A different kind of silence

The TV is on. The boys are bickering. I go upstairs because the noise is making me crazy. I putter around the kitchen and it's too quiet, so I turn on the radio.

I'm restless, and the silence hits me. I stand utterly still at the sink and hear everything: The television, the boys, the air conditioner, the fishtank, the radio, the refrigerator, the katydids, the traffic, the cicadas. And the silence.

A silence that resists all attempts to fill it, a silence that WILL be heard. A silence that whispers what I've lost with every breath I take, a silence that echoes through my body with every beat of my heart.

Silence was once my close friend, a shelter I retreated to for strength and peace; I willingly yielded to her embrace, finding there the loving presence of God. Now, though, I find the aching absence of my beloved. The silence screams out his death until I can bear it no more, but there is no place to go where I cannot hear it.

And since I cannot bear this silence, I must simply let go and let it surround me. Since I cannot hide from it, I must let it find me. Since silence is no longer my shelter, I must let it be my storm... I must let it ravage my coastline and give me new contours. I must let it churn up what lies hidden in my depths -- both things beautiful and things deformed.

And after the storm, perhaps the silence will once again be my shelter, once again give me peace and strength, once again be where I find the love of my God and of my beloved.