confession of silence

“He who does not understand your silence will probably not understand your words.”
― Elbert Hubbard

“To sin by silence, when we should protest,
Makes cowards out of men. . .”

Opening line from poem Protest by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

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(Fra Angelico, Christ Crowned with Thorns, 1440 / Livorno, Santa Maria del Soccorso)

Frustratingly this week, my time has not been my own as I have been back and forth to Dads–Dad is still sick with what I’ve thought to be little improvement but the doctor today tells us otherwise. He seems to think Dad is showing slow gains.
Really??
Well, slow it certainly seems to be—and I suppose slow is better than stagnate.

Dad’s question to the doctor “can I eat fried chicken and chocolate?” Hopefully he didn’t intend to have that as a combo meal. . .
My hope is that he might have something a little more solid, sans fried chicken. . .of which will still be quite sometime as we’ve had to switch up meds hoping for greater improvement. . .

All of this has left me with little to no time to put together a thoughtful, or thought provoking, post as of late. And that is in part why I have yielded the past few days to the wisdom of my friend, Pastor Bonhoeffer.
Of which I must do again today as the past couple of entries from my devotional book have spoken deeply to my heart.
His words race across the chasm of time and place.
It is as if I am reading an observation from our own sad world. . .
May we, the body of the Church, no longer remain silent. . .

The Sin of Silence
The church confesses that it has witnessed the arbitrary use of brutal force, the suffering in body and soul of countless innocent people, that it has witnessed oppression, hatred, and murder without raising its voice for the victims and without finding ways of rushing to help them. It has become guilty of the lives of the weakest and most defenseless brother and sisters of Jesus Christ. . . .
The church confesses that it has looked on silently as the poor were exploited and robbed, while the strong were enriched and corrupted. The church confesses its guilt toward the countless pople whose lives have been destroyed by slander, denunciation, and defamation. It has not condemned the slanders for their wrongs and has thereby left the slandered to their fate. The church confesses that it has coveted security, tranquility, peace, property, and honor to which it had no claim, and therefore has not bridled human covetousness, but promoted it.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer
Ethics 139-140

(the above image of a painting by il Beato [the blessed one] Angelico known as Fra [brother] Angelico of the Christ Crowned With Thorns is one of the most moving Renaissance images of Christ that I have ever seen. I actually saw the image at the Convent of San Marco in Florence, Italy on a card in the gift shop. San Marco is the convent in which Fra Angelico lived as a monk. Each of the monk’s cells are painted with various images depicting the life of Christ, as painted by Fra Angelico, intended for each monk’s contemplation—a beautiful contemplative respite in the tourist ridden Florence)

Should anyone be concerned?

In the End, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.
Martin Luther King, Jr.

“. . . meekness,love, purity, these are the things that should magnify us.”
― Joseph Smith Jr.

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(the mysterious silent beauty of orchids / Julie Cook / 2015)

Should I be concerned that ISIS executed another group of Ethiopian Christians over the weekend?
How many executions does this make? I think I’m losing count. . .

Yet sadly the only thing I’m hearing about such is. . . mostly silence.

Should I be concerned that Boko Haram, the violent Islamic group out of Nigeria, has vowed to follow suit, joining ISIS, creating a deadly alliance, and declaring total eradication of all Christians?
70 million Nigerian Christians most likely are not sleeping well tonight. . .
Oh, and by the way, they still have all “The Missing Girls”. . .

Again, sadly the only thing I’m hearing about such is predominately silence

Should I be concerned that last week, on one of those boats bringing “migrants” from the coast of Nigeria to southern Italy—illegally mind you, that 12 Christian migrants were thrown overboard by several Muslim migrants, all drowning in the choppy seas. . .simply for praying.
Yet with many of the migrant ships sinking on what seems to be a weekly basis, killing hundreds as it is. . .12 Christians is but a drop in the bucket. . .and anyway, this issue has all sorts of concern written all over it does it not. . .yet what does the UN, the EU, the US, Russia, China, or anyone else for that matter who matters, have to say. . .

