The Healing Game
Apr. 3rd, 2018 04:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dedalus_1947Here I am again
Back on the corner again
Back where I belong
Where I’ve always been
Everything the same
It don’t ever change
I’m back on the corner again
In the healing game.
Down those ancient streets
Down those ancient roads
Where nobody knows
Where nobody goes.
I’m back on the corner again
Where I’ve always been
Never been away from the healing game.
Where the choirboys sing
Where I’ve always been
Sing the song with soul
Baby don’t you know
We can let it roll
On the saxophone
Back street Jelly Roll
In the healing game.
Where the homeboys sing
Sing their songs of praise
‘Bout their golden days
In the healing game.
(The Healing Game: Van Morrison – 1997)
Last February, my brothers, Eddie and David Alex, and I got together to see the latest Marvel movie, Black Panther in Monrovia. It was the first time the three of us been together since Mom’s funeral in December. I was looking forward to seeing the much-ballyhooed movie, but more importantly, I wanted to see how my brothers were doing since Mom’s death. We’ve made these movie dates before, and they’re something of a symbolic reenactment to the days when I would drive 8th grader Eddie, and Kindergartener Alex to a comic book store in Culver City to buy Marvel and DC comics. After the movie, as was our custom, we walked to a nearby pub for lunch and a discussion on the merits of the movie, and to find out how we were all doing. Sometime near the end lunch, Eddie said he’d like to bring up a different topic. He explained that he had on occasion gone to a Men’s Weekend Silent Retreat in Sierra Madre as part of his Lenten practice, and he wondered if Alex and I would be interested in going this year. The surprise invitation brought an affectionate smile to my face. Eddie has had an up and down relationship with the Catholic Church, but he loves and sees the value and the meaning of its rituals and traditions, and he’s inclusive about giving others an opportunity to participate and grow in them. Neither Alex nor I immediately jumped at the offer, but I was secretly intrigued by the idea, so we promised to consider it. Honestly, I didn’t think anything would come of it. The retreat was scheduled for the weekend after the Religious Education Congress in Anaheim, which Kathy and I planned on attending, so I thought I might be overly saturated with religiosity, and I doubted Eddie would remember. I was wrong. It was probably receiving Eddie’s follow-up email about the retreat that turned the tide for me. I again heard a tiny inner voice telling me to heed this invitation and go, because I might get something out of it. So when Eddie called, wanting to confirm if I had decided, I said, “Sure, I’ll go”.
The last time I remember going on a religious retreat was in the spring of 1975, a few months before I married Kathleen. Her father, The Doctor, invited me to join him in an Ignatian retreat at Manresa, the Jesuit Retreat House in Azusa. He said he had taken each of his first two sons-in-law to this annual Lenten experience before their weddings to his daughters. With this lead in, I felt immediate pressure to accept, thinking that it must be some type of test or initiation rite before marrying Kathleen. Dr. Greaney emphasized that it was an Ignatian retreat, modeled on the Spiritual Exercises of Ignatius Loyola, with strict silence being required. He made it sound pretty intimidating.
I can count on one hand the retreats I’d been on prior to Manresa. The first was in the eighth grade. It was held on the grounds of St. John Bosco, or Salesian High School, in a separate residential dorm near a chapel. In high school, St. Bernard held annual, daylong retreats at the school, divided into general sessions in the gym, followed by private time for mediation, reflection, and confession. Needless to say, a daylong retreat in your own high school, surrounded by restless boys who would rather be elsewhere, was not a conducive environment for experiencing a spiritual renewal. We spent most of our private time reading, doing homework, or passing notes to friends. In my senior year, a group of us were so bored that we decided to sneak off campus after the first session and return by the last period homeroom. Unfortunately we were caught trying to get back into school. It was the Paulist priests of the UCLA Newman Center who directed the most meaningful retreat I experienced during my freshman year in college. Far from silent, the retreat was largely interactive, with the priests posing situations and questions about our faith, scripture, and the sacraments. They opened my eyes to the messages in the “Good News” of Jesus Christ in the New Testament, and moved us beyond the narrow confines of the Baltimore Catechism. All the previous retreats were composed of fire and brimstone lectures by priests reminding us to avoid the pitfalls of sin and temptation, which usually meant sex and girls. The Paulists, on the other hand, challenged us to understand the revolutionary messages of Jesus in the Gospels, to act on its principles, and to live our faith. The spirit of the Vatican II reforms permeated the experience and left me breathless and renewed. So, on the basis of that lone positive experience, I said yes to Dr. Greaney and went on his retreat.
