Part 1: The Messy Arrival & The Keyhole Perspective

So… we made it. January 2026.

Somehow. Barely.

Maybe you’re currently dodging “New Year, New You” ads like they’re unwanted phone calls, wondering if a second breakfast counts as emotional self-care. (Spoiler: it absolutely does.) If you’re feeling more “weary traveler” than “goal-crushing warrior,” you are in the right place.

You’re allowed to begin again—not in some polished, “12 habits before sunrise” kind of way, but in a messy, grace-filled, “this is exactly where I am” kind of way.

🪨 Before we rush forward into the unfolding of this year, let’s just take a sacred pause to honor what we survived.

There is so much we carry—the transitions that didn’t go as planned, the quiet griefs, the heavy unknowns. Sometimes, we get so focused on just getting through that we lose the horizon.

Trying to find the “perfect” perspective through the rocks at Joshua Tree National Park.

On a recent trip to Palm Springs, I found this tiny opening in a rock and became completely obsessed with getting the “right” shot. I was crouched in the dirt, camera lens pressed right up against the stone, trying to capture that one perfect, narrow sliver of a view. In my head, it was profound. A metaphor. A masterpiece of alignment.

Then my husband showed me this photo of me taking that photo. I couldn’t stop laughing. From my perspective, I was capturing the “vision.” From his? I just looked ridiculous—hunched over in the mud, totally absorbed in this one tiny window… while he could see the entire, breathtaking landscape stretching out behind me.

The view outside the keyhole: crouching in the dirt at Joshua Tree National Park while the whole landscape was right behind me

How often do we live like that?

So focused on the tiny keyhole of our current struggle—the one hard conversation, the unresolved ache, or that one awkward “middle” phase—that we forget there is a whole world being held together around us.

You aren’t stuck; you’re just really close to the story. And the best part? It isn’t over yet.

A necessary stop for some roadside surprises at the iconic Cabazon Dinosaurs.

Part 2: The Sacred Roar

Sometimes, “beginning again” doesn’t look like a quiet prayer or a perfectly organized planner. Honestly? Sometimes it looks a little weird. Wildly ungraceful. Maybe even a bit loud.

Case in point: I recently found myself climbing into the mouth of a giant roadside dinosaur just to scream a little. (Ahem. Ask me how I know.)

In the moment, I felt ridiculous. But then, the laughter hit. And then, the release.

I’m realizing more and more that these “roadside surprises” are actually invitations. We think we have to be quiet, polished, or have our 2026 goals laminated before we can step forward. But sometimes, the most aligned thing you can do is just let out a roar and embrace the absurdity of the transition you’re in.

That roar? It was sacred. That laughter? Total healing.

You don’t need a five-year plan to start this year well. You just have to be present enough to notice when it’s time to stop being “composed” and start being real.

Part 3: The Gentle Invitation (The Close)

So, here is my “unhinged” invitation to you as we tip-toe into this new year:

Beginning again does not require a plan. It only requires a pause. A breath. A simple “yes” to the unfolding story.

Before you click away, let’s do a quick heart-check. No pressure, just a sacred pause between friends. Grab a coffee and think on these:

• What is one thing I want to carry into this year? (Maybe it’s a lesson, a feeling, or just the memory of a good laugh.)
• What is one thing I am finally ready to release? (The need to be perfect? The “keyhole” perspective? The guilt of that second breakfast?)

Final Thought: You are allowed to begin again. With a narrow view and a tired heart. With a sense of humor and a slightly dramatic dinosaur scream. With the quiet courage to say, “God, I am here.”

I am right here with you, Raechal 💛

Finding holy laughter and a sacred roar inside the Cabazon Dinosaurs with Greg.

I did not go to Benet Hill Monastery to find myself—we had already met and were getting along just fine. I went because I was ready to listen—to God, to the silence, to the stirrings beneath the surface (and maybe to whatever I scribbled in last year’s journal).

As an Oblate, these retreats are part of the rhythm that helps me re-center, recalibrate, and return to the world a little more rooted in the values I claim to live by. Also, to remind myself why I bother keeping a compost bin and a prayer journal.

I arrived prepared to be reflective. I brought the journal. I brought the quiet shoes. I even packed extra pens, just in case spiritual clarity arrived in bullet points.

What I did not bring—or at least did not mean to—were two very persistent imaginary people.

They followed me everywhere. They sat beside me in chapel. They showed up during Lectio. They had opinions during centering prayer. Loud ones.

