The Quiet Place Where Love Finds Us
Finding the Gift of Solitude at the Abbey
The Quiet Place Where Love Finds Us
Solitude isn't an escape—it's the place where we remember who we are and who we belong to.
There's a kind of silence that feels like loneliness. And then… there's a kind of silence that feels like home.
Henri Nouwen knew the difference. In a world that rewards noise, hurry, and performance, Nouwen pointed us back to the place we most often avoid—solitude—and called it sacred. Not because it's comfortable. Not because it's productive. But because it's the place where we are finally still enough to be met by Love.
"In solitude, we meet the One who calls us beloved."
That line has been lingering in me like a song. Because isn't that what we're all aching to hear? Not just that we're doing fine. Or that we're useful. But that we're loved. Deeply, truly, tenderly… without earning or impressing.
That voice doesn't yell. It doesn't rush. It waits until we're quiet enough to listen.
Solitude as the Place of Encounter
In our solitude, we're not escaping the world—we're reconnecting with it at its roots. We are not alone in our aloneness. We are not abandoned in our stillness. As Nouwen writes, solitude is "the place of the great encounter, from which all other encounters derive their meaning."
That means your time in solitude matters—not just for your own soul, but for your relationships, your ministry, your ability to live with compassion.
My annual pilgrimages to the Abbey of Gethsemani have been where I first discovered the sacred gift of solitude. In the hush of the hills, the rhythm of prayer, and the silence between words, I’ve encountered the God who meets us not in our noise, but in our need. It’s there—beneath the surface of striving—that I’m reminded I am loved. And it’s from that quiet center that I learn how to love myself and love others more freely, more gently, and more truly.
When we've sat still long enough to let the noise drain out, we begin to feel that deeper Presence. The one who doesn't need us to perform. The one who calls us "beloved." The one who reminds us we don't have to earn what has already been given.
Solitude and Hope
Nouwen also says that solitude is the way to hope. That's a hard word for those of us who were raised on productivity and activism. We're used to doing something to fix our despair. But what if hope begins not with doing, but with undoing?
What if the first flicker of hope is not found in fixing our circumstances—but in realizing we were never alone to begin with?
"This hope is not deceptive, because the love of God has been poured into our hearts by the Holy Spirit…" (Romans 5:5)
Even in your pain, even in the wilderness, the Spirit is already there. That's what solitude reveals—not a new solution, but a deeper presence.
Solitude as Solidarity
And here's where it turns: the deeper we go into solitude, the more connected we become to others.
Strange, right?
But Nouwen says it beautifully: "In true solitude… our enemy is only our enemy as long as we have something to defend." When we let go of ego, of striving, of superiority, we become—paradoxically—more human. More compassionate. More willing to see our shared humanity with even those who wound us.
In solitude, you stop posturing. You stop curating. You become so empty, so dependent, so you, that others no longer threaten you.
In that space, you see not "them" but us.
You discover a love big enough to hold the whole broken world.
Solitude as the Ground of Real Community
We often think we'll grow closer to people by spending more time with them. And sure—shared meals, laughter, and working side by side matter. But Nouwen insists that real community is born in solitude.
When I am in touch with the Love that made me, I can love you freely—without expectation or manipulation. I'm not loving you to get something. I'm not needing you to prove I matter. I'm simply loving because I've been loved.
That kind of communion doesn't require words.
That kind of connection doesn't need to be explained.
That kind of community is forged not in noise, but in quiet.
So… What Now?
This week, could you set aside some time for solitude?
Not just silence. Not just rest. But true sacred solitude—the kind that opens your heart to Love.
Here's how I've been practicing it:
Light a candle and breathe for five minutes.
Sit with one question: What do I hear when I am no longer trying to prove I belong?
Or simply whisper: "Here I am, Lord. I'm listening."
And maybe, just maybe, you'll hear the whisper that changes everything:
"You are my beloved. In you, I am well pleased."
That voice? That's where hope begins again.
What's your experience with solitude?
Do you love it, fear it, avoid it, long for it?
Let's reflect together in the comments 👇
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