Thursday, March 15, 2007

Dearest God,

"What is silence?" Someone asked me during the Lenten study. "More than the absence of words." I told them. "Silence is a vast place, a darkness that leads to the light. It is the quieting of the voice in order to hear God speak." I should have told them it is also the soul's resting place. Silence is the meeting place of God. In silence, everything is hushed so the soul can awaken.

I remember growing up being terrified of a space without sound. Why, I can't really say. I don't know. While some are afraid of the dark, I was afraid of silence.

But life's experiences have prompted me to take another look at silence. In moments of deepest despair or desperation, I have been offered a new realm to visit. The gentle voice of God, like that of a loving mother, called out to me. With no where else to turn, I stepped inside this great unknown. Not sure what I would find and less sure I would survive the movement, I made the leap. What awaited me was a grand surprise.

It was the deepest darkness I had ever known. I was blind, unable to see. In the midst of this mysterious "place" I stood perfectly still. I became aware that silence may simply be darkness alone. I breathed in slowly, psychologically trying to take it all in. I seemed to be offered a choice of resignation or contentment. Because I believed I entered the silence with God, I chose contentment. If this is all there is, then I am alone with God here, I thought to myself. I am contented.

A peace gently came over me. I recognized a life force in the darkness, a movement, not the scary kind like someone hiding, waiting to jump out and scare me, but rather a loving kindness that lulled me into a new state of peace. I truly was contented. I was finally ready to move. I looked around, studying my new environment. My eyes seemed to adjust, making me one with the silent darkness. I began to walk around, not even sure if there was a floor upon which to stand. In the beginning this prospect scared me to death. But now this contented peace gave me courage to move. If I would begin falling, so be it.

It was then that I saw a pencil lead-size light. This tiny radiance opened a pathway and I followed it. I stepped out into the glorious light. I knew I was safe. Somehow, some way, some mysterious something had drawn me. The fear that I initially had disappeared and the dark door through which I had entered the darkness was gone forever. My knowledge of the door is all that remains. I knew as I pushed the heavy, monastery-like door open and passed over the threshold, I could never again return. When the door slammed shut, it was closed permanently.

"Silence is a friend." I told the group last night. And it is. It followed me on my pilgrimage toward God during my renewal leave, until we met up and I carried the silence within me. I remember the very moment my eyes caught a peek at the "Silence" sign at Taize, France. Instead of taking a picture of the worship center, I photographed the sign. Silence was at the heart of my quest for God.

"There are some things over which we have no control." Someone said during the study. "It's true, but instead of reacting or overreacting to a situation we cannot change, we can enter silence and find hope waiting for us." I said. In my darkest moments I head for silence as a mother, a woman, a seeker, a pastor, a friend, a grandmother, a creature in search for God. And I am never disappointed.

The search for God
is never ending.
My soul longs
to be in the presence
of the Holy One.
One more time,
I say to myself,
one more time
I want to lay eyes
on this One
who gives my life
value, purpose and meaning.
I wear the image of God,
not because I am deserving,
but because God has put
God's own self into me.
And into everyone else.
I am a look-alike
when I bare my soul to God
and find that God and I
are one.
Silence is
my best friend,
for this best friend
leads me to God
every time.

I will never forget your love, Andrea