Let me explain.

pic credit @raechalfriess Chapel space at Benet Hill Monastery where reflection deepened

The Worldly Heart Brought Company

The retreat focused on “The American Heart vs. the Monastic Heart,” and while we did not vote on a winner, I think my inner life cast its ballot early. The presenter listed the usual suspects in the American Heart: self-sufficiency, success, comfort, and comparison. But the two that made me sit up a little straighter? Competition and Segregation.

Turns out, I spend a lot of time in conversation with people who are not even in the room.

In my head, I am explaining, defending, rehearsing brilliant comebacks, proving (to myself, mostly) that I am right and they are wrong—wiser, holier, or at the very least, just a little less exhausting than they are. It is subtle, but persistent. And most of the time, it is completely invisible to anyone but me.

Except, of course, to God.

While I am staging an internal courtroom drama, I am not open to Greater Love. I am not present to what is. And as the retreat gently reminded me, that kind of inner segregation—that “me vs. you” energy—breeds gossip, murmuring, and spiritual exhaustion.

I may look contemplative. But my thoughts are sprinting laps.

You Spot It, You Got It

There is a saying: “You spot it, you got it.” And nowhere is that more true than when I find myself highly irritated at someone else’s pride… only to realize it is my own wounded ego doing the shouting.

We were reminded of the scripture about the plank in your eye. And just like that, all those self-righteous conversations I had mentally rehearsed stopped feeling like a solid defense strategy… and started looking more like spiritual cataracts.

It is funny — those mental arguments feel like they are protecting me. But really, they are just keeping me stuck.

The Monastic Heart Shows Up

What is the opposite of competition? Companioning.
What counters segregation? Radical hospitality.

The monastic heart does not dominate. It walks alongside. It listens with the ear of the heart. It sees Christ in the person in front of me — even (especially?) when that person is difficult.

And when I do that — when I choose to companion rather than conquer — something shifts. I pause before speaking. I notice what I am about to say. I give space for the second thought.

The first thought might be judgment.
The second thought might be love.
And the second thought is my choice.

Detail from “Sacred Heart” by artist Linda McCray (@lindamccraystudio), used with gratitude. That second thought? It might just be holy ground.

Learning to Risk Love

Here is the part that stayed with me:

“Christ resides in our hearts, so this is holy ground. I will take the risk of connection because I see God in them.”

It is easy to love the people I already love. But can I risk loving the one who makes me bristle? The one who hurt me? The one who does not think, vote, or live like I do?

That is the real monastic heart. Not the robe and the silence — but the risk of choosing love in the mess.

And I realized this weekend: I cannot do this spiritual life alone.
Not just in the “I need God” way — but in the “I need people” way.
Not projects. Not fixes. Not victories.
People. Encounters. Holy ground with skin on.

A Final Thought

So if you have been arguing with someone in your head lately — someone who is not even present — maybe pause and check in with your heart.

Is it competing… or companioning?
Segregating… or welcoming?
Reacting… or risking love?

The imaginary people we bring along may never know we are rehearsing comebacks. But God knows. And so do we.

We do not need to be perfect — just present.
Not always right — just willing.
Not better — just braver with love.

That second thought?
It might just be holy ground.

From my heart to yours,

Until next time,

Raechal

“Were not our hearts burning within us while he talked with us on the road…”
— Luke 24:32

From Head to Heart: My Walk to Emmaus Experience

Not long ago, I was dropped off at the Wheatland Convention Center in Flagler, Colorado, on a day bathed in golden fall light. My husband had gone on his Walk to Emmaus just the week before, and ever since, he’d been bubbling with anticipation—eager for me to experience something he described as life-changing.

As he pulled away and I looked up the quiet street of a town so small it doesn’t even have a traffic light, I sensed it in my spirit:

A space to slow down, breathe deeply, and begin the journey from my head to my heart.

Coming With an Open Heart

I arrived unsure of what to expect but open to whatever God wanted to show me. From the moment I stepped into the space, I was met with warmth, kindness, and the unmistakable presence of Christ in every face I encountered.

The path was unknown—but I was ready to walk it – Pic credit @raechalfriess

As the 72 hours unfolded and the mystery of the weekend gave way to holy moments, I could feel something within me begin to shift. My heart softened. I began to release burdens I didn’t even know I was still carrying—barriers that had quietly stood between me and the full light of the Spirit.