Again, sadly, silence

Should I be concerned that I don’t hear much in the way of global outrage or concern for the worldwide Christian communities that seem to be living in harms way?
Oh wait, I think the Pope said something. . .
“complicit silence” I believe were his words. . .as in why are the leaders of the world remaining, or better yet, choosing to remain silent?

The Pope gets it.

Why are the global Christian communities, which are not in harms way, remaining silent?
Why aren’t we all standing on the roof tops saying that all of this must stop?

Did you catch 60 Minutes Sunday night?
What of the children being gassed in Syria??
Seeing those horrific images should be enough for any breathing human to utter. .
no more. . .
Are we not yet outraged enough to say a collective NO MORE??

I did, however, recently read somewhere that there is a push for some sort of solidarity in some Christian congregations throughout the US for parishioners to wear orange–a color symbolic of the infamous jumpsuits worn by the executed ISIS captives.

Yet I’ve not seen any news about such, nothing locally or nationally. I’ve heard of no ground swell over such. . .seen no orange out and about. . .

Why are we all so silent?

Why is the Jewish nation, silent?

Why are the atheists silent?

Why are the Buddhists silent?

Why are the Islamic faithful, who are not supporters of jihad and barbarism, remaining silent?

Should I be concerned?

Should any of us be concerned?

Silence

Do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Let the day’s own trouble be sufficient for the day.
Matthew 6:34

We need to find God, and he cannot be found in noise and restlessness. God is the friend of silence. See how nature – trees, flowers, grass- grows in silence; see the stars, the moon and the sun, how they move in silence… We need silence to be able to touch souls.
Mother Teresa

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(new bloom to a new little king hawthorne tree / Julie Cook / 2015)

Praying
Begging
Pleading
Hoping
Bargaining
Promising

Do you hear me?

Crying
Anguishing
Fretting
Worrying
Agonizing
Struggling

Do you see me?

Watching
Waiting
Needing
Wanting
Yearning

Do you know me?

In the darkness of an aching heart
the frustration rises to a deafening level.

Silence answers

Day after day,
month after month,
year after year
a one way conversation plays out

Silence answers

Believing
Trusting
Claiming
Knowing
Proclaiming

Silence answers

On my knees, in the silence, I cry out to You
Through my tears, in the silence, I implore You
In the darkness, through the silence, I need You

A single word is heard to drift along an evening breeze. . .

Beloved. . .”

Waiting in silence

The Scriptures contain many stories of people who waited years or even decades before the Lord’s promises came to pass. What modern believers can learn from the patience of biblical saints like Abraham, Joseph, David, and Paul is that waiting upon the Lord has eternal rewards.
Charles Stanley

“Memory haunts me from age to age, and passion leads me by the hand–evil have I done, and with sorrow have I made acquaintance from age to age, and from age to age evil shall I do, and sorrow shall I know till my redemption comes.”
H. Rider Haggard

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(busy carpenter bee / Julie Cook / 2015)

My soul, now in silence, waits. . .
As the earth joins in with a palpable anticipation.
ALL of Creation shutters in the deafening stillness.
Man hangs in the balance between the living and the dead
As both Life and Death vie for final control of all humankind

A tug and war ensues for each and every soul
those that were, those which are and those who are yet to be.
Yet it is only the keen of heart who take notice.
The majority of mankind races off in the opposite direction, lost and unaware.

The ground groans deep within as tiny ripples race across the surface of time
A battle fiercely rages out of site from all of humanity,
as man sits on the precipice of eternity.
We wait, watching, listening, wondering
Our fate is sealed,
yet the question remains. .
what will that fate be. . .

It’s time to reclaim my friends

Faith is the bird that feels the light when the dawn is still dark.
Rabindranath Tagore

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(long abandoned blue bird eggs / Julie Cook / 2014)

I know they were just two trees.
I know they were sick.
I know they needed to be cut . . .
. . .yet they were more than just trees.
They were homes.
They were alfresco dinning.
They were shelter.
They were shade.