I don’t recall many details of the Manresa Retreat in 1975. It was a long drive from Venice to Azusa on a Friday afternoon, and we were only allowed to speak before the welcoming session. Dr. Greaney looked and dressed as if walking out of Esquire Magazine – creased slacks, monogrammed golf shirt and sweater, clean-shaven and groomed. He introduced me to a number of doctors who were there, and the Retreat Master, Fr. Deasy, who was a personal friend of his, and had agreed to preside at our wedding. The only other person I remember now is Dr. Pulido, who Dr. Greaney introduced as the only other Mexican-American on the retreat. I don’t remember much of the spiritual direction I received that weekend. As opposed to my college experience, this was to be a solitary encounter with my faith, with the only sources of input coming from the retreat master, my readings, or private meditations. The rooms were monastically cold and bare, and in those days before cell phones or iPads, the only evening activity was finding something to read in the Retreat Library. On the plus side, the grounds were beautiful, so I spent most of my private time exploring and thinking, but I did walk away with the notion that a person only got as much as he put into a retreat. Manresa was the last weekend retreat I attended until Eddie’s invitation.
That’s not to imply that I was in a spiritual wasteland for 43 years. My work as a school administrator drove my spiritual journey through life. Once I became a principal in 1992, the burdens, responsibilities, and hardship of the job literally impelled me to seek out sources of spiritual support and guidance. With my long drives to and from El Sereno Middle School near Alhambra, I began listening to audio tapes by countless spiritual directors, and then reading their books: Fathers Richard Rohr, Anthony de Mello, and Thomas Merton. While at Van Nuys Middle I added new spiritual and creative practices, like meditation, journaling, and jogging. I also started tagging along with Kathy when she attended the annual Archdiocesan Religious Education Congress in Anaheim. The conference offered a bonanza of spiritual and religious speakers, authors, and directors. In all those years, as trying and difficult as they were, I never felt spiritually directionless – until recently.
Mater Dolorosa Retreat Center is a beautiful Catholic facility tucked away in the hills of Sierra Madre. As I passed the front gate and drove up the long, winding road, I was greeted by a “deer park”, a meadow filled with deer, motionlessly gazing back at me. Everything about the grounds whispered the promise of peace and tranquility. I started exploring the facility right after checking in and unpacking, and, later, I bumped into Eddie on our way to supper in the dining room. Following dinner, the retreat master, Fr. Michael Higgins, welcomed us, and we met the other members of the retreat team. I have to admit that the title and description of the retreat immediately intrigued me. It was called Going Without Knowing: Pitching Our Tent in Faith, and it used Abraham, the Old Testament patriarch, as it central figure and symbol. Here was a man who had such deep faith and trust in the voice of God, which only he could hear, that he left lands, country, and family connections to journey in search of the home God promised him. I think it was then that I was struck with the queer notion that perhaps my purpose in being here was to have some kind of an “encounter” with God and then receive instructions from the retreat team on how to respond. All I had to do was sit, listen, and pay attention.
In general, I would have to give the presenters mixed reviews. As a former principal, I tend to be a critical evaluator of teachers and speakers. I want to be intellectually engaged and directed to new insights by speakers. The conferences I attended at the annual Religious Ed Congress in Anaheim usually met those criteria. At this retreat the effectiveness of the three-member retreat team varied, with the strongest presenter being Deacon Manuel, who led the 1st and 3rd sessions. Different priests led the other two sessions, and although they repeated the main themes and messages, they failed to develop them fully, or to really engage their audience.
