Recently Craig and I were in what we consider our heaven on earth – the mountains of Colorado. We spent a month there, packing in playing with grandchildren (oh, did we have a blast), quality time with our son and daughter-in-law, a rowing lesson, delicious meals (I gained weight; Craig lost…aurghh!), and numerous bikes and hikes. We did some favorite hikes again and then several we hadn’t done before, conquering Mt. Quandry (though it nearly conquered us, truthfully), Mohawk Lakes (gorgeous, but way too busy) and Lewanee (now this was more to our liking – peaceful, quiet, hiking to the tundra).
Craig will tell you I have this thing about getting to the top–above the treeline, to the tundra, with the pay-off incredible view. I must admit, I do like reaching that high point, but I don’t agree that I’m quite as OCD about it as he insists. At the same time, I’ll own that I love to get above the treeline for the reward I find there: utter silence. No traffic noise, no people talking, not even the chattering of animals, the gurgling of a creek or the wind in the trees. The only sound is the occasional overhead passing jet and maybe the repeated peep! of a marmot. To Maddy’s frustration.
We were discussing that silence on one of our hikes, and why we both crave it. “What is it about silence that’s so appealing? How can nothingness be so fulfilling to me?” I mused. I can recall where we were, pushing ahead at that point, huffing and puffing as we climbed a steep part of the path.
“Maybe it’s because silence doesn’t equal nothingness. Don’t assume silence means empty.”
That’s when I remembered Elijah, and the story about God’s voice not being in the great and powerful wind (which tore the mountains apart and shattered rocks), the earthquake, or the fire. Instead, Elijah heard God most clearly in a “gentle whisper.” I can relate to that, for I too hear God’s voice most clearly in softness. In silence.
It’s a silence that I have to work at, for it means I quiet my racing thoughts enough to hear God’s message to me. I need to look into the depths of my soul at those times, and I can’t do that when the noise of this world crowds out my ability to focus. To center in. To listen and actively hear. For I know he speaks to me there, if I can only connect to that silence–which contains a universe of sounds, actually, to those who can indeed “hear.” It’s the very core of life, the living fountain, the Light of the world.
Tears falling freely now, as I am convicted how infrequently I seek him that way–with my whole soul, my entire heart, all my mind attempting to be quiet before him. To sit humbly as his feet like Mary. Patiently waiting. Not allowing so much me that I crowd out the silence to be able to hear him.
It’s easier in the mountains, when we reach that point of following cairns to the end goal: the very top. Taking in the awe-inspiring view, Craig and I draw in breath, uttering little more than “Oh.” And then we can hear so much…in the silence.
I will walk Maddy today, following the familiar path around the subdivision. I won’t be on top my beloved mountains in Colorado, but I still need to find that silence in the near-deafening chaos that usually floods my mind.
Quiet, my soul. Listen. Find the one Voice I so long to hear. Speak to me, my God, as I seek and reach for only you. Listening for the sound of silence.