I spent a lonely weekend near somebody’s countryside home. Some miles north of a big city. By a lake in the middle of nowhere. The fresh air and sunlight were suffocating. This “retreat” was anything but. I wanted to run away, so I went for a run; shouts, laughs, and songs of prayer echoing behind me.

My feet went faster. The heat was oppressive. Almost as oppressive as a room of people I didn’t want to know. Or who didn’t want to know me. I kicked up dirt, choked on my own steps, dripped sweat onto my lips.

I rounded the corner behind the cathedral. Its tall tower tipped away from me with distaste. I kept running, nonetheless. The path was surrounded by vibrant, newly-seeded grass. At least something here was born again. I felt a cramp in my side and considered slowing down.

In the distance, a young nun in a blue habit blended in with the sky in my line of sight. Accompanying her was a young monk in brown. They walked in synchrony as if they had just stepped out of the book of John. He spoke with his hands. She listened with her eyes. Their smiles were the first real ones I had seen all weekend.

They were peace and I was hell running right towards them. They shared their smiles when they passed, and I struggled to reciprocate. I’m sure I looked insane. That image was locked in my head. In all honesty, I was jealous. How could someone be so joyful, so at peace?