A Quiet Work Within

Each talk felt deeply personal, meeting me right where I was. Without the noise of daily life, space opened up for God to do quiet work in me—work I hadn’t realized was still needed.

There were tears. Laughter. Deep conversations. And profound connections—both with God and the women around me. One by one, the sessions gently led us into spaces of self-reflection, healing, and a renewed call to walk in discipleship.

Sue, my spiritual mom, and Abigail, my daughter—God wove our stories together in this sacred space Pic credit @raechalfriess

By the final day, something in me had settled. I felt grounded. Alive. Reconnected to who I am—and whose I am.

I’m Not Walking Alone

One of the most powerful truths I walked away with was this:

I am not walking this journey alone.

The presence of God.
The support of others.
The prayers and love surrounding me.

These are the things that reminded me who I am and what I’m called to.

I left that weekend with a refreshed spirit and a holy flame in my heart—one that God had rekindled, and one I now feel called to carry forward.

Carrying the Flame Forward

This experience was more than a retreat—it was a homecoming. A return to myself, to God, and to the mission that’s been quietly burning in my soul all along:

Walking with women who are healing, seeking, and asking, “What’s next?”

If you’re in a season of transition…
If you’re carrying burdens you haven’t yet named…
If you’ve felt disconnected, spiritually weary, or simply longing for more…

I see you. I’ve been there.
And I’m here to walk with you.

Whether through spiritual direction, sacred listening, or simply sitting together in the mystery, What’s Next Life Coaching exists to hold space for women like you—to help you reconnect with your soul, your story, and the God who loves you more than you know.

---

Back in the place I started—carrying the flame forward – Pic credit @raechalfriess

---

Thank you for letting me share this sacred part of my journey.

I’d be honored to hear yours, too.

Let’s light this fire. 🔥
De Colores,
Raechal Friess

A Night of Laughter, Pot Roast, and Sisterhood at Candlelight

This past weekend, my husband and I went on a double date with our dear friends to the Candlelight Dinner Theatre in Johnstown to see Steel Magnolias. If you know me, you know I’m always up for an evening that blends good food, great company, and something that feeds the soul — food, friends, and the arts.

We’ve been proud season ticket holders at Candlelight for three years now, and it never disappoints. One of my favorite things is how they tailor each menu to match the theme of the show. Since Steel Magnolias is set in Louisiana, our plates were full of Southern comfort — shrimp jambalaya, chicken cordon bleu, and my personal favorite: pot roast. As a Midwest girl at heart, that meal hit just right.

But what truly sets Candlelight apart is the heart behind the experience. The servers are also the performers — and watching them shift from table to stage is part of the fun. One minute they’re pouring tea and cracking jokes, and the next they’re stepping into full character, singing and storytelling with such passion and grace. You can feel how much they love what they do — and that joy is contagious.

Magnolia tree display in the theatre lobby, covered in pink blossoms with handwritten
notes — a tribute to strength and softness Pic credit – @raechalfriess

A Tree Full of Messages

In the lobby stood a magnolia tree covered in soft pink blossoms — and tucked inside each bloom was a handwritten note. Names. Blessings. Messages of remembrance or hope. It felt sacred, like each petal was holding space for someone’s story.

Steel Magnolias — strong women, soft hearts. That phrase has always stuck with me, and seeing it reflected in that tree made it even more real.

That paradox lives in so many of the women I know and love — especially in the work I do through What’s Next. I looked across the table at my friend and felt such gratitude for the women who hold me up. For the ones who show me what real strength looks like: not loud or flashy, but faithful. Honest. Rooted in grace… and grit.

The Power of Being Present

Sitting in that theater, I felt myself exhale.

There was laughter. There were tears. There was good food and even better company. But most of all, there was a sense of presence — a reminder that healing often happens in quiet moments when we pause long enough to feel something true.

If you’re local and haven’t been to @CandlelightDinnerPlayhouse — go. You’ll be hooked.

And if you’ve been carrying a lot lately, maybe give yourself a night out. A show. A meal. A magnolia moment.
You deserve that.With love and gratitude,
Raechal 💛🌸

My home monastery has a newly promoted caretaker. 
I’m officially a professed Oblate! (And yes, I am the only caretaker—no competition here.) 

