Growing up in the south, I’ve long-since had a love and appreciation for silence. The more I ponder the essence of being silent, the more I feel I can wed the concept best with my childhood connections to storms. As I recall, some of the most beautiful, summer days almost always ended with storms. Raging weather. Heavy rain downpours coupled with dancing fits of lightening and floor-shaking thunder. Those were the most eerily beautiful times when silence, in our home, was truly golden. Now please understand that, as a child, silence wasn’t golden to me. Oh no! I had other plans to fulfill before bedtime. I liked to talk and ask questions. I wanted to play marbles loudly on the hallway floor pressed right up next to the linen closet. Or even jump rope outside under streetlights. Or better-yet, my favorite would be hopscotch on the right corner of the house by Ms. Julia’s fence. But Grandma had other plans for me. For all of us. We were going to be silent… And in true Southern Belle fashion, my grandmother, Mother Bert, would make every one of her grandkids, kids and visitors at 419 Brewer Avenue, “sit down somewhere” as we faced the unknown of the storm. And make no mistake about it. The “seat” that she offered up wouldn’t call for us gathering around one another at any point of our choosing in our home. You know the seat I’m speaking of though; the one in which you continue to “chew the rag” and laugh until your belly jiggled from trying to hold it all in. It wasn’t that kind of party. Nope. With each storm came specific instructions on how to govern oneself accordingly. First, lights out. We didn’t sit on the floor either. We all came to the front of the house, and the front door was left ever-so, slightly cracked to avoid giving lightening an inlet to start dancing through on those beautifully waxed, hardwood floors. And we’d sit. In silence just waiting for the storm to pass. Mostly importantly, my grandmother ushered in that silence, and she taught us to respect it, too. And I still do. She’d only have to deliver a “shhhh” once or twice, and we’d sit in silence until she let us know it was safe to resume normal activities again. She’d wave us right back to whatever we were engaged in prior to the storm and she’d get back to her own tasks. The older I get, the more I feel my grandmother’s spirit resting on me. Recently, I decided to take a few days off of work. I needed time and space. I needed to shake up my routine. I needed a recharge. A reset, by all means. Time to think and process. To disengage from normal activities and responsibilities. But most importantly, I needed the same silence Mother Bert ushered in during the storms when I was a kid. I needed to sit still. Not move. Crack a door a little, and watch God work. Watch Him move like only He moves. And yesterday, on my flight back from Texas, I experienced my silence breaker, silently. One that I’ve needed. I released some things. My spirit was renewed and my mind refreshed. And it all happened in silence. Literally, in supreme silence. As we received notice that we would be descending from flight, God’s love and grace and favor and mercy and love immediately overwhelmed me, simultaneously. Wrapped me up and held me tight. It was a feeling difficult to manifest in words. I can only classify it as powerful encounter, at the very least. I began to praise God inwardly. Not for anything specific. And then the tears flowed. Almost made my mask a suction cup and, of course my glasses were a foggy mess. Paralleled to downpours of rain as a child, I felt like I was being cleansed. Felt like everything that needed to be broken broke and what needed restoration was granted.
And God reminded me that I am a miracle. That things and people around me are miracles. That miracles are big and small. Some seen with the naked eye; many not, however. Some miracles are on display for all to witness, but most importantly, miracles can be achieved in and through silence. And in those moments, it made perfect sense to me as to why Grandma Bert valued the silence that came with storms. She knew that miracles and wonders were at work in those silent moments when I was a child. That’s where her strength was regained. Her will was restored. Her grit and determination refined. And it’s where the love of God enveloped her as it did me aboard that flight yesterday. So many personal, literal and figurative moments for me to explore and unpack, but for now, I invite you all to the silent moments made to rebuild you in the same manner in which it did my grandmother before me and then me. I pray for you those moments of silence that grant you peace and understanding. Even the silent moments that seem void and shallow. God does beautiful work, even in silence…
… and I’m so very thankful for all of the silent moments sent to grow us in faith, just like rain to wilted flowers. And then we’re waved right back to engage in life, in true Mother Bert fashion.
Sunday, October 17 @12:45 PM
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