The Four A’s at the Ocean

On sabbatical in Southern California, this New Mexico desert mouse was drawn to the ocean by an irrepressible pull—an ache that cannot be reasoned away. Before the first errands of settling into my retreat home were complete, I found a public beach access nearby. I wore capris and sandals, just in case the moment arrived—as if my body already knew what my soul required.

And it did.

The first walk along the shoreline unfolded exactly as I had hoped: crashing waves, cawing birds, that unmistakable ocean music found nowhere else on earth. God’s power unleashed—fully expressed, shimmering in brilliant sunlight—meeting me there and quietly refilling my depleted soul.

As I walked the soft sand, cool waves washing my calves in their lulling, intermittent rhythms, I remembered the Body Prayer attributed to Julian of Norwich—a four-part prayer of word, movement, and contemplation. Each movement begins with the letter A, each one an embodied act of surrender and attention.

Await

I await. I listen, God.

What clarity might You place in my heart? I don’t yet know what is next for me, or what message I am meant to receive—or carry back—during this sabbatical. I only know that You drew me here, paved the way, and welcomed me into this unfolding. And so, I wait with an open heart and an open mind.

I do not expect burning bushes or angels with trumpets. I know better by now. I know that Your voice may arrive in the simplicity of a beach walk, or in quiet moments crocheting, cooking myself a nourishing meal at sunset, or even while pumping gas. Your wisdom often lands gently, without spectacle.

At the Friends of the Library bookstore, an elderly volunteer rang up my nerdy historical fiction find—one dollar, well spent—and then looked at me kindly and said, “You must have lived a very pure life for all of this to fall into place.” There was my angel: encouragement offered simply, paired with a gentle invitation to honor the life that brought me to this point.

So I wait. I listen. I trust there is more to be revealed.

“I am here, Lord. Your servant is listening.”
(1 Samuel 3:10)

Allow

I allow the Divine to have Its way.

I surrender fully to this moment. I loosen my grip on outcomes and expectations and lean into the deeper yearning—to reconnect with myself and with God. I listen to Spirit through my body, my heart, my gut. I invite my mind and ego to rest in the background.

You have served me well for decades, dear mind—but now it is time to let the rest of me steer the ship, with God as the wind in the sails.

I allow my vessel to be guided and inspired, filled with grace and compassion for myself and for others. I allow Spirit to inform my very being as I rest, contemplate, and simply be in the arms of the Divine.

“Thy will be done.”
(Matthew 6:10)

Accept

I accept what is given—even when it surprises me.

In the spiritual practice of visioning, the final question often asked is: “Is there anything else Spirit wishes to share with me now?” That question has delivered more than a few zingers from the Divine over the years.

So I am no stranger to acceptance—trusting guidance that asks me to leap before the path is fully visible, to release one direction and step faithfully into another. I have evidence many times over in my life, when I look back with that fabulous 20/20 hindsight. So, I have full faith in Divine Right Order.

I accept what God assigns to me now, what has already passed to shape this moment, and what is yet to come. I trust the ever-goodness and ever-giving nature of God. I lmow that all is well.

“Commit your way to the Lord; trust in Him, and He will act.”

(Psalm 37:5)

Attend

I attend to what is mine to do—now.

On sabbatical, what is mine to do is simple: to walk, to listen, to pray with my body and breath. I am still in the Await stage, and so I offer my full presence to the voice of Spirit, wherever it may arise.

As I move through this prayer—stage by stage—I will attend to more. For now, this is enough.

There is no need to force or rush the unfolding. There is no urgency in the Divine, for there is no time in the Infinite.

And so I return again and again:
I await. I allow. I accept. I attend.

I prayed this rhythm over and over as I walked a long, nearly empty stretch of beach—the Pacific echoing each word with a crashing wave, the reaching and receding gesture of encouragement. The prayer became my rosary, softening hard edges with each repetition, releasing limiting thoughts about myself and attachments to outcomes in my life and even the lives of others.

With each repetition, the words moved from brain to bones, from heart to soul—like the ocean reshaping the shoreline, forming new patterns in the sand and new visions for my life.

I am humbled. I am malleable.
I am ready.

The still, small voice speaks this way.
(1 Kings 19:12)

And you?

How might you engage this prayer—one that invites both movement and surrender, embodiment and listening?

What still, small voice has been waiting patiently for the moment when you finally become quiet enough to hear it?

Do you have the courage to listen?
To await, to allow, to accept, and to attend?

And to trust—deeply—that we are Divinely guided and blessed at every step of this journey.