Adjusting to their absence is not proving easy.
Just walking outside, immediately into the blinding sun, is a constant and very hot reminder–as are the two massive bare spots now covered in straw.

There is one glaring change, however, that is proving almost too painful to bare.
The sound.
There is no sound.
No rustling of leaves.
No rush of wind.
Yet the most startling loss of sound is from my feathered freinds.
No chirping.
No singing.
No fluttering of my birds.

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This image of St Francis is on a little card I picked up several years ago when visiting Assisi. It is one of my favorite images of Francis. There is adoration, joy, wonderment, and even serenity.
Arms outstretched, wounds of a stigmata are bourn on hands and feet. . .and the birds rejoice!

The birds rejoice.

And so, with that notion in mind. . .it was time I took matters into my own hands—It was time for me to bring back my birds!! The bevy of constant activity and action taking place on a daily basis just past my window in the two beautifully majestic oaks–both now gone, now silent, now bare.

Fast forward to this morning. . .

I pulled into the massive parking lot, practically jumping from my car, immediately grabbing a buggy (aka for non southerners, shopping cart) and making my way inside the store like a crazy woman on a mission, I then make a bee line to the source of my need.

I push the cart past the ant poison, grabbing two cans–can’t ever have enough ant poison, past the displays of fake christmas trees (helllooo we haven’t even had Halloween yet. . .I digress), past the tropical plants,ooooo pretty orchids–pay attention!! all the way to the back wall.
Looking past the rows of fertilizers, past the potions of weed be gone, past the bottles of gopher poison (do we even have gophers and why should we be killing them??)
Oh, look, sacks upon sacks of rattlesnake killer. . .interesting. . .do I need that?
FOCUS!!!

Moving methodically along the shelf, I finally stop dead in my tracks, for at last, the path of searching and seeking has finally lead to that which I have so desperately sought—-the bird feeders, the bird seeds, the bird houses, the bird suet, the mealy worms?!. . .
EXCELLENT!!

“Cut down my trees. . .huh uh”
Defiant thoughts run through my head as I gleefully pile my buggy (cart) to the brim as if in a trance.

Once back home, it’s assembly time.
I bought a telescopic “pole” thingie, of which will take the place of a tree. I know, I know, it’s a stretch yes, but I was a girl scout—one must always be prepared and must make do with what’s available!!!
Locating a sledge hammer, I proceed to pound that sucker into the ground. It will afford me to hang up 4 feeders. Woooowhooooo!
I found a cute little suet house which holds two suet packs.
I found a really interesting feeder that holds 4 pre molded pods of seed. Oh the advancements in feeding the birds!
Ooooooo!!

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Finally putting on all the finishing touches, I step back to admire my bird “retreat”

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Hummmmmm. . .
Too much?
Ok, so maybe it’s a bit over the top.
Maybe it makes me look a tad desperate. Don’t answer that.
Maybe Peaches is not exactly a welcoming mat (welcoming cat, get it. . . digressing)
Now it is time to head back inside and wait.
And woe to first raccoon, with hot little paws, attempting to undo what I spent all afternoon doing–otherwise I’ll be right back at that store taking a close second look at that gopher poison. . .just saying.

Storm clouds gather on the horizon

“In each age men of genius undertake the ascent. From below, the world follows them with their eyes. These men go up the mountain, enter the clouds, disappear, reappear, People watch them, mark them. They walk by the side of precipices. They daringly pursue their road. See them aloft, see them in the distance; they are but black specks. On they go. The road is uneven, its difficulties constant. At each step a wall, at each step a trap. As they rise the cold increases. They must make their ladder, cut the ice and walk on it., hewing the steps in haste. A storm is raging. Nevertheless they go forward in their madness. The air becomes difficult to breath. The abyss yawns below them. Some fall. Others stop and retrace their steps; there is a sad weariness. The bold ones continue. They are eyed by the eagles; the lightning plays about them: the hurricane is furious. No matter, they persevere.”
Victor Hugo

“The wise man in the storm prays to God, not for safety from danger, but deliverance from fear”
Ralph Waldo Emerson

