I visited a monastery in Kentucky for a quiet weekend earlier this year. The chapel and guest rooms perch on a wide, green hillside overlooking a small, peaceful lake. My room was simply furnished, with a chair by the window overlooking the trees. The sisters there live in prayerful silence as they eat and work and walk gracefully around the campus. Their silence is interrupted only by singing and prayer at regular intervals throughout the day. This visit was a respite for me.
In my real life, I live in the city with my two lively, elementary-age children. They also move through life with grace—grace made gritty by frequent childhood conflicts, questions, and requests. When I first entered motherhood, I was surprised by how distressing it was to hear my newborn baby’s cry. I don’t know if I was distressed by the cry itself or by the weight of responsibility it represented, but his cry broke the silence of my old life.
Even with the best efforts, I don’t think one can ever fully prepare for life’s sudden seasons of change: the first day of school, a new city or apartment, a wedding, a funeral, walking into a new job. A certain clamor always accompanies change.
These days, I crave more silence than ever. But stillness takes practice as the force of life pulls us along. It’s uncomfortable at first. When I’m quiet, things float up to the surface from the shadow places in my heart that I haven’t wanted to deal with. But after a time, I can tune my ears to hear the still, small whisper of God. In silence, prayer comes up as wordless petitions and attentive expectation. In this, we affirm that prayer is a two-way conversation. Silence is the waiting posture that helps us to be poised ...1