Silence
Sometimes, the prayer is silence.
It speaks to us in the shadows of the
night with glimmering intuitions.
It corners us into the rooms of our
deepest and darkest fears, leaving us to confront them until the break of day.
Yet something about this connotation
scares us.
It eats us alive. It makes us uncomfortable. It creeps up our skin until the fabrics
crawl.
But then the day breaks, the baby
cries, the birds chirp, and the silence is broken.
The time of stillness that was in the
air is gone. It is quickly replaced by the
hustling, bustling, and quickness of life.
And before we know it, we question what
is happening. We don’t understand how
life in itself can be so cruel. How the
world outside of our windows is so chaotic and harsh. So in this moment, we begin to miss the
silence.
The words unspoken, and the voices
unheard. The notes before they are sang,
and the words before they are said.
Yet it is too late. For the prayer was silence, and in our
busyness we missed it. We were too
concerned with the trivial affairs and without a notice, God had spoken in our
muteness, but we were too hectic to care.
Because sometimes the prayer is
silence, and we just have to be willing to sit and stare.
