I awoke at 3:00 am in the visitor’s cabin at Christ in the Desert, an abbey in the high desert outside Abiquiu, New Mexico, and grabbed an Indian blanket to ward off the cold. I could see the monastery chapel lights flickering faintly on the far horizon. If only I could make it there, I might get the sign I was looking for that it was safe to return home.
It was 1994, and a client’s husband had threatened my life. He blamed me for their divorce. “I’m watching you. You will never be safe,” I heard him shout over the phone. This encounter was enough to launch me into a six-week sabbatical at the Center for Action and Contemplation in Albuquerque. My time was divided between working at St. Martin’s Homeless Shelter every morning and, later, journaling or climbing in the Sandia Mountains. At the end of my stay, I still feared returning to Michigan. I needed another safe haven. I needed a sign.
Now, here I was crossing the desert in the middle of the night, hoping to reach the monastery chapel in time for Lauds. This was my last day and my last chance to receive a sign that it was safe to return home. I opted for a shortcut instead of taking the road that ran along the property’s perimeter. The light in the monastery chapel window was my beacon. Halfway there, my flashlight died.
Terrified of becoming lost, I called out to Sojourner Truth, the great Black abolitionist and feminist who lived during the Civil War and was buried in Battle Creek, Michigan, just an hour from my home. On her deathbed, she had comforted her followers, saying: “Don’t cry for me, I’m going home like a shooting star.” I had a history with this woman, often calling on her intercession at difficult periods. Now, lost in a desert known for its high number of rattlesnakes (information gleaned years later), I called on Sojourner once again. That is when I saw it – a brilliant shooting star that pierced the darkness.
I reached the large wooden doors of the chapel with my blanket covered in sagebrush. A long line of monks in hooded cowls jumped at the sight of this wild woman entering their space. I found a place in the chapel under the image of the dark mother of the Americas, Our Lady of Guadalupe. There I waited for a sign. Through the chanting of the morning psalms and prayers, I waited for a sign. The sign never arrived. In the parking lot, a kind woman directed me to a youth hostel in Santa Fe. “Everything will be alright,” she added after I wiped away more tears.
The next morning in the Folk Art Museum, two women I recognized from the hostel approached me. “I don’t know how to tell you this,” one of them said. “It sounds so crazy.” I didn’t know what to expect- what was coming? “I just wanted to tell you that it is safe to return home now.” I was speechless. This was the sign I needed all along. Sojourner had come through for me again. She protected me in the desert, and now had sent me this unambiguous message through these strangers. I headed for Albuquerque and the airport that very hour.
