I really wish I could tell the difference between the silence. The bridled silence I’m afraid I too often control. The caged silence for which I blame myself.
When he is silent, it hurts. When I forget to listen it hurts, too. It just takes longer to hurt. And when it comes, it rushes fast like a desert storm rolling over the dirt in the valley. Powerful and bursting forth I break the silence of my own feelings. The bursting forth as I sit in my car in my garage and I just cry.
Sometimes I can’t hear you.
Sometimes you don’t speak.
Why must it be so hard to listen for a whisper? To speak…so easy. To listen to others, myself… little effort is required.
But your whisper. Can puncture a heart. Will break through the silence.
And your silence even when I’m trying to desperately to listen? Well, that itself is a whisper. In a promise. A promise of words read and heard before. I cling to this. Even when it’s hard.
I wish for whisper often, maybe all the time. I wish for whisper I could hear even when I’m not listening. I wish for whispers I could hear when I don’t want to hear them.
Longing for these words, these whisper, so echoes the imposition of life. It’s so the Romans 7.
Help me to learn and listen in the silence, O Lord.