Sally Ho
In moments of deep struggle, it often takes a quiet invitation from God to awaken the heart. During a four-day Ignatian silent retreat, a sense of safety, belonging, and peace, long thought to be lost, was rediscovered. It was a peace that had only been felt once before, years ago, when seeking a place of worship. Somehow, this unique stillness could only be found within the walls of a Catholic chapel.
The retreat brought about an inner healing so profound that it felt like standing in the eye of a typhoon, where a violent storm suddenly gives way to gentle wind and rain. Yet, as the time came to leave the retreat house, a strange sorrow emerged, much like the feeling of leaving home for boarding school. It became clear: there was a fear of losing the closeness with God that had been so real in those quiet days.
What followed was an unusual season. Strength, once absent, returned. Life began to fall into balance between work, relationships, and faith. For the first time, there was a real desire to be part of a faith community. Unexpectedly, that need was met through friendships, including one with a teammate who, secure in her identity as a daughter of God, joyfully lived out her love for Christ.
Throughout the year, reminders to build a more secure relationship with God came in gentle but powerful ways. A recurring image of a flower drawing life from a tree became a symbol of the need to remain rooted in the Lord. One day, during a simple hike, a message surfaced:
“Life is like hiking—sometimes it climbs, sometimes it descends. When tired, rest. And set off again when ready. The walking stick is like God—always going ahead, guiding each step. Don’t rush. Let the stick be steady before stepping forward. The path won’t be without obstacles, but with God’s help, it becomes walkable. He wants His children to succeed.”
This wisdom echoed again and again—a gentle call to slow down and walk closely with God.
There was an attempt to carry that spirit home, especially by visiting a nearby Adoration chapel. But silence can often be a mirror, and within it, buried feelings began to surface. Anger, guilt, and shame—thoughts like “I should have done more…” or “I caused pain…”—whispered accusations that were difficult to silence. Even while knowing that forgiveness was necessary, the process was tangled with self-blame.
Scripture offered both comfort and challenge. John 15 became a prayer companion. One verse stood out: “Apart from me, you can do nothing.” These words were hard to accept. Questions arose: What did all the years of effort mean? What about the work accomplished, the communities built? Did it matter? A fear lingered: If nothing can be done without God, then who am I without that work?
In those moments of wrestling, there was a quiet surrender: “Into Your hands I commend my spirit.” That became a lifeline.
Amid this spiritual wrestling, nature became a surprising source of consolation. A flower blooming on a trail, a butterfly passing by, or fruit hanging from a tree—simple moments became signs of God’s presence. It was as if new eyes were given to see the beauty of creation, and in it, glimpses of divine joy and peace.
The journey of healing and restoration continues. Yet already, life has grown more vibrant, filled with energy and colour. There is renewed passion for every area of life, and above all, a longing to hear the voice of God—because to hear His voice is worth more than anything else in the world.
Let us close with a prayer:
Dear loving Father,
Thank you for fulfilling your promise: when we seek, we find; when we knock, You open the door. Thank you for the grace and for the gift of hearing your voice. Please bless all who read these words, especially those still longing to hear You. May each of them one day say with confidence, “I am Your sheep and I know my Shepherd’s voice.” May they declare Your name with joy from the mountaintops, all for Your glory. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
Wishing all readers the peace and joy of the Risen Christ. May we continue to journey together, hand in hand with the Shepherd who calls each one by name.
