Experiencing God at the Monastery

The one thing I remember about spending the weekend at a Trappist monastery is the peace I felt. Maybe it was the lush, green fields of Georgia. Maybe it was the room I stayed in, nearly empty except for a bed, a table, and a Bible. Maybe it was the brief detachment from all the material items in my life. Or maybe it was simply that God spoke to me there in a way I didn’t understand at the time.

Ten years before joining the Catholic Church was even a thought in my mind, I spent the weekend at a monastery for a writing retreat. It had nothing to do with the fact that it was Catholic. Writing was my passion, and despite my complicated relationship with my mother, when she mentioned the retreat, I jumped at the opportunity to spend a weekend away, lost in my thoughts and surrounded by God's creation.

The fact that it was a Catholic monastery was a minor, insignificant detail to me.

While we spent most of the weekend in various workshops and writing in solitude, we had some free time to explore the grounds as well. 

At some point during the weekend, we attended an early morning Mass, sitting in the back like tourists from a distant land. It was the first Mass I ever attended, at least the first I have any memory of. My mindset was that of an arrogant critic, desperate to point out every flaw before Mass even started.

As a Protestant, I scoffed at the sign gently reminding non-Catholics not to partake in Holy Communion. I sat silently in the back, listening to the monks chant in Latin, trying not to roll my eyes at the ridiculousness of it all. How could someone experience God in a service where you couldn’t even hear what they were saying, let alone understand what the words meant?

I watched the faithful Catholics sit, stand, and kneel. Sit, stand, kneel. I wanted to dismiss it and allow the entire weekend to reaffirm what I already believed about God. And yet, something gnawed at me — something I couldn't quite put my finger on. 

I didn’t know that years later, after my husband and I finished RCIA, we would sit in awe during Mass, knowing that the beauty of tradition was something we had been missing our entire lives. I didn’t know how deeply, reverently, and sincerely I would come to appreciate many of the same traditions that the monks celebrated. I didn’t know then. But God did.

Now, 14 years later, I still remember how life-changing that weekend was. I remember being surprised by how real the monks were and how they cussed more than I did. Most of all, I remember how it was the most peaceful place I had ever been to. But at the time, I didn't consider why it was so peaceful.

When my husband and I went to our first Mass together years later, I felt that same peace.

As I look back at the breadcrumbs left throughout my life before my conversion, I see that God was leading the way the whole time, even during that brief weekend.

I saw Him in the quiet, peaceful moments in between writing sessions.

I saw Him in the monks as they shared genuine laughter with us, chatting about their former lives.

I saw Him in the conflicts with my mother, resolved only by His presence and assurance that He was all I needed.

And even though I didn't know it then, I saw Him at Mass, planting seeds of truth that would continue to grow for years to come.

I agreed to spend the weekend at a monastery for the sake of my writing, but I left with one more piece in the puzzle of my faith. One more step forward. 

Despite all the things I didn't know at the time and all the things I still had to learn, God never stopped leading me to the truth.

While I don't think I’ll be staying at a monastery again anytime soon (although I would certainly jump at the chance to have that experience again), I constantly ask myself, “What is God leading me to now?”

Every joy, trial, and even every insignificant moment is an opportunity to experience God and listen to what He is trying to teach us. While you certainly don't have to go to a monastery to experience God, it's not a bad idea to go somewhere where you can quiet your inner critic long enough to hear the truth.

In case you’re new here, I write for a living. If you enjoyed this post or want to support my work, feel free to Buy Me a Coffee. It actually feeds my family, but “Buy Me a Carton of Eggs” doesn’t have the same ring to it. You can also follow me on Instagram for more content. Thank you for being here!