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(clouds and sun vie for dominance over the skies of Georgia / Julie Cook / 2014)

There is a lovely little blog I follow and I do believe I’ve made mention of it before. . .
Dominus mini adjuror (The Lord is my help)
by Father Hugh Somerville-Knapman
http://hughosb.wordpress.com

Father Hugh is an Australian Benedictine monk living at Douai Abbey in Woolhampton Berkshire England.
http://www.douaiabbey.org.uk/index.html

I happened upon Father Hugh’s blog quite sometime ago and despite my not being Catholic, I greatly enjoy reading his posts, as he speaks to not merely the Catholic faithful, but to all of the faithful Christian flock. The only caveat is that Father Hugh is quite a busy monk and can only post as his time and schedule permit.

Father Hugh tells it like it is and I, for one, greatly appreciate that.
In an age of overt political correctness–where we are so terribly afraid to say anything as it seems anything and everything these days causes great offense—as ours is a society constantly in mea culpa mode-it is almost refreshing that there are those who see the world, warts and all, and will offer honest and truthful observation without fear of reprisals, boycotts, assaults, condemnation, social media backlash, etc.

It is the knowledge that Father Hugh’s reflections, those based from his observations of life in this world, are rooted in the fact that his words are steeped in the Truth of the Gospel and that his words merely echo the words of Jesus Christ.

It is Father Hugh’s posting today, “Voices Speaking Silence” that has left my heart deeply troubled.

Father Hugh brings to light a need in awareness of the continued brutal persecution of Christians by the militant Muslim group known as ISIS—or now simply referred to as the Islamic State (IS). It is noted in his post that the News outlets of this world choose not to report on, or merely choose to overlook, the growing number of persecutions of Christians but rather focus their attentions on the brutality unleashed upon other ethnic groups, many varying sects of Islam, as well as the continuing assault in Gaza on the Palestinians (and my question is why have we not heard of the sufferings of the Jews?)— With World attention being brought to these other groups, Christians in Egypt, Syria, Iraq, Iran–as well as elsewhere in this fractured globe of ours, are being assaulted, tortured and killed in numbers that this generation has not witnessed—all going unnoticed, unreported, ignored.

Tortured, beaten, raped, kidnapped, crucified, beheaded. . .horrific atrocities that the World at large would normally rise up in arms against over such barbarism—and yet, what remains is only silence.

All of this, as the face of a young man, head shaven yet held strong and high, eyes tightly shut, mouth drawn down fighting the undeniable deafening fear that has welled up inside of him, is etched in my mind. The image of the young journalist James Foley, who in an orange prison jumpsuit, is kneeling at the hand of his executioner, who gleefully holds a knife. I have not, nor will I, view the video of his death as I am not drawn to witness the macabre—the image of him kneeling in the desert and of his resolute face, at the feet of a knife wielding man is enough to sicken me.

In this oh so modern, sleek, techno savvy and trendy 21st century of ours, that has our every need and whim complete and fulfilled at the touch of a finger, we unbelievably continue to witness the barbarism, such as beheadings and crucifixions, which belongs to the annuals of ancient history.

Not only are those of Western culture at risk for the reprisals and retributions of jihadist terrorism but it is the Global Christian Community that is at greatest risk— not for proselytizing, not for preaching, not for the distribution of clandestine Bibles, but rather simply for believing.

The broad scope and vast number of Christian deaths as a result of simply believing is at such a number that it rivals the days of the Roman Empire.
The following excerpt taken from an article in The Spectator, by John L Allen Jr. dated October 5,2013 echoes these numbers and statistics.

According to the Pew Forum, between 2006 and 2010 Christians faced some form of discrimination, either de jure or de facto, in a staggering total of 139 nations, which is almost three-quarters of all the countries on earth. According to the Center for the Study of Global Christianity at Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary in Massachusetts, an average of 100,000 Christians have been killed in what the centre calls a ‘situation of witness’ each year for the past decade. That works out to 11 Christians killed somewhere in the world every hour, seven days a week and 365 days a year, for reasons related to their faith.

