This Moment of Retreat

Listening to the Birch, the Milkweed, and the Healing Song in All that Is Now

Heather Lee

• Publisher: Resource Publications
• Year: 2014
• Print ISBN:
  9781625648556
• eBook ISBN:
  9781630874018
• Topic: Theology & Religion
• Subtopic: Biblical Studies

This Moment of Retreat is a companion guide to spiritual growth and healing. Over the course of seven chapters, readers are encouraged to retreat into the present moment to listen to the healing guidance that is being sung in the voices of Scripture, prayer and meditation, journaling, poetry, and song. Each chapter features a theme of healing and offers an opportunity for personal or group retreat through prose, poetry, prayer, or reflection activities that help the reader claim beauty in the midst of the darkness that so often accompanies--and fuels--the growth of the soul. Readers will find soul-touching inspiration in the lyrics and links to original songs by author Heather Lee included in each chapter. While listening and singing along with these songs, the teaching and healing work of their retreat moments will be deepened through music and voice. In a society that is so often governed by fear, worry, and shame, this book discovers and embraces the beauty of the imperfect self, the process of healing, and the way-finding to life by encouraging spiritual depth, presence, listening, and ongoing conversation with God.

chapter 1

the birch tree

For moments of
waiting and growth

Scriptural Grounding
and Inspiration

First Corinthians 13: 1–13

If I speak in the tongues of mortals and of angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give away all my possessions, and if I hand over my body so that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing. Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends. But as for prophecies, they will come to an end; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will come to an end. For we know only in part, and we prophesy only in part; but when the complete comes, the partial will come to an end. When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways. For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known. And now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; and the greatest of these is love.

Experience, Strength, and Hope Reflection—Embracing the
Moment in All of Creation

In contemplation of waiting and growth, I set off one beautiful, mid-winter morning, the sun shining, into the woods. It was the second day of a retreat that rested in First Corinthians and the many natures of love and loving. I was struggling deeply with my own new growth, and I was uncertain and frustrated in discerning what God’s call to love was asking of me. My prayer was for openness and listening to what my situation had to teach me and for guidance on what action, if any, to take. The lake and the woods beckoned me as the outdoors usually does when I am in a funk. At the edge of the woods just before I reached a field, I was called to stop and engage a birch tree.

This birch tree stood tall, white, and glorious in the snow-covered, sunny morning. It had a very large, beautiful piece of bark pulled away and unwrapping itself from the tree right at my eye level. I inspected it, touched it, tugged it gently, thinking, as I always do, that, perhaps, I could help the tree release it, but it was solidly in place. I left it there. Let it grow. Beneath this stubborn, peeling piece of bark was a soft piece of new growth, new skin, new bark, brand new, not toughened by the harsh winters yet. I put my cheek up against it. It was so soft, like my skin, warm from the sun, and tender. It seemed vulnerable, yet beautiful as new growth often is. I rested my cheek there for a while, thinking about the vulnerability of my own new growth—how soft, how tender, and clinging tightly—how I longed for it to be protected, admired, found beautiful. It is beauty.

I looked further at the tree and noticed that there were a few pieces of very old bark that had probably unraveled and held on years ago. Some were, finally, dry and blackened, easily brushed off by me or to be blown off by the winds of the future. The tree had held onto those pieces long enough, and now they were easily, and clearly, to be let go. Still, some of the peeled bark from years ago remained firmly attached, likely never to be released. They were to be held as part of the beauty and identity of the tree.

That piece of newly peeled bark that initially caught my eye was not nearly ready to be let go. In fact, it was standing strong and firm, almost protecting the new growth beneath it. Both held such beauty in different ways. The old, strong bark—firm, weathered, colored, somewhat inflexible, separated from the tree but boldly holding on and claiming its spot in the sunlight—said “hold on to the old, you need it still.” The soft, pure white, new bark—clinging closely and tightly to where it was growing from the tree itself, vulnerable and soft—said “newness is beauty, let it show.”

