In The Silence

I read the words across my screen,  the post by Preston titled “my book and i and the silence of God”. My soul is calmed and my mind slows down, it’s okay, someone else has been here, and journeyed through. I scroll through the comments and what Wendi wrote strikes me,  I read it a second time. I love her words, and I love her imagery, it touches me deep.

 

“I realize that when Jesus comes to me and tells me that for the next however long I’m just going to have to rely on faith I try to fill that silence with chatter. It’s an awkward silence that I must fill. Like small talk on a bad first date. Or dinner with your in-laws. Or the last year and a half in my former job.
I can’t stand to think that God would let me just stew in His grace, simmer in it like a crock pot meal. I have to think that God is always right there ready and willing to drop everything and take me up like a mother to her new born.
So I buy books and watch webinars and read websites instead of sitting quietly and letting the silence wrap me up.”

 

I know that’s me, scrambling for something, anything, to end this silence, to close this distance, to rekindle the intimacy. I know that awkwardness she speaks of, and so I respond. I type the words, the first I have written, really written in at least a month.

 

“I love that imagery “like small talk on a bad first date.” I feel like I’m on a bad first date with God… or maybe I feel like I’m in the awkward family court room with the divorce papers on the table, hoping, beyond reason, that the papers won’t be signed, that it’ll all be saved just in time.”

 

And then it hits me, maybe that’s why it’s so hard, this awkwardness, this silence. It’s harsh because we’re not strangers, it’s not a first date, I’m not new to this, to Him. If it were silent because we didn’t know each other, because I didn’t have the right words to say; if it were awkward because we were new to each other, unused to the other presence, if that were the case it would be bearable. If that were the case it would be part of the process, an expected hurdle to overcome.

 

But that’s not the case.

 

We’ve had years together, I knew Him, and I let Him know me. We’ve overcome the clumsy “first-date” stage, we’ve learnt to speak freely with one another. I’ve shed tears in front of Him,  I’ve shared secrets with Him no-one else would ever be privy to. He’s seen tears of grief and hears peals of joy that none other has shared. Yet now, now there is nothing. Now I feel like I’m left with divorce papers laying on the table in front of me. Now I feel like I’m being given my decision.

 

Sign my separation, walk away. Or wait, hope, trust.

 

So I wait, unable to walk away just now. Hoping that at the last moment this will be saved, unsure what my hope is in, but knowing there is still a flicker there. The papers remain unsigned, and I look around and see my One Word “Trust” standing on the bookcase.

 

I choose to trust, trust there will be an end to this silence; trust that this desert won’t last forever.

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