Signing my Oblate commitment—one joyful yes at a time

After 14 months of study with the Sisters at Benet Hill Monastery, I stood in the chapel in Colorado Springs alongside seven other beautiful souls and made a sacred commitment to live according to the Rule of St. Benedict, —right in the middle of my real, everyday life. Not in a religious community, but at my kitchen table, on quiet walks, and in every small space where love can live. 

If the word Oblate is new to you, it simply means being spiritually connected to a monastic community while continuing to live in the world. It’s a path rooted in prayer, service, and spiritual rhythm—open to people of all faiths and backgrounds. In fact, the eight of us who journeyed through the program came from very different traditions, which made our shared experience all the more rich and meaningful. 

When the Sisters asked each of us to give a short speech during the profession ceremony, I panicked a little—how do you sum up 14 months of spiritual growth in three minutes? But then I remembered: I already had. Every paper I’d written for class, every quiet moment I’d captured, had found its way into my blog posts. I like to think St. Benedict would’ve appreciated the repurposing—there’s wisdom in efficiency, after all. 

What I chose to share that day is really the heart of this journey: learning to listen with the ear of my heart. Those words open the Rule of St. Benedict, and they’ve become a daily invitation to slow down, be still, and let God speak—not just in the obvious moments, but in the small ones too. 

This path has taught me that I am seen. I am loved. And I am called. 

Called to be present
Called to be a vessel 
Called to be a Sacred Doorway—a Hope Broker—for others

For me, ministry doesn’t happen in church buildings or conference stages. It begins right at home. In my kitchen, where aluminum trays passed down from my mother carry food made with love. Those trays come with stories, laughter, sometimes tears—and always love. These small, sacred moments have taught me that stewardship and hospitality aren’t tasks. They’re ways of being. 

But before I could offer that presence to others, I had to offer it to myself. 

Through injury and grief, through the quiet work of healing and prayer, I began to hear something new. A name. A word. Joy. God whispered it into the silence, and it became a guidepost for my life. Joy isn’t about always being cheerful. It’s deeper than that. It’s knowing that love lives in me, even when life is messy. Especially when it’s messy. 

So here I am, stepping into this new chapter with a joyful yes. A yes to prayer. A yes to service. A yes to listening deeply and living fully. This isn’t about being perfect. It’s about being present—wherever I am, with whoever is in front of me. 

I’m so grateful to the Sisters of Benet Hill for creating space for seekers like me—people who don’t always fit neatly into boxes, but who know there’s something sacred calling them forward. 

The world is aching for connection. And I believe the smallest acts—offering a meal, listening without fixing, asking someone how their soul is—can change everything. 

As St. Benedict reminds us, “Always we begin again.” This is my new beginning. And if you’re wondering what might be next for you, maybe this is your invitation too. 

If you’re feeling called to deepen your spiritual practices or just want someone to walk with you for a while, I’d love to be that companion. 

So please—all are welcome. No appointment necessary. 
Come on over. I’ll bake you some cookies and serve them on aluminum trays. 

From my heart to yours, 
Until next time, 
Raechal 

At least once a month, our family gathers around my kitchen table. It is a simple rhythm of renewal and connection — a way for me to weave the Gospel into the everyday rhythms of life. This “home monastery,” as I call it, is a sacred place where ministry begins at the heart and stewardship becomes an act of love.

As part of preparing for these gatherings, I reach for a particular set of serving trays.
They aren’t new, but they carry a legacy.

Two years ago, after my parents endured a season of multiple crises, I helped them downsize and move across the country to be closer to me. Their home was filled with a lifetime’s worth of treasures — boxes that seemed to have journeyed through decades of everyday celebrations, sorrows, and simple moments of togetherness. The sorting process was both logistical and emotional, requiring piles for Goodwill, storage at their new house, items for immediate use, and, to my dismay, a pile labeled “Raechal’s House.” I became, somewhat reluctantly at first, the caretaker of a portion of their legacy.

Pic – @abigailpauley

Among the items that found their way into my care was a set of hammered aluminum serving platters. These trays hold a special place in my childhood memories. At every family gathering, they graced the table, filled with sweet and savory offerings. More than vessels for food, they were symbols of connection and hospitality. My mother poured love into every detail — thoughtfully choosing the dishes she served and taking care to present them with tenderness. These trays had served more than food.

They had served the soul.

Each scratch and worn edge holds a memory — from birthday cakes carried out to off-key singing, to holidays spent with family and friends. When the gatherings ended, the trays were lovingly cleaned, dried, and stored away, waiting for the next occasion.