I put my arms around the tree (really, I did, tree-hugger at heart), my cheek pressed against that new bark. We were face to face. Standing in the sun, I felt God, the Creator, return the embrace. In it, I felt the complexity and the simplicity of love, patient and enduring. The message revealed was, “Wait. It’s all okay, in fact, all beautiful. Let it unfold.” As I walked away, I felt a deep sense of loss, a desire to run back and experience it again, but also a deep sense of peace and knowledge of God’s warm, gentle, abiding presence and love for me, and perhaps also a bit of hope, which is what I needed most.

Maybe a full year later, I retreated again to the winter woods. I remained challenged by waiting, but I had let the new growth show. I had written the first song of my life at age thirty-eight after that winter encounter with God and the birch tree. Even with the healing balm of that song and the creative process of voicing it, I had open wounds when it came to some dimensions of love. It so happens I met with another birch tree on this walk too. This tree was less grand than the first, but beautiful. The only thing I remember was that it was split open, perhaps by lightning, but growing healthy toward the sky. It sang hope to me—bear all things, believe all things—hope once again.

Meditation and Prayer

Find an opportunity to stand face to face with a tree—a birch tree if you can find one, but any tree will do. Consider what this tree has to teach you about growth, about waiting, about the natures of love—in particular, patience and endurance. Notice any wounds the tree wears. If you are so inclined, wrap your arms around the tree and feel its strength. What does is tell you? Stand as tall as you can and place your arms in the air. Feel your feet rooted to the earth, and your arms reaching for the sky, and all of you—wounded and alive—in between. When you are ready to end your time with the tree, read the poem of prayer that follows.

Face to Face with the Wounded Birch
A Poem of Meditation and Prayer

Birch tree is split
from foundation to face.
Skin visibly severed
split open—a space.
A space to peer into,
a space over to cry,
cut deep and too long,
yet the tree didn’t die.

There’s green at its feet
its arms in the air
grounded and reaching
like the wound isn’t there.
Bearing all things
and wearing its pain
rejoicing in sunshine,
and hoping in rain.

What faith shows this tree,
and what love in its grace.
Wisdom is granted
when we see face to face.
I, too, stand severed.
God, place my arms in the air.
Make me grounded and reaching
like the wound isn’t there . . . Amen.

The Healing Song of Now
Birch Tree

Find a quiet place to listen to the song, Birch Tree. Read or sing along with the song. Make no judgments about how you are participating in the song. Your voice and the way music moves in you is beautiful and can call you to a place of winter wandering through the woods. Notice which parts of the song call out to you and linger there. Feel the words and the music drawing you to a place that needs healing, growth, or exploration.

Lyrics to Birch Tree

Sun shining, snow gleaming
Can You help me out of here
see anything clear?
New growth and old promises
through a lifetime of fear
go slowly, my dear.

Sun shining (speak to me) snow gleaming (call to me)

Did I know love before?
Do I know it today?
Did I know love before?
Can you show me the way?
That birch tree stands strong.
It beckons to me.
I think God is answering
and wants me to see.

God speak to me, God call
God speak to me, God call (call to me)

I’m wandering lost
in the sun through the snow.
Can it be just as simple
as letting it grow?

Teach me to let it go sl...

Table of contents

• Title Page
• How to Access Song Files
• Foreword - Arthur Boers
• Preface
• Acknowledgments
• Introduction
• 1. The Birch Tree: For moments of waiting and growth
• 2. Gather the Fragments: For moments of hunger and abundance
• 3. Harvest: For moments of emptying and fruitfulness
• 4. The Good Samaritan: For moments of mercy and surprise
• 5. The Narrows: For moments of circling and perseverance
• 6. Unknowing: For moments of mystery and trust
• 7. Milkweed: For moments of letting go and acceptance
• Conclusion
• Bibliography