The Power of Being Seen: How a Simple Prayer at a 1985 Retreat Changed My Life

At 17, I felt invisible — until one youth leader’s prayer opened a door for the Holy Spirit that would ripple through generations.

(Photo courtesy of Shannon Vall)

By Shannon Vall

In the summer of 1985, a lonely, sad 17-year-old girl found herself reluctantly heading west on Highway 36 toward a weekend teen retreat along the Colorado Front Range. She hadn’t chosen to go — her well-intentioned but insistent mother had made that decision for her.

She arrived uneasy and lost, counting the hours until she could return home to her friend’s house and MTV music videos. She signed in, took her packet, found her cabin and endured the introductions.

If there was a saving grace, it was that the cabin group stayed together. They played games, made art and ate meals side by side. The art activities were a comfort — something she loved and was good at. Friday night brought icebreakers and games; Saturday, a string of talks, small-group sharings and, that night, Adoration.

She dreaded the “sharing” part, especially being paired with a stranger to talk about “deep things.” But in Adoration, cloaked by the dark, she could disappear — unseen, safe in the shadows.

By Sunday morning, she had settled into the comfort of seemingly being ignored and not seen. She was almost done with this excruciating experience.

But she was seen.

When it was time to close the retreat, everyone gathered in a circle to pray. Participants offered prayers for their friends — old or new — thanking God for the weekend. She stayed silent. She hadn’t come with anyone and hadn’t made any friends.

Then she heard her name.

One of the youth leaders — a young man from her small group — spoke up: “Jesus, please bless Shannon and heal her of her pain. Let her know she is not alone. We ask you, Jesus, to walk with her when she leaves here.”

I froze. I had been staring at the ground the entire time, not daring to look up. Shaken, I tried to will the tears away, trying to force time to move more quickly.

I was so blown away that someone saw me. Me.

He couldn’t have known the depth of my pain. He didn’t know I’d had suicidal thoughts, or that earlier that year I’d written them down, only to be ridiculed by a friend I trusted. Yet, somehow, through the Holy Spirit, he saw me.

I walked out of the retreat to my mother’s car, answered her questions like I was supposed to, avoiding additional conversation. I was glad it was over. But I never forgot that leader and what he said to that hurting little girl — invisible, ugly, inconsequential. He saw me.

I went on to finish my last torturous year of high school, then attended Franciscan University, where I found lifelong friends and met the man who would become my husband of 35 years.

Does he know that his prayer for me was heard? That it allowed the Holy Spirit to move in my life with his protection and guidance? That what he said allowed a small sliver of light into my life?

Decades later, our middle daughter, Biz, serves as a high school youth minister at a large parish in Denver. This summer, she led her first group to the Steubenville of the Rockies conference — an exhausting but touching experience. She knows her faith and how to minister to these young people. I am very proud of her.

It is a testament to the Father’s deep love for us that a small action in my life, decades past, can be tied to the present through her journey.

Youth ministry is, at times, a thankless and constantly exhausting job. It requires an extreme amount of energy and a tough hide. But the people who are called to this challenge have gifts — many of them — and deep faith. And one of those gifts is to see the unseen, to feel the hurt and enter into it. To see the sadness and the loneliness that these precious souls are experiencing.

Like me in 1985, in the Colorado Rockies, attending a youth retreat put on by the Archdiocese of Denver.

Thanks for seeing me.

And thanks for seeing, Biz.

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Shannon Vall lives in Monument, Colorado, with her husband, Patrick. She had shared this story with her family before, but it resurfaced this summer after finding photos from that 1985 retreat while organizing her mother’s home.