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On a cold, snowy evening, I climbed the stairs of Calvary Presbyterian Church to walk the Labyrinth with members of my church. I had participated in Labyrinth walks on a number of occasions, and was excited about introducing this ancient spiritual practice to them. I had initiated this gathering, but as I walked up the slippery stairs and into the church, I just wanted to go home.

I greeted them, explained the history of the Labyrinth, what to expect once they entered the sanctuary, and that they were to remain silent throughout their walk. Then I was on my own. I wrestled with my own need to walk. I was physically and emotionally exhausted. My mind was swimming with so many life choices that I felt I couldn't possibly concentrate on communing with God in this sacred space. But somehow I found myself standing stocking-footed on the edge of the giant circular path, daring God to meet me there. My final gesture was to dump the weight of everything I was carrying onto God. "Here you go," I said. "You deal with this: I can't anymore." Then I stepped onto the Labyrinth.

My first few steps were difficult. I had trouble getting my bearings. As with other walks I had taken, I found I was being critical of whether I was "doing it right." But as I walked, I began to feel more centered and my breathing righted itself. I noticed that my feet had slowed their frantic pace and my hands became unclenched and hung loosely at my sides. I was ever more aware of my breathing -- in, out, in, out. As the air filled my lungs, I sensed a peacefulness I had not expected. In my awareness, I felt something that was new and unsettling. I felt as if I was being encouraged by some unknown "something" to name my troubles. I wondered who was speaking to me in such an unfamiliar way. And then a feeling came to me, or better, a voice: a knowing. It came from beyond and deep within me. I knew, then, that it was God speaking to me through what I can only describe as a still, small voice. In a silent plea, I said, "I am so scared, so confused. I don't know what to do." I "heard" God respond, "Yes, you do ... you know exactly what to do. You just don't want to do it."

I continued to walk. "But I'm afraid," I said. God responded yet again, "You are courageous, Ann. You have been through more difficult things than this." I thought for a moment, and then said to the "knowing" inside of me, "But I don't think I can do this all by myself." And God said, "You don't have to worry, I'm here with you. You are never alone." A peace settled over me almost instantly. All the stress I felt during the day seemed to vanish. I was surprised to find that all through the conversation I had been walking, but was unaware of my own footsteps. I was in my body, but outside of it. My encounter with God was very real and tangible to me. I looked up to see that I had made it to the center of the Labyrinth, where spiritual travelers rest in God before beginning the journey back out again. I had walked to the very heart of the sacred path, the very heart of God. I sat silently in the center in a posture of utter receptivity and gratitude. I just rested with God, and in God. As bliss-filled as I was, I became aware that my journey was not yet over. I had been called to action; I had some business to attend to. I stood and began my walk back out. My troubled mind and heart were now inexplicably freer and lighter. But I found myself trying to make sense of what had just happened. Had I really just "talked" to God? Did God really "talk" to me? Within the last remnants of the profound interchange, God "spoke" once again. "Don't try so hard. Just trust and believe." I almost laughed out loud. I stepped off the Labyrinth confident of what I needed to do, knowing that God would companion me along the way. And no matter what the outcome, I was going to do God's bidding.