By Sharoon Jamil
There’s something about stepping into a forest, a meadow, or a quiet lakeside that makes the soul remember what the mind has forgotten. The air seems heavier with meaning, and the noise of our lives—emails, deadlines, opinions—fades into the background like static we suddenly realize we don’t need.
In those moments, we don’t just breathe differently; we exist differently. And perhaps that’s the point. In a time when constant motion is praised and stillness is treated like laziness, nature offers us a radical invitation: to stop running long enough to be found.
The Ancient Rhythm of Retreat
The idea of retreat is not new; it’s ancient—woven into the spiritual DNA of faith itself. Throughout Scripture, the people of God withdrew into creation to meet the Creator.
Moses met God in the wilderness. Elijah heard the “still, small voice” on a mountainside. Jesus Himself, again and again, stepped away from the crowds to pray in desolate places.
Why? Because retreat is not about escape. It’s about encounter.
It’s about trading the clang of the world for the clarity of the Spirit. About allowing silence to do what words often can’t—heal, reorder, and renew.
When you step into a natural retreat space—especially one that stretches wide across open acres of forest and sky—you are not running away from life. You are running toward the source of it.
Nature as God’s Unspoken Language
Before there were churches, there were trees. Before there were sermons, there were rivers that reflected the glory of heaven. Creation is God’s first revelation—the original cathedral.
When we walk through nature, we enter a sanctuary built by His hands, not ours.
There’s a reason you can feel peace in a forest without hearing a single hymn. The rustling leaves, the rhythm of waves, the sunrise piercing through fog—all of it preaches a sermon older than any pulpit. It reminds us that God is not confined to human-made spaces or religious routines. He breathes in the wind, He whispers through water, and He carves His faithfulness into the seasons.
We often think of nature as a backdrop for spiritual experience. But perhaps it’s the other way around. Maybe we are the backdrop—and creation is the stage where God continually reveals His presence.
The Psychology of Stillness: Why We Need It Now More Than Ever
Modern psychology is starting to catch up to what the saints and mystics have known for centuries: the human brain needs stillness. Studies show that time spent in nature lowers stress hormones, restores attention, improves mood, and fosters empathy.
But spiritual renewal is more than a neurological reset. It’s a reorientation of the heart.
Our souls were not designed for constant stimulation. The endless scrolling, the multitasking, the digital noise—these aren’t just distractions; they’re distortions. They fragment our focus until we forget what wholeness feels like.
A retreat interrupts that cycle. It forces us to be fully present—to listen instead of scroll, to see instead of skim, to pray without an agenda.
In silence, the self we perform falls away, and the self God loves steps forward.
Mindfulness and the Art of Holy Attention
Mindfulness has become a cultural buzzword, but long before it was trendy, it was sacred. True Christian mindfulness isn’t about emptying the mind—it’s about filling it with awareness of God’s presence.
When we sit beneath a canopy of trees or walk beside still water, our senses awaken. We begin to see the Creator’s artistry in the smallest details: the veins of a leaf, the rhythm of a bird’s call, the scent of rain on soil.
This kind of awareness isn’t passive; it’s worship. To notice is to give thanks. To breathe deeply is to pray with the body. To be still is to make space for the Spirit to move. Retreats teach us that holiness isn’t always loud or spectacular—it’s quiet, attentive, and deeply human.
Finding Purpose in the Pause
Many people go on retreats hoping to find direction. Ironically, direction often comes not through striving but surrender. When we let go of control, when we finally stop trying to figure everything out, something sacred happens: we start hearing again. Not the chatter of the world, but the gentle, unmistakable voice of God.
In the stillness of nature, our perspective shifts. The problems that once loomed large shrink in scale. The questions that tormented us lose their sharp edges. We begin to see that purpose is not a distant destination—it’s a path we walk daily with the One who created it. Sometimes, the greatest transformation comes not from discovering something new but from remembering what we already knew: that God is near, and we belong to Him.
A 313-Acre Sanctuary: More Than a Place, a Posture
Imagine standing within the 313-acre grounds of the Bon Secours Retreat & Conference Center—fields stretching beyond sight, the smell of pine in the air, the distant sound of a creek moving over stones. Every direction you turn is an invitation to breathe again. Such spaces are more than land—they are living metaphors for grace.
They remind us that creation is generous. That God is extravagant in His provision of beauty. That there is room enough for everyone to rest, to reflect, to be remade. In a world obsessed with scarcity and productivity, retreating into creation is a radical act of trust. It’s a declaration that your worth does not depend on how much you produce but on how deeply you are loved.
Returning Different: The Real Measure of Renewal
Every retreat has two movements: stepping away and returning. The goal is not to stay in the silence forever—it’s to bring it back with you. The point of spiritual renewal is not escape, but integration. We go into the wilderness to be filled so that we can re-enter the world with a steadier spirit and a softer heart.
When you return from a retreat, the world won’t look different—but you will. The emails will still be there, the schedules just as busy. But somewhere deep inside, something shifts. You carry stillness into your noise, gratitude into your work, peace into your relationships. That’s the transformative power of retreat: it teaches us not just to visit God’s presence, but to live from it.
Conclusion: The God Who Waits in the Wild
The modern world measures success by speed and visibility. But the Kingdom of God moves to a different rhythm—one of Sabbath, stillness, and surrender.