Brother Manuel grabbed my attention from the first morning session. He combined Jung’s idea of the Stages of Man with Joseph Campbell’s Stages of the Hero’s Journey to develop what he called the “The Four Stages of Faith on our epic Journey of Faith”. He identified these stages as:
I) The Call/or The Invitation;
II) The Wilderness/ or The Messy Middle;
III) Death/New Life/Rebirth; and
IV) The Gift/ or New Awareness
However, even though Brother Manuel identified four stages, he only discussed the first two, explaining that they reflected, more or less, where most of the men in attendance found themselves on their Faith Journey, struggling in the “messy middle” of life while trying to answer God’s call. After the session, Brother Manuel continued intertwining the struggles of the Wilderness phase of our “Faith Journey” with the passions of Jesus Christ, as he directed us through the Stations of the Cross. In the evening session, Brother Manuel elaborated further on image of “The Call” by having us sit in a darkened room, surrounding a bramble bush lit up with red lights symbolizing flames. He said it represented the moment in the Old Testament when Moses received his Call from God coming from a burning brush that was not consumed by the fire. It was here that Moses received his command to return to Egypt and free the Israelites from captivity, with the promise that “I will be with you”. It was, Brother Manuel explained, a call for Moses to serve his people, and trust that he was never alone, because God would be with him always.
Even though the presentation was dramatic, and the imagery startling, I was getting impatient and antsy at this point of the retreat. I had spent the day walking alone, meditating in the chapel, and going to Confession, and I still hadn’t HEARD anything. I had even begun writing irritated messages to myself in my notebook during this session:
“We hear God’s call when we LISTEN. How do I listen? How should I listen? Meditation? Mindful Breathing? Do I listen in the liturgy of the mass? Do I hear God in the ordinary things around me? In other people?” My frustration finally came to a head when I heard Brother Manuel say:
“Now I want you to break up into groups of no more than 4 people and share. Where are you on your faith journey?”
“What!” I thought, in a burst of panic. “This is supposed to be a silent retreat! I don’t want to share. I don’t know what to share. I haven’t heard anything from God yet. What am I supposed to say? I don’t know where I am on my Faith Journey! What is a Faith Journey?”
After this emotional eruption I calmed down and decided that the best way to proceed was to simply be honest and answer the question.
The three men in my group were all younger than me, probably somewhere in middle age, and they all seemed to be actively involved in some aspect of their faith. One was a devoted member of the Legion of Mary and very involved in transporting the Pilgrim Virgin statue of Mary to different parish churches for the purpose of saying the Rosary for the petitions of others. Another was a convert who had become interested in faith healing through the power of prayer, and had joined a group that offered their services and prayer to the sick and dying. When it came to my turn to speak, I said the first thing that came to mind, and it came out something like this:
“I’m stuck. I don’t know where I’m at on my faith journey. I guess I feel like I’m off track. Ever since the death of my mother in November, learning about the death of a colleague and dear friend from work, and then going to visit another friend in Portland who’s dying, I’ve been off track. I guess that’s why I came to this retreat. I came to find a way forward.”
It was a strangely liberating and embracing experience. I had finally been honest with myself about my current emotional state, and I was deeply moved by the response of the three younger men around me. One even offered to pray with me after our sharing to ask for God’s mercy, and the other two men agreed to join. I felt embraced and cared for by these three strangers. On Palm Sunday, the retreat ended with Morning Prayer and a final conference before Mass.
Looking back on the experience now, I would have to say that I returned home different after encountering Deacon Manuel’s “Burning Bush”. It was there that I came to the realization that I was stuck. I’m stuck in sadness and grief over the deaths of my mom, my friend JoAnna, my friend and brother-in-law Danny (and probably my own mortality). That was hard to admit – grief. The word is so small, and its effects so subtle, but its denial is so insidious. The denial had really blocked me from my feelings, sentiments, and emotions over and about these three deaths. I think the denial was causing me to go numb – feeling isolated, cut off, and off track. Instead of facing it, however, I kept myself busy with pointless distractions, while, at the same time, dropping more and more positive activities and practices. I probably would have continued in this manner unless Eddie had invited me on this retreat. Driving to a Sacred Space in the foothills of Sierra Madre got me out of myself, and opened me up to the themes, stories, metaphors, and ideas that were presented in four sessions, and in the other sacred rituals and activities that I had abandoned. I made time to walk, sit in “thoughtless” meditation, and listen as Deacon Manuel pointed out the universal truths in the myths and bible stories that described a sacred journey to a promised place or home. Abraham, Ulysses, and Moses were called to a lifelong journey that required recurring mistakes, difficulties, failures, and wounding. But there was always the promise, and the actual intervention of God (or gods). The heroes just had to trust, or have faith, in the Call and the promise that God would forgive them, heal them, and put them back on track. God could show them the way, but they had to walk the path, trusting that God would always be with them.
