As I looked around the small, dark, cramped room, I remembered what my mother had always wanted me to become: A foot doctor. But I, in the infinite wisdom of youth, had chosen to study what was between peopleās ears rather than what was between their toes.

And that brought me here, to the Cenacle Retreat House. My office was actually considered a prime room in the house, given to me because of the work Iād done in the past. But that wasnāt what I wanted. Turning, I began to take in the contents of the room: The old, battered metal desk that had probably been born somewhere toward the end of World War I occupied one corner, already piled with paperwork. Thatās alright, paperwork is always easily dealt with. It was the pople who came to me who were more important. A battered desk chair kept post, waiting for me with itās brightly colored, happily stitched pillows that was a welcome gift from one of the sisters, a native of the Solomon Islands. Color is good, especially when people are feeling their worst. My eyes wandered over the framed diplomas on the wall, signs of an accomplishment that, now, still felt rather empty. Maybe...No. I wasnāt going to go there. Iām here for the people, for the ones who need me. Simply a member of the community who could HELP.

A smile turned my lips up as I turned to consider what was the best part of the office. In the corner was an intimate setting of old, but comfortable furniture. One piece, a couch big enough for two people to sit comfortably, was covered in a peaceful blue sheet. Across from it sits my chair. This is the only thing I brought from my old office, and that was because it was a gift. Deep, soft cushions give way to a high, padded back, with arms at the perfect height for leaning on when taking notes. In the corner, between the two pieces, sits a small, battered table, covered with a white linen runner with flowered embroidery. Another gift from the sisters. Theyāre trying to make up for not being able to pay much. But what they donāt understand is that Iām not in it for the money, not anymore. Iām in it for the people.

Turning, I sink down into my favorite chair and lean back, closing my eyes. ćHow did I get here?ä I wonder, and that is immediately followed by a clip of music from a show I saw what seems to be eons ago: ćHow did I get here? How the hell....ä Well, it wasnāt quite Christmas Eve, but something along the same lines. I forced myself to relax...relax and remember.

ćDr. Tanner? Your three oāclock is here.ä The voice was tinny coming through the intercom, the state of the art intercom on my desk. Funny, Iād never noticed it before. The state of the art intercom/phone combination, complete with voice mail and caller ID had a tinny voice. Or maybe it was Margaret. Wait, no, Margaret was the LAST receptionist. Who was this one? Candy, Carmel, Carmella! That was it. A long sigh. ćSend her in.ä Carmella cleared her throat. ćMISTER Jameson is on his way.ä I just groaned and gathered the files up, taking a quick scan through Mr. Jameson. Bi Polar with OCD tendancies. Should be a breeze. He was pretty much under control. Well, letās see. Grocery list was finished. As was the list for the trip next week. And the ćto doä list. And the...Sigh. This wasnāt how Iād envisioned things.

Doctorate in psychology by 24. The best schools. C. G. Jung institute in Switzerland. Prestigious practice in Manhattan. Gorgeous brownstone. Loving cat. Renown in her field. Money to do as she wished, whenever she wished. IRA. But it wasnāt enough. None of that could help those people who were dead...

She threw the folder down on the desk and hit the intercom button again. ćDelay him five minutes please.ä I knew the poor man was already halfway to my office, but at this point, I just didnāt care. I needed a drink. Something, anything to take off the edge. The bottle of vodka was calling to me, a sweet siren song Iād grown so familiar with. I sat on the edge of my desk with my glass and pondered the view of the skyline. The one woman I was so sure was cured, Iād done my job. The woman who had killed school children.

Not just one or two. This quiet, shy, depressed second grade teacher had massacered her whole classroom, the day after I had told her she no longer needed to come back.

I took a long swallow of the alcohol, letting it burn its way toward my stomach. Logically I knew it wasnāt my fault, that there really wasnāt anything I could have done. They subpeonaed my notes and records, flipped through all the files I had on the woman, interviewed me three ways from next week. The other partners had stood behind me. One of them, oddly enough, had suggested that I take a retreat at a small, inner city retreat house. The brochure was still there on the corner of my desk. For some reason I just couldnāt bring myself to throw it away.

I glanced at the brochure. I couldnāt bring myself to throw it away, but I couldnāt bring myself to pick it up, either. Too many years of being a Roaming Catholic, I guess. I smiled at that, at the memories of my youth and how much Iād actually enjoyed Catholic school. Being a cradle Catholic had its disadvantages, but it prepared one for life pretty well.

Another sigh and the bottle was replaced, only one drink out of it. I went to the intercom and had the receptionist send in the next patient. No, client. We donāt call them patients anymore. We donāt do a lot of things anymore.

Throughout the interview with this client my mind wandered. I listened with half an ear and responded where appropriate, but something was nagging at my mind. It was that little thing there on the periphery that drove me the craziest, strangely enough. It wasnāt until much later that evening, when I was going over the patient notes and preparing for transcription when I noticed what Iād written. In the margins, all over the edges of the paper, actually, Iād written things like, ćHe is coming,ä and ćFeed His people.ä I sat there for hours, searching through my notes, finding other places Iād written things like that. I think the one that hit me the most, the one that stopped me in my tracks was ćForgive and feed his people.ä

That was a turning point for me. To this day I canāt tell you where the words came from. I decided then and there to go to this retreat house and spend about a week, just being quiet. It couldnāt hurt. Much. And so I spent a week, a week I barely remember. The feeling of being completely enveloped in warmth and love, the feeling of peace that I felt was almost overwhelming. The only thing tempering it was need. A burning, driving need to change, to affect those parts of my life that were falling short right then. I rediscovered a faith in God that had been just simmering below the surface. And I discovered a way I could truly make a difference.

My third night at the house a woman came in, distraught. I was the only one around at the time, so I began to take care of her, trying to find out the problem. And I was getting nowhere. She was getting more and more upset. One of the sisters came in and took over, thanking me, of course. And I sat back, watching. The years of training had done absolutely nothing to help this woman. But here was this young sister, one of the pastoral counselors, calming the woman with only a few simple words. I watched, in a state of amazement, as the woman was transformed from a hopeless wreck to having the light of hope relit in her eyes. On the day I was to leave, after thinking about all Iād seen, all Iād done in the house, I made the decision to stay. Well, in a relative sense. I went home to my apartment and began to make small changes, the ones that would lead to much larger ones.

Within two years, Iād earned my Associates degree in Pastoral Counseling and had left both my prestigious practice and my posh brownstone. Chosing, instead, to move into a smaller, more economical apartment closer to the House and hospitals and go to work as a counsellor for the Cenacle Sisters. My life, then, became almost perfect. I helped all manner of people, not just the ones who could pay top dollar. And it felt GOOD. For once in my life, I knew the fulfillment inherent in faith and service to others. For the first time in my life, I was whole.

I opened my eyes slowly. Yes, thatās what brought me here. To this place. To this time. I moved to New Hampshire because my services were needed. This is my life. This is my home.