When the Silence is Deafening

 When the Silence Is Deafening

“Be still, and know that I am God.” – Psalm 46:10

      Grief in its infancy was really loud.  The sound of hospital rooms, funeral services, phone calls, texts, and the ringing of the door bell filled the empty space.  But those sounds dissipate over time, and then the silence becomes so incredibly defeaning.  When I say silence that doesn't mean the lack of sound, far from it.  For me personally there were lots of sounds.  There was the sounds of three children the needed my attention, the sound of trying to get back to work, the average sounds of a day like the background noise of a fan, the sound of cutting carrots on a cutting board, or the sound of worship music in the foreground.  There were still sounds, but those sounds became muffled.  Birds still sang and people still laughed, but not in my dark space.

      The hardest part of losing my wife isn’t always the memories—it’s the silence that follows them. For me personally the silence was so loud.  Tif and I worked side by side for fourteen years.  There weren't many moments of silence.  We were always communicating.  We would talk hours a day.  I remember the sound from Facebook messenger knowing that it was her sending me another funny dog video. I never expected the pain of silence.  Our home once rang with her laughter, the sound of her voice in the living room, her footsteps down the hall. Now, there are nights when the quiet feels heavier than the grief itself.

      Silence can feel like loneliness echoing back at me. Read that again.  One would assume that silence doesn't have an echo, but in the valley of the shadow of death the sound of silence almost breaks the sound barrier.  It reminds me of what’s missing, of the conversations that will never happen again, of the prayers we once prayed side by side, of the dreams that were once dreamed  There are moments I catch myself wanting to call her name into the empty air, just to hear something other than my own thoughts.

      And yet, it’s in this deafening silence I found that God speaks the loudest.  Not all the times though.  There were moments when God was so incredibly silent, but He was never totally mute.  God indeed did speak, but not with thunder, not with a booming voice—but with a gentle whisper that fills the emptiness. His presence reminds me I am not abandoned.  It's amazing how peaceful the whisper can be.  As much as I want God to loudly scream, I'm more comforted by His gentle whisper.  His whisper cuts through the silence, offering a gift of peace.  The Psalmist says "Be still and know that I am God."  We need to be quiet with our grief sometimes, and instead of letting it scream loudly we let the voice of God to penetrate the darkness.  Being still in the face of loss is an exercise by itself, it' exhausting.  But when we are still, when we seek the voice of God, we will find that He faithfully meets us.

      The silence, though painful, has also become sacred. It’s where God meets me in the rawest parts of my soul. It’s where His Word has space to sink in deeper. It’s where I remember that His love has not left me, even when hers has been taken.

      Maybe the silence is not my enemy. Maybe it is the place where I learn to lean into Him most, where I find that He is enough when everything else has gone quiet.

Reflection:

      - Where does silence feel most heavy for you?

      - How might God want to meet you in that silence 

         instead of letting it haunt you?

      - What Scripture can you hold onto when the quiet 

         presses in?