Back on the corner again
Back where I belong
Where I’ve always been
Everything the same
It don’t ever change
I’m back on the corner again
In the healing game.
Down those ancient streets
Down those ancient roads
Where nobody knows
Where nobody goes.
I’m back on the corner again
Where I’ve always been
Never been away from the healing game.
Where the choirboys sing
Where I’ve always been
Sing the song with soul
Baby don’t you know
We can let it roll
On the saxophone
Back street Jelly Roll
In the healing game.
Where the homeboys sing
Sing their songs of praise
‘Bout their golden days
In the healing game.
(The Healing Game: Van Morrison – 1997)
Last February, my brothers, Eddie and David Alex, and I got together to see the latest Marvel movie, Black Panther in Monrovia. It was the first time the three of us been together since Mom’s funeral in December. I was looking forward to seeing the much-ballyhooed movie, but more importantly, I wanted to see how my brothers were doing since Mom’s death. We’ve made these movie dates before, and they’re something of a symbolic reenactment to the days when I would drive 8th grader Eddie, and Kindergartener Alex to a comic book store in Culver City to buy Marvel and DC comics. After the movie, as was our custom, we walked to a nearby pub for lunch and a discussion on the merits of the movie, and to find out how we were all doing. Sometime near the end lunch, Eddie said he’d like to bring up a different topic. He explained that he had on occasion gone to a Men’s Weekend Silent Retreat in Sierra Madre as part of his Lenten practice, and he wondered if Alex and I would be interested in going this year. The surprise invitation brought an affectionate smile to my face. Eddie has had an up and down relationship with the Catholic Church, but he loves and sees the value and the meaning of its rituals and traditions, and he’s inclusive about giving others an opportunity to participate and grow in them. Neither Alex nor I immediately jumped at the offer, but I was secretly intrigued by the idea, so we promised to consider it. Honestly, I didn’t think anything would come of it. The retreat was scheduled for the weekend after the Religious Education Congress in Anaheim, which Kathy and I planned on attending, so I thought I might be overly saturated with religiosity, and I doubted Eddie would remember. I was wrong. It was probably receiving Eddie’s follow-up email about the retreat that turned the tide for me. I again heard a tiny inner voice telling me to heed this invitation and go, because I might get something out of it. So when Eddie called, wanting to confirm if I had decided, I said, “Sure, I’ll go”.
The last time I remember going on a religious retreat was in the spring of 1975, a few months before I married Kathleen. Her father, The Doctor, invited me to join him in an Ignatian retreat at Manresa, the Jesuit Retreat House in Azusa. He said he had taken each of his first two sons-in-law to this annual Lenten experience before their weddings to his daughters. With this lead in, I felt immediate pressure to accept, thinking that it must be some type of test or initiation rite before marrying Kathleen. Dr. Greaney emphasized that it was an Ignatian retreat, modeled on the Spiritual Exercises of Ignatius Loyola, with strict silence being required. He made it sound pretty intimidating.
I can count on one hand the retreats I’d been on prior to Manresa. The first was in the eighth grade. It was held on the grounds of St. John Bosco, or Salesian High School, in a separate residential dorm near a chapel. In high school, St. Bernard held annual, daylong retreats at the school, divided into general sessions in the gym, followed by private time for mediation, reflection, and confession. Needless to say, a daylong retreat in your own high school, surrounded by restless boys who would rather be elsewhere, was not a conducive environment for experiencing a spiritual renewal. We spent most of our private time reading, doing homework, or passing notes to friends. In my senior year, a group of us were so bored that we decided to sneak off campus after the first session and return by the last period homeroom. Unfortunately we were caught trying to get back into school. It was the Paulist priests of the UCLA Newman Center who directed the most meaningful retreat I experienced during my freshman year in college. Far from silent, the retreat was largely interactive, with the priests posing situations and questions about our faith, scripture, and the sacraments. They opened my eyes to the messages in the “Good News” of Jesus Christ in the New Testament, and moved us beyond the narrow confines of the Baltimore Catechism. All the previous retreats were composed of fire and brimstone lectures by priests reminding us to avoid the pitfalls of sin and temptation, which usually meant sex and girls. The Paulists, on the other hand, challenged us to understand the revolutionary messages of Jesus in the Gospels, to act on its principles, and to live our faith. The spirit of the Vatican II reforms permeated the experience and left me breathless and renewed. So, on the basis of that lone positive experience, I said yes to Dr. Greaney and went on his retreat.
