A Moment of Silence?

Last Monday Corpus had some crazy winds, and whatever they brought with them generously bestowed upon me a sore throat. That sore throat developed into a cough, and that cough morphed into a raspy voice, and now my voice is almost completely gone. 

My voice is not one of those things that I ever really think to thank God for. My eyes--the ability to take in a beautiful sunset over the Corpus Bay, being able to see the ones I love--yes. My ears—the ability to hear music and the sound of rain outside my window--yes. But my voice? For some reason I’ve never given it much thought. And today I realize how much I take it for granted. Normally, I can communicate whatever I want, whenever I want to. I can pick up my phone and talk to someone miles away. I can worship through song. I can tell Geoff that I love him. I can call to someone from another room and they will hear and respond. Normally.

I called my sister earlier thinking that I might be able to produce enough sound to carry on a conversation, and she said, kindly, of course, “Yeah, just text me.” But texting can be a pain when you're telling a long story. I tried to talk to a neighbor and felt a little embarrassed when he couldn’t understand me. It was humbling to not have my own voice at my command.

Just the other night I finished reading a book by Henri Nouwen called The Way of the Heart: The Spirituality of the Desert Fathers and Mothers. In his chapter on the discipline of silence I underlined these words:

                      One of our main problems is that in this chatty society, silence has become a very fearful  thing. For most people, silence creates an itchiness and nervousness. Many experience silence not as full and rich, but as empty and hollow. For them silence is like a gaping abyss which can swallow them up. As soon as a minister says during a worship service, “Let us be silent for a few moments,” people tend to become restless and preoccupied with only one thought: “When will this be over?”

But why are we so afraid of silence? Why does it make us so uncomfortable? Maybe, like I experienced, we don’t like the feeling of being out of control. Words somehow make us feel like we have the upper hand. What is it that we never want someone else to have in an argument…the last word? Because if they get the last word, it seems that they have won. They are the ones with the power. The ability to speak gives us a false sense of security—well, if nothing else, I can say what I mean. I can insult. I can make someone feel small—even if just for a moment. If I need help, I can scream. If I need to get something off of my chest, I can vent.

Words can be our little fortress. 

Until we realize that they don’t always accomplish what we want.

Until we feel the sting of regret from a word spoken too sharply.

Until no one picks up the phone when we need to vent.

Until our voice cracks when we’re singing in front of a crowd.

Until our voice is gone altogether.

Perhaps behind all of these scenarios is the need for silence. The need to get away from the noise, even of our own voices, and practice silence before God. The silence that says I don’t always have to be heard. I don’t always have to speak my mind. The silence that says, Lord, You are enough. I don’t have to vent. I don’t have to share every little experience with another person. I can confide in You. 

And perhaps this practiced silence might train us for the times when we want to speak, but really ought to keep silent. We can say no because we haven’t given in to every little urge to open our mouths. And maybe, through the serenity that we gain from knowing not only that silence is OK,but that it is often the place where we meet our Lord, we might become a source of rest and peace for travelers made weary by this “chatty society.”

I guess I'm a little stubborn; It took a forced silence for me to reflect upon how I take the ability to speak for granted. But it has also shown me that words are a faulty fortress, and although they can accomplish much, silence offers a host of treasures that words can never give.