In effect, the world is witnessing the rise of an entire new generation of Christian martyrs. The carnage is occurring on such a vast scale that it represents not only the most dramatic Christian story of our time, but arguably the premier human rights challenge of this era as well.

My question for all of us is how much longer will we pretend that all of this is happening “over there” and has no bearing on our lives here–wherever here and there may be.
How much longer will we continue to ignore the statistics?
How much longer will we allow our Politicians to overlook and our News media to ignore the persecution of Christians as a real and present danger?
How much longer will we remain silent?

May we be mindful that persecution is not always physical.
Will the stifling of the Christian voice in America and throughout Europe, due to the rise of intolerable secularism, be a final straw. . .

We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed; always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be made visible in our bodies. For while we live, we are always being given up to death for Jesus’ sake, so that the life of Jesus may be made visible in our mortal flesh.
2 Corinthians 4:8-11

all that remains is Silence

Secrets, silent, stony sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their tyranny: tyrants willing to be dethroned.”
― James Joyce

In the silence of the heart God speaks. If you face God in prayer and silence, God will speak to you. Then you will know that you are nothing. It is only when you realize your nothingness, your emptiness, that God can fill you with Himself. Souls of prayer are souls of great silence.”
― Mother Teresa

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(old fence post, Julie Cook / 2014)

It has only been a few hours.
There is. . .
no rush of wind,
no gossip or chatter,
no signing birds
no barking dogs
no children at play
no rumble of thunder
no toil of labor.
Nothing.

The only thing which remains is the Silence,

And yet there is a sound to Silence.
It is the sound of a heartbeat pulsing through tired worn out ears.
The heaviness of a labored sigh expelling through a dry open mouth.
The sound of hunger wrestling through an empty gut.
The popping of tired old joints.

He had asked them to bring the body here.
To the cold Silence of a bought grave.
Emptiness fills the Silence.
A lingering sweet scent of myrrh and aloe now fills the cold empty space.
With the women all gone, as well as for all the others, he silently holds a solitary vigil.
Two laborers wait nervously by the trees ready to seal the tomb.

He stands alone staring, for what seems to be an eternity, at the now lifeless shrouded mass.
A surreal moment for a tired old man who has seen far too much of a life that he cares not to recall.
What was it his old friend had told him of the conversation he had had with the Teacher that night which now seemed so long ago. . . .”No one has ascended into heaven, but He who descended from heaven: the Son of Man. As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the Son of Man be lifted up; so that whoever believes will in Him have eternal life. . .

What does any of that now mean at this particular moment in time?
Does the Son of Man now die as any other man?
Everything he thought he knew is now turned upside down.
He silently wrangles with these thoughts of life and death, when suddenly he is reminded of how very tired he feels.
He had raised his hand, without thought, resting it against the cold massive stone in order to steady himself. It has been a terribly long and pain filled day.
He is no longer a young man.
He is old and tired, but the events of today have aged him further.

There are no more tears, for they have long since fallen.
He shutters slightly, pulling the tallit, the prayer shawl, closer over his aged body, as an empty coldness now envelopes the dark tomb.
Silently the sun begins a slow descent below the horizon, as he notices an odd coloring to the sky.
It is now time he takes his leave for the Sabbath is soon to begin.

Sabbath.
How odd that suddenly seems.
He slowly turns towards the two men waiting in the shadows.
No words are spoken.
He offers a silent nod as he walks away.
The workmen wait until he is gone before bracing the long pole under the massive stone.
It is done.

And now Silence fills the World.
Not even a whisper remains.

Yet oddly, vibrations faintly rumble underfoot.
An expectancy fills the air.
A small flock of birds chaotically flutter in the night sky.
Something in the dark has sent them into motion.
The animals sense it first.
They always sense change before any human.
Mankind doesn’t yet take notice.

