Wednesday, June 26, 2024

Dear God,

It seems I return to silence more and more often.  When I was in my twenties, I did not like silence so I left the television on all day long.  I confess I was afraid of too much quiet time for fear of what might come to my mind or heart.  So I filled the space.

When I turned fifty and learned I had breast cancer, something more than a life-threatening disease struck me.  I felt myself being slowly drawn to the quiet darkness.  It was terrifying; yet, I intuitively knew there was something waiting for me on the other side.  When the vision of a huge, arched wooden door came to mind, I knew I had to open it.  I also knew there was only one doorknob and it was on the outside.  Once I entered and the door closed, there would not be a way out.  With great fear and trepidation, I chose to follow the lead.  I will never forget the whole experience, never.  

As I entered the quiet, dark space and heard the door slam shut, I stood still.  The darkness was so black, I could not tell where I was or what there was around me.  I couldn't even see the floor where I was standing.  After a few seconds went by, an eerie peace settled down upon me.  I took a few steps.  I breathed in and found a sweet, sweet peace.  As minutes elapsed, I heard myself say it didn't matter where I was or why, I was just grateful to be there with you.  

What I discovered during that life-changing experience was so much grace.  A realization that there is a world deeper and wider than this one waiting for any who are willing to step inside.  Death is not the ticket but rather life, trusting you more, listening closer and having a willing spirit, a desire to journey into eternity even while living this very human experience.  I found so much joy, even laughter, truths, mercy and faith.  It is a world of silence so full of you.

Holy God,

thank you

for the

amazing gift

of silence.

Thank you

for inviting me in.

Thank you

for teaching me

to trust more,

listen more closely

and anticipate 

your loving,

living presence

in the here

and now.

Yours, Andrea