into God’s hands, and then ourselves as well, as we lie down at night and contemplate what a holy and terrifying endeavor it is to be part of shaping people. Or we simply close our eyes in numb distraction, for how rarely are we truly in touch with that truth?
But for these retreats, I was awake, in this set-apart space with my children. For me, all the spiritual disciplines in the world could not compete with this practice. To be clear, in the moment retreating with my children rarely felt sacred. It just felt normal, ordinary, sometimes annoying or tiring, and pretty simple. But then there would come those flashes of holy that just about knocked the wind out of me. Like his sudden and unexpected question about God.
Yes, my love, God is real. I can feel God right now with you. In this moment, the very ground beneath our feet, the sound of creation buzzing around us, the warmth of the sun holding us still, my heart longing to reach out and pull you close, my gift, my guest, on your own journey in life, pausing here before me with your face looking into mine and your soul hanging open. Yes, my darling. There is nothing more real.
Adapted and updated from an article originally published in Thin Places Newsletter, Issue 73, 2012.
About Kara K. Root: Rev. Kara K. Root is the author of The Deepest Belonging: A Story of Discovering How God Meets Us (2021) and the forthcoming Receiving This Life: Practicing the Deepest Belonging. (2023).
Pastor of Lake Nokomis Presbyterian Church in Minneapolis, MN, a Christian community that shapes its life around worship, hospitality and Sabbath rest, she is a trained Spiritual Director and Certified Educator in the PCUSA. Being mom to two intriguing teenagers (and a sweet dog), and wife and proofreader to a wily theologian, spices up her vocational calling and keeps her fully immersed in life.
She has written for Sparkhouse, Working Preacher, Christian Century, Christianity Today, Faith and Leadership, Patheos and more. Kara leads retreats and workshops on sabbath rest, prayer practices, and church leadership and transformation.
Kara and her husband, Andy, lead workshops and speak together through Root Creative, inc.
Kara Root serves on the Youthfront Christian parenting and caregiving resource team.