I don’t recall many details of the Manresa Retreat in 1975. It was a long drive from Venice to Azusa on a Friday afternoon, and we were only allowed to speak before the welcoming session. Dr. Greaney looked and dressed as if walking out of Esquire Magazine – creased slacks, monogrammed golf shirt and sweater, clean-shaven and groomed. He introduced me to a number of doctors who were there, and the Retreat Master, Fr. Deasy, who was a personal friend of his, and had agreed to preside at our wedding. The only other person I remember now is Dr. Pulido, who Dr. Greaney introduced as the only other Mexican-American on the retreat. I don’t remember much of the spiritual direction I received that weekend. As opposed to my college experience, this was to be a solitary encounter with my faith, with the only sources of input coming from the retreat master, my readings, or private meditations. The rooms were monastically cold and bare, and in those days before cell phones or iPads, the only evening activity was finding something to read in the Retreat Library. On the plus side, the grounds were beautiful, so I spent most of my private time exploring and thinking, but I did walk away with the notion that a person only got as much as he put into a retreat. Manresa was the last weekend retreat I attended until Eddie’s invitation.
That’s not to imply that I was in a spiritual wasteland for 43 years. My work as a school administrator drove my spiritual journey through life. Once I became a principal in 1992, the burdens, responsibilities, and hardship of the job literally impelled me to seek out sources of spiritual support and guidance. With my long drives to and from El Sereno Middle School near Alhambra, I began listening to audio tapes by countless spiritual directors, and then reading their books: Fathers Richard Rohr, Anthony de Mello, and Thomas Merton. While at Van Nuys Middle I added new spiritual and creative practices, like meditation, journaling, and jogging. I also started tagging along with Kathy when she attended the annual Archdiocesan Religious Education Congress in Anaheim. The conference offered a bonanza of spiritual and religious speakers, authors, and directors. In all those years, as trying and difficult as they were, I never felt spiritually directionless – until recently.
Mater Dolorosa Retreat Center is a beautiful Catholic facility tucked away in the hills of Sierra Madre. As I passed the front gate and drove up the long, winding road, I was greeted by a “deer park”, a meadow filled with deer, motionlessly gazing back at me. Everything about the grounds whispered the promise of peace and tranquility. I started exploring the facility right after checking in and unpacking, and, later, I bumped into Eddie on our way to supper in the dining room. Following dinner, the retreat master, Fr. Michael Higgins, welcomed us, and we met the other members of the retreat team. I have to admit that the title and description of the retreat immediately intrigued me. It was called Going Without Knowing: Pitching Our Tent in Faith, and it used Abraham, the Old Testament patriarch, as it central figure and symbol. Here was a man who had such deep faith and trust in the voice of God, which only he could hear, that he left lands, country, and family connections to journey in search of the home God promised him. I think it was then that I was struck with the queer notion that perhaps my purpose in being here was to have some kind of an “encounter” with God and then receive instructions from the retreat team on how to respond. All I had to do was sit, listen, and pay attention.
In general, I would have to give the presenters mixed reviews. As a former principal, I tend to be a critical evaluator of teachers and speakers. I want to be intellectually engaged and directed to new insights by speakers. The conferences I attended at the annual Religious Ed Congress in Anaheim usually met those criteria. At this retreat the effectiveness of the three-member retreat team varied, with the strongest presenter being Deacon Manuel, who led the 1st and 3rd sessions. Different priests led the other two sessions, and although they repeated the main themes and messages, they failed to develop them fully, or to really engage their audience.