Within the Silence, the Earth begins to tremble.
Birth pangs fight viciously against Death’s motionless hold.
Transcendence is at hand,
as blinding light seeps up through cracks in the ground.
Tremors roll over a planet as waves crash against distant shores.
The Earth now shifts ever so slightly on its axis, as cosmic explosions mysteriously shimmer in the night sky.
All in Hell begin to quake.

The Silence is no longer so silent.

Whatcha looking at? (otherwise known as looking, seeking, finding)

“There is nothing like looking, if you want to find something.”
J.R.R. Tolkien

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Is it just me or is this dove giving the other two doves “the eye?”
Perhaps one of the other doves is putting a move on this dove’s lady friend.
Perhaps one of the other doves is putting a move on this dove’s boy friend.
Either way, quite a hoot.

Which brings us all to ask the question. . .What are you looking at—or better yet, what are you looking for. . . . . .

Looking and finding—

Some folks spend a lifetime looking, seeking, searching—a lifetime without ever finding what it is they seek.
Some folks don’t seem to ever really know what it is of which they seek.

The emptiness, the shallowness, the idleness—a deep internal sense of lacking. Can’t put a finger on it, but there’s just something not right.
The disquiet which seems to keep the rhythm off kilter.
Restlessness, nervousness, a very deep unhappiness is brewing.
All of which sends us out on a never ending journey of looking, seeking and searching for what it is that will fill up this deep longing, desire, wanting, need. . .

The quick answer, the band-aid if you will, is to simply placate the gnawing. Putting a cease and desist to the seemingly empty quest of searching and looking—but we continue to ask. . . searching and looking for what.

Some turn to drugs and alcohol in order to numb the gnawing. Some think of an endless quest of self gratification through which a variety of sexual outlets and liaisons will finally silence the yearning. Some think that an endless trip to the mall of materialism will satiate the hunger. Violence becomes an outlet, anger escalates–anger at others—yet the truth of the anger is really that of self.
A long loathing hatred of self.

Maybe fame and fortune must be the key. The continuum to climbing the proverbial ladder of success– yet, as if in a dream, there is no real top to the ladder as there are simply more rungs added upon rung–a never ending climb upward, hand over hand, step upon endless step. . .

Perhaps it must be a quest for perfection—perfect skin, perfect hair, perfect bodies—defying age, that must be the answer.
Remodel, remake, reclaim.
Tuck, tack, augment.
To be beautiful, that’s the ticket—isn’t that what the god of Hollywood tells us little people? We need to be a glamour star for that is truly what we must be seeking. Living life as large and as glamorously as possible?

Yet, the restlessness that resides deep within the marrow of the now weary bones simply will not be silenced. For some it all becomes too late—the endless quest for placation leads to self destruction. Is that finally the answer?! Simply to silence it, making it stop —forever? Is that the hope we seek

But therein lies the rub, for the ache, the need, the void. . .it is not ever silenced—not by any of those devastatingly destructive choices. . .not by any of those. . .ever.

For it is actually in the silence in which the answer lies—
Rather than turning up the world as loud as we can, thinking it will drown out the ache, the hurt, the pain. . .
The answer, all along, is simply in the Quiet. .
Why are we so afraid of the silence?
Why are we so afraid?
Why?

Can any of you hear it?
Do any of you hear it?
Is that a voice. . .
Is this a dream?
No.
You hear it again. This time it is louder.
A voice.
It is a voice.
Just as quickly as you and I hear the Voice, we suddenly notice that the ache, the pain the void, the hurt—it’s not as loud, not as deep, not as empty.
You and I may finally exhale—as a lifetime of seeking, searching, looking is all released in a single sigh.
A release
the finality of letting go,
finally relinquishing
All the pain, the aching, the burning, the relentless gnawing is now all replaced. . .
There is now real—
Peace
Silence
Completeness
Oneness

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”

The hidden things you do not know

Call to me and I will answer you, and will tell you great and hidden things that you have not known.
Jeremiah 33:3

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(a pair of Cardinals/ Julie Cook / 2014)

The still small voice of God

Would we not assume it to be LOUD, LARGE, BIGGER THAN LIFE, ATTENTION GRABBING?
Yet experience teaches that God does not operate as we do or as we would–which is truly our blessing.

