It’s hard to put my finger on it, and some of the individual names and stories I could mention may seem trite when actually spoken out loud, but in the context of my day-to-day and seemingly insurmountable opposition that faces these students–addiction, abandonment, abuse, deficits in their education, family dysfunction, mental unhealth, and a barrage of negative social and peer expectations–every smile, new testimony of sobriety, or a glimpse of hope is an encouraging victory. 

Every year as chaplain, I get the opportunity to lead students and staff on a fall and spring retreat. During these excursions, we as a community escape into the awesome beauty of nature, experience pockets of silence and meaningful conversation, engage in the wonder of worship and word and exhilarate ourselves with fun riding dirtbikes, canoeing, paintballing, or playing volleyball. At this year’s fall retreat, I felt led to open the worship spaces up for safe vulnerability and confession, small group prayer, and silent contemplation. I was nervous that perhaps these intentional times could easily be dismissed as boring and unproductive making them more restless and reckless than restful and restorative; however, I was surprised that students leaped at the opportunity to be tender and available to not only share with their peers, but embrace and pray for them.

Invited to be a part of one small group, I was encouraged to hear students confide in each other about their struggles with addiction, grief, or shame. One student said, “Being here isn’t easy and I worry about my mom and friends. I feel guilty because I left them behind and now I’m in this place where I don’t have to think about some of the same things I used to have to deal with. This place is saving my life. I don’t know where I would be…I’d probably be dead or in jail.” Yet moments such as this are not that rare. What is rarer, and surprising even, is that this student wrapped his arms around another, spoke life into that person’s situation, and prayed for him. All three students prayed for each other with deep, fervent, faith-filled hope and tears. It was powerful.

What means the most to me about this retreat wasn’t just the camaraderie and compassion that led to the aforementioned moment or even the final worship gathering where almost the entire student body was up front with their arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders singing “Reckless Love”, but the amount of kindness that they showed me. I was a wreck going into retreat this fall. I was confused about what message to share, doubtful of my abilities, and struggling through debilitating loneliness and a wave of depressive thoughts. I was the one who didn’t know if God could or would make a difference in me. I needed to be reminded of the slow but deliberate and efficacious work of God. 

In the first worship gathering where I opened up for vulnerability and confession, I confided to the whole group that I didn’t have it all put together and wasn’t sure what the direction for our retreat would be; a dangerous confession from the person who’s in charge of a weekend away in the woods, indeed. Yet those students prayed for me. They held space for me and they listened. They came and spoke words of life over me that I had needed to hear and hadn’t heard from a student in a long time. The God of Surprises was revealing goodness in the spaces, places, and faces around me, including my own–shall I not recognize and respond?