Now, these platters rest in my dining room, continuing the legacy they began decades ago. Just as my mother used them to foster relationships and build community, I bring them out for our gatherings — where they serve not just food, but love, comfort, and belonging.

As I load them up with food prepared with love, I am not simply serving a meal.
I am carrying forward a tradition of hospitality.
I am tending the soul of my home and the people God places around my table.

The trays have become part of the quiet rhythm of our little home monastery, inviting all who enter to break bread, find belonging, and share in the sacred joy of community — simple acts of stewardship and love that tend the soul in unseen, lasting ways.

And now, the trays — once carried by my mother’s hands — carry a new kind of offering: a gift to her of the same love, care, and hospitality she once so freely poured into me.

As I carry this tradition forward, I wonder –

Where have you felt the quiet strength of maternal love in your own life?

Is there something you now carry as part of your own legacy, passed down from your mother or a mother figure?

From my heart to yours 

Until next time 

Raechal!

#Mothersday #Giftoflove

Sometimes a single question can open a flood of knowing.
When my Spiritual Director asked,
“Where is God meeting you in your pain?”
The tears came before the words.
Tears for the ache in my body.
Tears for those I serve in their own weariness.
Tears for Jesus—who meets me in the breaking and does not look away.

Pic – @AbigailPauley

Just days before, I had been holding a small plate of communion wafers in both hands, walking beside my pastor, who carried a tray of tiny cups filled with juice. Together, we moved slowly through a skilled nursing facility, offering the sacred elements to one frail body after another:“This is the body of Christ, broken for you… This is the blood of Christ, shed for you.”
The profoundness of the moment was not lost on me.
I was broken, serving the broken body of Christ to those who also felt broken. My own pain pulsed through me as I passed out the Host—the very presence of Christ, who bore our burdens and knows our suffering.

These elements are more than symbols; they are a means through which Christ’s spiritual presence is encountered.
This sacred act of communion has taken on even deeper meaning since my fall last October. In just seconds, my identity shifted—from athlete to broken body. The physical pain has been relentless, reshaping the rhythm of my days.

Pic – @AbigailPauley

And yet, as God so often does, He invited me into a deeper knowing—a living experience of communion.
And in that knowing, comfort has swept over me.
Christ does indeed know my pain.
He meets us in our brokenness—not to leave us there, but to transform it into something sacred.
Carrying that truth with me, I return to the quiet spaces where pain and presence meet.
To answer the question, “Where is God meeting you in your pain?”
God meets me in communion, in the breaking of bread:
“This is the body of Christ, broken for you.”

From my heart to yours 

Until next time 

Raechal!

Mile 8. I was deep into my long run when a quiet thought crossed my mind: I’m really tired. But I dismissed it. I had many more miles to go, and stopping wasn’t an option. Moments later, my toes caught the curb. I fell—hard.

Too many X-rays to count, three CT scans, and two MRIs later, I now know I will probably never run again. The damage to my spine is immense, a painful reminder of what happens when we dismiss the still, small voice urging us to listen.

As a spiritual director, I help others listen for God’s voice, discerning wisdom in the still, small moments. But in that critical instant, I ignored the very guidance I teach. I had been given everything I needed to hear: slow down, rest, be aware.
My ego got in the way—I told myself stopping wasn’t an option.

pic credit: @abigailpauley @bellafriess

Letting go of running has been its own kind of grief—a lesson in surrender and trusting that something new will emerge. The pain has been both physical and emotional, but I haven’t walked this road alone. Leaning on my family, my friends, and—most of all—grace has carried me through. In moments of doubt and exhaustion, I’ve needed trusted voices to help me find clarity. My spiritual director has helped me process this grief with God, and my coach has guided me in stewarding my energy wisely. Accepting help has been both humbling and healing.

Sometimes, We fall.

We fail.

We ignore the quiet wisdom nudging us toward rest.

But even in the fall, we can find our next step.

Mine has been learning to embrace stillness, shift my energy toward new passions, and trust that purpose isn’t lost—it evolves.

Maybe your next step is slowing down. Maybe it’s accepting help.
Maybe it’s simply listening.

Is there something you’ve been dismissing that’s quietly whispering for your attention?

From my heart to yours 

Until next time 

Raechal!

Growing up, our small family of three would gather nightly around the dinner table, breaking bread together and sharing our days. My job was to set the table—napkin and fork to the left of the dinner plate, knife and spoon to the right. This small act held more meaning than I knew then.

