The busy streets of Ho Chi Minh City bustle below me. Horns honk in a staccato suggestive of, “Excuse me, pardon me.” Tourists crane their necks backward to take in the Babel-esque height of the downtown towers, and one can hop country cuisine on a single street between French boulangeries, Argentinian steakhouses, Japanese mochi sweets, and, of course, Vietnamese pho. The hum and thrum of life in all its scurry happens just a few floors down.
But not in room 503.
Here the air conditioner whirs steadily, a candle flame bobs slowly, and although the occasional honk can be heard from the street, no rushing scooters can be seen as my window stares blankly into the side of the next building. I could lean out and touch its gray wall if I wanted to. I am alone in my hotel room, awaiting the precious stamp in my passport that will allow me to return to life as a teacher in Thailand.
Here I feel the invitation to solitude.
It doesn’t have to be that way. I could write emails and lesson plan endlessly. Fill my room with the sounds of music, podcasts, and movies. Spend my days in shopping centers and coffee shops. I don’t have to stay in the stillness or the quiet. But when I do, I feel the settling in my spirit, the clarity of my soul emerging as the stuff and silt sink to the bottom like aggravated spring water left alone in a jar.
In the solitude, I can see myself, hear my thoughts, and feel the nearness of my God.
Yet in my aloneness, I find myself with many unwelcome guests: the drive to produce and accomplish nags at me relentlessly; curiosity to explore, to see, to be seen pushes me toward the door; worries about my family far away claw at me; and restless energy begs for some kind–any kind–of distraction.
Perhaps my water is murkier than I thought. My life has been wound tightly, the expectations like a coiled spring held down by the tiniest latch to keep the lid on my emotions. I sense that it’s either this: the slow unwinding to release the pressure in the gentle pace of my forced solitude, or it will be the explosive release of a jack-in-the-box, startling the unfortunate ones around me.
This trip wasn’t supposed to take so long. Four days, with my husband, to Vietnam and back with my new visa. That was it. But we made a mistake, an obvious oversight, and had to postpone and reschedule everything. Troy returned to our kids after four days as planned, but I must wait. Wait through the weekend. Wait for two business days to pass. Wait in line to see if my visa was approved. And while I think these delays were a mistake of my own doing, deep down I know better than that.
Just a few months ago, I had planned to take the kids on a trip to a big aquarium in Bangkok. But, our adopted son didn’t have the right documents and we weren’t allowed to fly. The next day, I came down with COVID and was miserable for days. Bangkok would have been a total bust. In the mistake, in the delay, was God’s protection and mercy. He knew where I needed to be then, and He knows where I need to be now: alone with Him.
Yes, I’ll still do a bit of shopping and enjoy the delightful restaurants nearby, but I’m also making an effort not to fill every moment. I need to leave room for the silence and find rest in the solitude. This may not be the vacation I’d planned, but it is the pilgrimage I needed. And I’m so thankful that I’m never truly alone.
You have searched me, Lord,
and you know me.
You know when I sit and when I rise;
you perceive my thoughts from afar.
You discern my going out and my lying down;
you are familiar with all my ways.
Before a word is on my tongue
you, Lord, know it completely.
You hem me in behind and before,
and you lay your hand upon me.
Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,
too lofty for me to attain.
Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
if I settle on the far side of the sea,
even there your hand will guide me,
your right hand will hold me fast.
Psalm 139:1-10
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