We might think a big name Ad agency should be hired. High tech, glitzy commercials, billboards, neon lights. . . run a spot during the Super Bowl—yeah that’s it, the Super Bowl. Use George Clooney or Heidi Klum as a spokesperson.
Offer some sort of give away—a new iPad, a new camera, a new car. A five nights, all expenses paid, trip to Disney–yeah that’s it, Disney.

Maybe we should Google the reviews to that Still Small Voice.
How many likes?
How many followers?
Has it been tweeted?
Can we follow it on FaceBook?
Has it opened on the NYSE?
Does it have a blog?
Can we clip a coupon, getting a discount?
Door busters, that’s it, does it offer a door buster to those who are the first to hear it?
Does its doors open extra early?
Does it offer extended hours?

Funny what we think to be attention grabbing and slick sales techniques—those things which we would employ as all important “hooks”—that which is loud, garish, flashy, tech savvy techniques, with millions spent in order to garner customers and sales. Our all engrossing sensory overload techniques. All this as we as a people are growing ever jaded with and by our savvy consumerism. It now takes something almost monumental to get our attention, our money, our business. As we continue searching and seeking something for nothing.

And yet God, the Almighty, Jehovah, Emmanuel, Yahweh, The Alpha and the Omega, the Omnipotent, the Creator, the Adonai. . . does not employ the tactics of mere mortals. He is not concerned with “out doing” the competition. He is not concerned without out selling the competitors.
The power is in the silence not in the noise.

Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper. When Elijah heard it, he pulled his cloak over his face and went out and stood at the mouth of the cave.

Then a voice said to him, “What are you doing here, Elijah?”
(1 Kings 19: 11-13)

A voice.
A whisper.
A simple spoken voice.
No screaming.
No shouting.
No yelling.
A voice.

We wonder where He is?
Why doesn’t He speak?
Why is He so silent?

The real question. . .
Is He?

To be a part of the silence

“In order to see birds it is necessary to become a part of the silence.”
―Robert Lynd

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(a nuthatch sitting in typical fashion, facing downward in an oak tree in Julie’s yard / 2014)

The leaves are long gone. The yard barren of color and seemingly void of any life or activity. As I canvas what was, only thinking and hoping of what will be, I am startled by a slight movement along the limbs of a lone stately oak tree.

Upon further inspection I spy a lone little nuthatch. A most spry and hardy little bird.
As I pull my coat a bit tighter, to ward off the blowing January wind, I am mesmerized watching this small bundle of blue grey and white energy hopping up and down the limbs of the stately oak.

Out of all the vast array of birds which call my yard home or hotel, I have always been partial to the tiny nuthatch. Not a showy bird nor loud, the nuthatch merely goes about its business, albeit, a bit upside down, with a relentless tenacity. Maybe that’s why I enjoy watching this bird so much as it scoots up and down trees usually pointed downward, peeping and grunting to itself—something akin to a tiny woodpecker, poking and prodding along the tree bark.

How comforting it is knowing that just when it appears as if life has all but stopped in this vast yard, there is a tiny glimpse of activity reminding all who are observant that life, despite the bitter cold and wet, the dormant buds and roots, the monochromatic tones of a seemingly barren landscape, continues with a steadfast determination.

This gloomy winter full of grey skies, cold wind and sleeping vegetation is made a little brighter and a bit more bearable because there remains a few hearty creatures that carry on, continuing life as if there is no change, no difference. The nuthatch doesn’t notice that the leaves are gone, the skies are dull or the air cold.

As I stand alone amidst the empty cold landscape, drawn into myself by this lingering melancholy of winter, I am gratefully rewarded, after my silent observation, that life is not on hold, the world has not stopped. Winter may be laying hold of all that surrounds me yet I am pleasantly reminded that all is not lost nor gone—For there is joy hopping among the empty limbs of the massive winter sentinels of the yard–a busyness of energy remains, all is not dormant nor still–as witnessed by a small bundle of blue grey and white feathers.