Brother Manuel grabbed my attention from the first morning session. He combined Jung’s idea of the Stages of Man with Joseph Campbell’s Stages of the Hero’s Journey to develop what he called the “The Four Stages of Faith on our epic Journey of Faith”. He identified these stages as:
I) The Call/or The Invitation;
II) The Wilderness/ or The Messy Middle;
III) Death/New Life/Rebirth; and
IV) The Gift/ or New Awareness
However, even though Brother Manuel identified four stages, he only discussed the first two, explaining that they reflected, more or less, where most of the men in attendance found themselves on their Faith Journey, struggling in the “messy middle” of life while trying to answer God’s call. After the session, Brother Manuel continued intertwining the struggles of the Wilderness phase of our “Faith Journey” with the passions of Jesus Christ, as he directed us through the Stations of the Cross. In the evening session, Brother Manuel elaborated further on image of “The Call” by having us sit in a darkened room, surrounding a bramble bush lit up with red lights symbolizing flames. He said it represented the moment in the Old Testament when Moses received his Call from God coming from a burning brush that was not consumed by the fire. It was here that Moses received his command to return to Egypt and free the Israelites from captivity, with the promise that “I will be with you”. It was, Brother Manuel explained, a call for Moses to serve his people, and trust that he was never alone, because God would be with him always.
Even though the presentation was dramatic, and the imagery startling, I was getting impatient and antsy at this point of the retreat. I had spent the day walking alone, meditating in the chapel, and going to Confession, and I still hadn’t HEARD anything. I had even begun writing irritated messages to myself in my notebook during this session:
“We hear God’s call when we LISTEN. How do I listen? How should I listen? Meditation? Mindful Breathing? Do I listen in the liturgy of the mass? Do I hear God in the ordinary things around me? In other people?” My frustration finally came to a head when I heard Brother Manuel say:
“Now I want you to break up into groups of no more than 4 people and share. Where are you on your faith journey?”
“What!” I thought, in a burst of panic. “This is supposed to be a silent retreat! I don’t want to share. I don’t know what to share. I haven’t heard anything from God yet. What am I supposed to say? I don’t know where I am on my Faith Journey! What is a Faith Journey?”
After this emotional eruption I calmed down and decided that the best way to proceed was to simply be honest and answer the question.
The three men in my group were all younger than me, probably somewhere in middle age, and they all seemed to be actively involved in some aspect of their faith. One was a devoted member of the Legion of Mary and very involved in transporting the Pilgrim Virgin statue of Mary to different parish churches for the purpose of saying the Rosary for the petitions of others. Another was a convert who had become interested in faith healing through the power of prayer, and had joined a group that offered their services and prayer to the sick and dying. When it came to my turn to speak, I said the first thing that came to mind, and it came out something like this:
“I’m stuck. I don’t know where I’m at on my faith journey. I guess I feel like I’m off track. Ever since the death of my mother in November, learning about the death of a colleague and dear friend from work, and then going to visit another friend in Portland who’s dying, I’ve been off track. I guess that’s why I came to this retreat. I came to find a way forward.”
It was a strangely liberating and embracing experience. I had finally been honest with myself about my current emotional state, and I was deeply moved by the response of the three younger men around me. One even offered to pray with me after our sharing to ask for God’s mercy, and the other two men agreed to join. I felt embraced and cared for by these three strangers. On Palm Sunday, the retreat ended with Morning Prayer and a final conference before Mass.
Looking back on the experience now, I would have to say that I returned home different after encountering Deacon Manuel’s “Burning Bush”. It was there that I came to the realization that I was stuck. I’m stuck in sadness and grief over the deaths of my mom, my friend JoAnna, my friend and brother-in-law Danny (and probably my own mortality). That was hard to admit – grief. The word is so small, and its effects so subtle, but its denial is so insidious. The denial had really blocked me from my feelings, sentiments, and emotions over and about these three deaths. I think the denial was causing me to go numb – feeling isolated, cut off, and off track. Instead of facing it, however, I kept myself busy with pointless distractions, while, at the same time, dropping more and more positive activities and practices. I probably would have continued in this manner unless Eddie had invited me on this retreat. Driving to a Sacred Space in the foothills of Sierra Madre got me out of myself, and opened me up to the themes, stories, metaphors, and ideas that were presented in four sessions, and in the other sacred rituals and activities that I had abandoned. I made time to walk, sit in “thoughtless” meditation, and listen as Deacon Manuel pointed out the universal truths in the myths and bible stories that described a sacred journey to a promised place or home. Abraham, Ulysses, and Moses were called to a lifelong journey that required recurring mistakes, difficulties, failures, and wounding. But there was always the promise, and the actual intervention of God (or gods). The heroes just had to trust, or have faith, in the Call and the promise that God would forgive them, heal them, and put them back on track. God could show them the way, but they had to walk the path, trusting that God would always be with them.
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