When I was a kid, silence was always welcome but rarely lasted long, and it was almost always interrupted by conflict.
Quiet meant somebody was gone, or angry, or plotting the next storm. Silence was the air before the slap, the pause between slamming doors. The quietest “rooms” I ever knew were the ones outside, in the woods behind the house, the neighbor’s shed, or sitting beside a giant metal dragon next to the interstate.
As an adult, it took years before I could sit in silence without the anxiety of waiting for it to end. Even now, stillness feels like waiting for bad news. But lately, I’m learning that silence isn’t always absence. Sometimes it’s healing sneaking in on tiptoe.
The same God who thundered at Sinai also whispered to Elijah in a cave. The story says the Lord wasn’t in the wind, or the earthquake, or the fire — He was in “a still small voice.” I believe that voice still speaks in the quietest rooms — even the ones where children hide, and grownups heal.
So if you’re alone tonight and the silence feels heavy, don’t rush to fill it. Listen. Grace is quieter than grief, but it always answers back.