Today, the symbolism of a prepared table remains deeply significant to me. Though hospitality has never felt natural, I feel called to connect with others, letting them know that a place has been set just for them.

I see them, I hear them, and I recognize the divine within them.

These conversations, often shared around my kitchen table, flow naturally from recent happenings to life stories. Sometimes, words bubble up before my guest even closes the car door. 

They know there is no judgment here, only love.

But I cannot offer to others what I do not first possess. I must extend this same hospitality to myself.

This space, filled with sincere connection and the desire to be present, begins with a connection to the Divine. Recognizing and honoring the Divine within, becoming comfortable in my own presence, and learning to be with myself—this, I’ve come to understand, is a profound act of hospitality.

Like so many important things, this is simple but not easy.

Years ago, a class at the Center for Contemplative Living introduced me to a prayer that reflects this idea of self-hospitality—the Welcoming Prayer. This prayer, structured in three movements, taught me how to “prepare the table” within.

1. First, feel and sink into whatever experience you’re having in your body at this moment.
2. Next, welcome the experience as an opportunity to connect with the Divine.
3. Finally, let go by saying, “I let go of my desire for security, affection, and control, and I embrace this moment as it is.”

Welcome, welcome, welcome.

This prayer reminds us that the Divine is found in the present moment.

A table set for two.

Right here, right now.

It’s healing, empowering, and renewing—a spa for the soul.

Listening with care, forgiving with gentleness, and honoring my own worth sets the table for me to become who I was created to be: a loving being in whom the spark of Divine life can shine, drawing others to the table.

For whom is your table set?

From my heart to yours 

Until next time 

Raechal!

Today’s world feels heavy—with division, disconnection, and fear. It’s easy to feel paralyzed, asking, “What can I do?” But the good news is this: We don’t have to figure it out alone. The Benedictine tradition offers us a timeless guide. It reminds us that transformation isn’t about reinventing the wheel—it’s about rediscovering the wisdom of those who came before us.

✨ The time is now to embody that wisdom.

What Benedict Taught Us About Building Something New

When St. Benedict founded his communities, the world was unraveling. The Roman Empire had fallen. Chaos and fear ruled. People were searching for stability, connection, and hope.

Sounds familiar?

Into this broken world, Benedict brought a vision of renewal built on three simple but profound pillars:

• 🙏 Prayer – Rooting daily life in reflection and connection with God.
• 🛠️ Work – Honoring the sacredness of labor and contribution.
• 🤝 Hospitality – Creating spaces of welcome, care, and compassion.

The Benedictine monasteries that followed became more than places of faith—they became sanctuaries of peace, learning, and hope.

Why This Matters Today

We may not live in a monastery, but we live in a world just as hungry for healing and renewal. Spiritual disconnection. Social division. A longing for something deeper.

As Benedictine novices, we stand at a crossroads. But we are not without hope. The Rule of St. Benedict reminds us that change doesn’t come from grand gestures but from small, consistent acts of love and discipline:

• 🕊️ A daily commitment to prayer and presence.
• ❤️ Serving our communities with compassion.
• 👐 Extending hospitality to those in need.

 Our history inspires hope. And it reminds us that…

The Time Is Now

Benedict’s wisdom echoes through the ages: “Always we begin again.” We don’t wait for perfect conditions or permission to act. We step forward with purpose—today.

At Benet Hill Monastery, the Sisters model this daily, living out Benedict’s values and building something new within the shell of the old. Their lives remind us that honoring the past is the first step toward building a better future.

 A Call to Begin Again

The world is waiting. Look around—what do you see? Where can you bring peace, compassion, and connection?

The Rule of St. Benedict isn’t just a guide. It’s a challenge. An invitation. A promise.

So, let’s not wait for someone else to begin the work.

The time is now, and we are ready.

The phone rang, and the moment I picked up, a voice burst through the line with infectious energy:

“Aaaaallooohaaa, Raechal!”

Not exactly the quiet, solemn greeting I expected from a monastery’s prioress! But then again, nothing about Sr. C.C. was what I expected!

I had called to request a visit to the monastery, nestled in the lush beauty of Honolulu. What I didn’t realize was that I was about to meet a woman who embodied both peace and purpose—a rare combination that made me rethink what it means to live a life of faith. I expected a quiet, contemplative retreat—a place of stillness and solitude. But as I would soon discover, this monastery wasn’t just a place of prayer—it was a place of purpose, where faith and action moved hand in hand.

