The light outside the monastery was golden and coppery, in that way you see only in a fall afternoon gloaming. After battling through Friday Atlanta traffic to get there, I sat on the ground in front of the abbey to decompress. 

Lauretta Hannon

Something about that light, the lay of the land, the trees in the grove, looked just like our front yard on the worst day of my childhood. The afternoon in my eighth year when I was hollowed out and nearly swallowed up. In a sinkhole of despair and depression. A place from which I’d never return. My father was far away; Mama was out of control; and I was lonely and on my own.  

This memory arrived completely unbidden, like a second cousin come to borrow money. The last thing on my mind was a dusty trauma à la 1976, and I didn’t wish to let it in. I was flabbergasted at what happened next. 

In a flash, I heard the following three words. 

“You are healed.” 

It was a male voice of authority. It was God. I knew it was true.  

This was the third or fourth time I’d stayed at the monastery. Lightyears removed from the initial visit, which played out like a sitcom directed by a Holy Prankster. 

That first time I was there solely because I needed a solitary place to write. I certainly didn’t want to hear any religious claptrap or papal poppycock. When I saw a contemplative prayer retreat was being held the same weekend, I almost canceled. 

Since I was new to the monastery, I had to attend an orientation session. Stopping in the session doorway, I became concerned. In a circle were about 30 people with a monk leading them in–egads–prayer. That was one threshold I didn’t want to cross, but someone waved me in, and I acquiesced. After all, I did need to know where the bathrooms were and get the access code for the retreat house. 

Before those topics were covered, the monk gave a primer on contemplative prayer. I wanted to tune him out, but his disarming sense of humor and unassuming humility sucked me in. 

Next, we lined up like school kids to go somewhere with said monk. Thinking this was part of the orientation, I got in the procession, and we ended up in the abbey where a service was about to begin. I was ready to bolt when the chanting started. 

The monks, ranging in age from their 30s to their 90s, raised their voices in ragged unison. The lack of vocal “professionalism” made it that much more beautiful. It wasn’t a performance; it was unadorned worship. And I was digging it. 

I’d loved Tibetan Buddhist chants and Hindu kirtan but never considered there was a Christian counterpart just as mystical, just as ethereal. Right then I had to check myself: what is going on here? What skullduggery got me in this church, sitting across from these guys in robes and hoods? And how am I not running for the exit? 

Then it dawned on me: I’d become an accidental retreatant. I’d gone to the monastery to do my own thing but was now part of the contemplative prayer retreat. I see why they say God laughs when you tell him your plans. 

Instead of fighting it, I decided to accept the turn of events. I’d approach the retreat like a journalist, a non-involved spectator. Perhaps I’d write a satiric piece about it. This was the only way my brain could process what was happening, for I had a vague, unsettling feeling that this was kismet. 

The next day was filled with lectures, church services, and best of all: observed silence. I knew silence was required during a monastery stay, but I couldn’t believe the restorative power of being quiet for prolonged periods. 

The first hours were excruciating though. Without a cell phone or other screen to engage me, I was keyed up and on edge. Being still had never been my forte or goal, and I was struggling. 

Gradually it let up, and when I left the monastery for reentry into regular life, it felt like a crash landing. I didn’t want to break the silence. It shut out the static of the world so that I could hear the voice of the divine. I’d never received such clarity, such “clear-channel reception” before. 

The monks presenting the talks were the antithesis of what I expected. They were funny as all get-out, scholarly, and the real spiritual deal. Instead of a god of wrath and condemnation, they presented a god and savior of absolute love and mercy. A belief system that didn’t resemble the snarling Christianity I’d been brought up to sneer at.  

This warranted further investigation, and I set out to read classic texts of Catholicism over the next five years. I also kept discovering that some of my literary idols were Catholic: my mentor, the late novelist Pat Conroy; memoirist and poet Mary Karr, and even Oscar Wilde, who converted on his deathbed.  

On that autumn day at the monastery, bathed in crepuscular light, I thought the “you are healed” message was specifically about my childhood nadir. I had no inkling of the true scope of those words. Yes, the 8-year-old girl was cured of that particular damage. But the 43-year-old woman was put upon a road that would lead her away from generational strongholds. 

It wasn’t lost on me that the healing happened on the monastery grounds. It could have happened anywhere. Perhaps when I was pumping gas or daydreaming at the Waffle House. But instead it was found in the secret provisions of a hidden place, a set aside place–the Monastery of the Holy Spirit in Conyers, Georgia.