For the past year, it seemed like almost everyone that I came into contact with was telling me how amazing the Emmaus Weekend is and how I just HAVE to do it because it will change my life.
I really felt like this was a Holy Spirit moment (you’ll get used to me talking about those) because, in my personal reflection time, I had been thinking a lot about going on a retreat and getting to know the Lord more.
Based on what people said, I knew this one was going to be emotional, and as I worked through some of the emotional cleaning house that became the motto of 2023, I did a lot of praying on whether this was the place for me and, more importantly, whether this was the right TIME for me. (Yes, I did make a list of reasons why this was not the right time for me.)
You see, people who have attended Emmaus do not give you much information on what happens at Emmaus (it’s like Vegas). I will admit that this was very frustrating for me, leading up to the weekend AND while on the weekend, because I like to know what happens (I’m a rules and agenda kinda gal). It makes sense, though, as every person who goes through this retreat is going to gain something different because we are in different places on our path, and if I had known the things that were going to happen before they happened, I wouldn’t have gained as much as I did. Every piece of the weekend fit together perfectly, and each “surprise” broke down my wall just a little bit more. (I had a rather high wall, and there is still quite a bit of it in place, but this was just the beginning of the construction that needs to be done to it.)
Starting on my ride home, the thought/idea had been in my head that I want to write about my experience, careful not to share anything that would ruin the moment for the next person (yes, now I am one of those people that tell everyone how much it will change their life), but every time I sat down at my computer to begin writing, I just… couldn’t.
Side story: I have struggled with writers’ block for some time now. To make a long story so short it’s almost cryptic, several years ago (another lifetime, it seems), I was bullied by another blogger, someone I thought was my friend. The worst part was that he was telling people that I was the bully, and people believed him. It has made doing anything with my blogs… emotionally painful. But I refuse to give up – I am just sure that one day I’ll be able to do this again. (Maybe today is the day, and maybe soon there will be a post about the struggle.)
I blamed still processing – and to be honest, I am still processing a lot of the things that came up for me – and almost decided to not say a thing because it’s far too late for any of it to even matter. (That’s a brain trap I fall into all the time. There may be a post about that in the future, too.)
I feel emotionally drained, emotionally raw, to this day. Not just sharing and contemplating stuff in my life – my story – some things I hadn’t thought about, had almost forgotten, or even thought were healed – but hearing the stories of some amazing women, in talks throughout the weekend and in sharing in my small group. The empathy and love I had for these strangers (I did not know the people in my small group before that weekend, but did know a few of the other attendees and people putting on the retreat), and the empathy and love they had for me, was powerful, and lifelong friendships were made between lots of us.
But I almost didn’t go.
It’s silly, really. Silly now that I look back at it.
I prayed on this for months and made the decision, after a Come & See (and personal reflection story told by an Emmaus sister at the Come & See), that I was going. I even told them that evening before I left the Parish Hall. But, as happens when you grow closer to God, demons try to stand in your way.
And Satan, he uses people that are currently in your life as his pawns. (It’s so easy for him to grab ahold of us – through sin, through anger, through hatred – he uses the things that we dislike about ourselves to turn us against people that we once cared about.)
On the day we were leaving for Emmaus, the Devil started his push to get me to quit before I had even started. I almost overslept, I wasn’t feeling well, and earlier that week I had stepped on some glass in a parking lot that left me with stitches and using a cane. (I’m stronger than that.) I overpacked (don’t all women?) and forgot the most important thing – my hairspray. (You just don’t know the Lady Gaga monstrosities that I have woken up with, hairstyles that can only be tamed with some water, a blow dryer, and a few sprays from a bottle of hairspray.) After joking around about it on Facebook, a friend of mine offered to bring me a bottle, and she did. (She reminded me that I was going to be very out of my comfort zone all weekend and I should make sure I have hairspray if I’m going to need hairspray, and thank goodness she did because it was BAD hahaha.)
When I got to the church parking lot, I was met at the car by someone I had seen but never met before, who took my luggage, gave me a piece of paper to put in my front window (so no one would tow my car), and told me where to park.
They had my luggage… There was no changing my mind now. (Trust me, I thought about it.)
I was one of the first to arrive, but it was already so loud, and because of that, the Parish Hall seemed so full. And the more people showed up, the louder it got and the more crowded it felt.
The anxiety I felt in that room, the overload I felt because of all the noise, the fear (that’s a strong word but it works) I felt going on this retreat… I wanted to curl up in a corner and pretend I wasn’t there.
To add to all this, someone I have been struggling with since the beginning of the new year came in, floating around like she had reason to be there, making it all about her.
The anger that I felt was uncontrollable. And I couldn’t calm down.
I went through the beginning ceremony, the welcome and our priest’s blessing, and went to the car with my small group for the weekend. We chit-chatted on the way there as I sat back and looked out the window, eating a bag of trail mix.
When we arrived, we met even more of the people who were putting the event on and were given some rules for times when we were not on the third and fourth floors (the monks live and work on the first and second) before we headed inside to see where we would be spending most of our time – the Lake Room and Library. (We would not be going to our rooms until the end of every night, so everything we needed, we needed to bring with us throughout the day. …….. Did I mention I overpack?)
My small group was unexpected and a Godsend. As I said, I knew no one in it, and that is just what I wanted. (I would have had a hard time sharing with someone in there I knew – if I wanted them to know, I would have already shared with them.) They were brave women who had done brave things, strong women who had struggled. I was the youngest, and felt like these people saw their daughters in me, though we had different stories, and saw themselves as a mother-figure to me.
I talked a lot about my mother that weekend, though I had no intention going in to bring her up. From day one, everything was a reminder of her. I had thought of things I hadn’t thought of in some time. I felt old hurts with the same pain I had when they first began. I was there to grow closer to God, but God needed me to let go of some of my load before that could happen. He needed me to start forgiving myself. And in forgiving myself, I could begin forgiving her, and my sister, for so much.
I stood in front of this group of women, women on the retreat and women who had taken their Emmaus walk before us, women who came to help us down our road as others had done for them, and I shared my “darkest secret,” unable to hold back tears, that I could not believe God loves me because there is nothing to love about me. In theory, I know that he loves me – Jesus DIED for me! – but the hatred I have felt for myself, the blame I have taken on, the repeated record of my mother and sister telling me all the things no one could ever love about me, those were all things I just could not look past. Over the course of the weekend, though, He had shown me this great love He had for me, He had loved me through these women, a very real, and palpable love.
Throughout the weekend, there were reminders (Holy Spirit moments) of my mother. The coincidences (if you believe in those things) showed me that she had a hand in the entire weekend, because there were things that only she would know, but she would have known I’d notice. (Like a picture of a little white church.) I felt loved, like she was reminding me that she did love me, like she was apologizing to me for not reminding me of that every day of my life. I have had such anger for her (another story for another time), but I went home feeling that anger soothed over, that wound beginning to heal.
I laughed and I cried. I felt empathy and showed compassion. I hugged. I shared and I listened. Evern when I hurt the most, I made sure that the people around me knew that I cared, knew that they mattered.
My advice to you: If someone invites you on an Emmaus Weekend (you don’t have to be Catholic to go), take them up on that offer. It really will make such a difference in your life if you open yourself up and let it.
Beautiful Screamer 