A Different Kind of Sacred Space

When my husband and I arrived, the monastery felt like an oasis—not just of serenity, but of motion. Monks and volunteers worked in quiet harmony, tending to the land, preparing meals, and keeping this sacred place running.

And at the center of it all was Sr. C.C.—formerly a flight attendant, now the visionary leader of this community. She greeted us in person just as she had over the phone—vibrantly. If some people ease into a conversation, she skydives into it, full of energy and purpose, pulling you into her world before you even have a chance to catch your breath.

At first, I thought I was just using a figure of speech. But then she casually mentioned one of her favorite pastimes—actual skydiving. The same woman who leads a peaceful monastic life also jumps out of planes for fun. And honestly, it made perfect sense. Everything about her exuded a sense of boldness—a deep trust that whether she was launching herself into the sky or into a new idea, she’d be caught by something greater than herself.

Where Healing and Hard Work Meet

As we walked the monastery grounds, it became clear that healing wasn’t something passive here. The monastery wasn’t just a place to escape—it was a place to restore. Every part of the land, every task, every moment was infused with purpose. The community worked together not just to maintain the monastery, but to create an environment where people could step into a different rhythm—one that allowed both reflection and renewal.

Sr. C.C. spoke passionately about how important it was that guests not only find peace but also have the space and support they need to heal. That healing looked different for everyone—some found it in quiet contemplation, others in working alongside the community, contributing to something bigger than themselves. Faith here wasn’t just about stillness. It was about movement. About trust. About taking the leap, even when you don’t know exactly where you’ll land.

A Final Aloha and an Invitation

Before we left, Sr. C.C. gave me one last exuberant “Aaaaaalloooohaaa!”—a farewell, but also an invitation. An invitation to bring that same energy into my own life.

So now, I’ll pass that invitation on to you: Where in your life do you need both peace and purpose? How can you create a space—not just to retreat, but to restore?

From my heart to yours 

Until next time 

Raechal!

(I’d love to hear your thoughts—drop a comment below! 💛)

A little over 53 years ago, my mother decided to name me Raechal with an unusual spelling. She did this for two reasons: 1) it looked pretty and 2) so people could call me Rae. Guess how many times she has called me Rae? Zero. And in 53 years, I have had my name misspelled and mispronounced more times
than you could say Raechal.
 
It gets even more interesting. My middle name is Lea, but my mother pronounced it as Leigh. Quite curious.
 
Growing up, I would hear my parents calling my name in various tones. There was the encouraging tone, the warning tone signaling imminent danger, and, of course, the “you are in trouble” tone that came with the full name, Raechal Lea. The best one was the gentle, loving tone that filled my heart and reassured me that all was right in the world.
 
From birth, I began to associate with the name they gave me and recognized their distinct voices.
 
I learned to Listen for my name.
 
This also taught me the social practice of starting a conversation, typically by addressing someone by name. We Discern someone is trying to get our attention, marking the beginning of a communication and the continued growth of a relationship.
 
I hadn’t given much thought to any of this until recently when a friend mentioned reading a book about Thomas Merton, the Trappist monk and spiritual author. One of his ideas struck her. He wrote, “You are a word spoken by God.” She asked me, Raechal, do you know your word?
 
I am a word spoken by God
 
Do I know my word?
 
A wisdom literature book I’ve read suggested establishing a daily practice of praying and meditating, talking and listening to God to build a relationship. Because of this practice, I could answer confidently and affirmatively.
 
Yes, yes I do. In fact, I knew the word even before she finished asking the question. It is different than the one my parents gave me. It is a name given to me by my Spiritual Father, encompassing all. He created me to be and all I am.
 
My Holy Name
 
My daily practice of centering prayer has taught me to Listen for the call from my Spiritual Father saying My Word, just as my parents taught me to Listen for my name, Raechal Lea. Similarly, this address aims to get my attention so he can communicate with me, whether imparting instructions, issuing a warning, or conveying a loving sentiment that fills my heart, letting me know that all is well.
 
By now, you might be wondering what my Word is. My Word is Joy, embodying all He created me to be and all I am.
 
I pray that it is something you find today.

 
If you need help discovering your Word, please reach out. I would love to help you learn and establish spiritual practices that will help you discern your Word. Your Holy Name

From my heart to yours 

Until next time 

Raechal!