I was thinking today about how loud silence can be. You're sitting in a quiet room with someone who you know desperately needs to talk; someone who has so much going on inside that you literally think they might spontaneously combust if they don't relieve some pressure fast. You try to think of something to say to get the ball rolling, but their pain is so evident, so volatile, that you want to be sure to choose your words carefully. Even simple questions produce a dead end and only the silence of the room remains. To me, that is when silence is loud.
The other side of silence is the welcome quiet that comes in the middle of a hectic day. Those are the times I'm glad to reach the safety of my car and just turn the radio off. Or the mornings when I've been on to the kids since the time they rolled out of bed and the last one is dropped off at school. Good silence. Like the still of the night when the family is tucked in and you hear a faint train whistle in the distance... that's when you give a faint sigh as, for a moment, all is right in a quiet world. That's the other side of silent. It's the silence I like best.
My boy is troubled. My heart aches for him. His silence is unbearable. A small grin is a welcome relief. He tells me he doesn't think God cares about him anymore; that he gets his hopes up just so God can let him down. I'm suddenly no longer a mother, but a pastor... a counselor. He listens to me, his eyes fill up, he cannot speak. He is silent. And thinking. And hurting. Learning life the hard way.
"It's just not easy, Mom," he finally gets out. "I didn't think it would be like this."
And the rest is silence. The side of silence that I hate the most.
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