Hello, Silence

You cannot capture silence. It captures you.

Richard Rohr 

Round two of chemo took its best shot and it successfully knocked me down for a few days. The new medicine to battle nausea thankfully worked, but fatigue reigned supreme blending and blurring the weekend together.

There were a few moments in these days of solitude when I wondered what I would write about next, seeking a distraction and a purpose (other than the internal fighting and healing- what a strange juxtaposition).

Unlike last round when my spiritual imagination took me to meeting Jesus on his path to Calgary, no scriptural reference or image emerged this time around.

Instead there was just silence- a deafening stillness that was both unfamiliar and unwelcome.

As I considered writing about it, I remembered the old saying, “don’t speak unless you can improve on the silence.” I am not sure I can.

I am hesitant to write about a subject that I have such little experience with, other than the limited and minimal carved-out time for prayer during the week.

Despite my best laid plans, silence is slowly taking over. From the waiting rooms for treatment to the stillness of my bedroom, the well-established space for silence is no longer large enough.

I am slowly accepting the invitation to let silence in. It is no secret that in the wisdom from those who best knew God, silence was essential. Spiritual voices from the past highlight the need for stillness, a time to reconnect with God.

Meister Eckhart, for example, writes, “Nothing is so like God as silence.” 

Thomas Keating adds, “Silence is God's first language; everything else is a poor translation. In order to hear that language, we must learn to be still and to rest in God.”

Even Rumi notes, “Silence is the language of God; it speaks to the soul.”

Jesus modeled silence, too, taking time to be alone and in prayer, while not rushing to judgment or action. In the Gospel narratives, if read carefully, you can almost hear his calming breath fill the pages between his miracles and parables as it was in the silence where he reconnected to His and our Source.

This bout with cancer presents many invitations to inspire, to heal, and to unite. Silence, despite my reluctance, is a significant part of this process. I must find rest here, and in the noise of our world, I invite you to join me.

I find hope in the stories and lives of many saints, who surrendered to the silence. Most notable this morning, I recall St. Louise de Marillac, who wrote, “I felt interiorly moved freely to place myself in a disposition of total availability,” when describing her “enlightened” experience when she found direction and trust in the silence. In the midst of great personal suffering and loss, God was preparing her to unite others to meet the material and spiritual needs before them, and to co-create communities with St. Vincent de Paul. It was in the silence where she found direction.

In our silence, might, we too, find our direction and even, purpose.

As I was searching for words to conclude this reflection, I found myself humming the familiar church hymn, “You are Mine,” by David Haas.

The opening lyrics go like this:

I will come to you in the silence
I will lift you from all your fear
You will hear My voice
I claim you as My choice
Be still, and know I am near

You can listen to the full version here.

Maybe, these lyrics can bring some comfort, reminding us all of the One who is waiting to meet us in the silence.