In the Valley of the Heart’s Solitude

How lovely is Your dwelling place, Lord God of hosts.

My soul is longing and yearning for the courts of the Lord.

My heart and my soul ring out their joy to God, the living God.

(Psalm 84:2–3, Grail Translation)

In the stillness of this hermitage, where the rhythm of my own breath marks the hours, I have come to know the psalmist’s cry as my own. The dwelling place of the Lord is not somewhere far away but within; the hidden chamber of the heart that grace has hollowed out through years of longing and surrender. I have found that solitude, which once I feared as exile, has become communion. Truly, “Blessed are they who dwell in Your house; they will praise You forever.” And even in my littleness, I know that I, too, dwell there by mercy.

For forty years now I have been blessed to sit at the feet of the Fathers, to linger long with them in the silence of prayer and in the study of their words. Their presence is as real to me as the walls of this chapel. I have learned, as Abba Isaac taught, that the cell itself is a teacher; and I have come to know that these four walls hold a great mystery. This place, which to the eyes of the world seems small and forgotten, is filled with angels and saints—those whom God has gathered to instruct, console, and strengthen me. My solitude is not empty; it is full of prayer.

I think often of the words of St. Macarius the Great, who said that “the heart is a small vessel, yet in it are dragons and lions, and there also God and the angels.” Over the years, this has become my lived experience. I have felt both the tumult and the consolation of that vessel. And like St. Moses the Black, I have seen that though the demons may advance in fury, the hosts of heaven are greater still. The unseen army of the Lord surrounds those who trust in Him. Time and again, I have been made to see that this battle is not mine alone, and that my weakness only draws forth the strength of His angels.

In more recent years, the words of the modern elders have deepened what the ancient Fathers began in me. St. Silouan’s command, “Keep your mind in hell, and despair not”, has become a lamp in my darkness. I have learned that the solitude to which God has drawn me is not for my sake alone. In prayer, I feel the world gathered silently into my heart: those who suffer, those who have no one to pray for them, those who wander far from God. When I whisper the name of Jesus, I sense the whole creation leaning toward His mercy. Even my silence feels like a form of intercession.

If I should never leave this little chapel, this hermitage, this solace, it would not be a loss but a blessing. For here, in what Psalm 84 calls the “valley of tears,” I have found the spring that the Lord promises. Here I move, as the psalmist says, “from strength to strength,” until, by grace, I may appear before God in Zion. My solitude has become my communion, my silence a hymn, my hiddenness a seed sown for the life of others.

And so, each day as I stand before the icons, I pray with all my heart:

“Through the prayers of our holy Fathers, O Lord Jesus Christ our God, have mercy on us and save us. Amen.”

And I know, with quiet certainty, that heaven answers.