Oh, what a welcome respite a recent “snow day” was for some. Particularly the ones whose days are hustle and bustle. Whose commutes are honking and merging. One who arrive home each evening exhausted from the effort put forth in the day just filed in the “done” column.
I know and love such a one. She enjoyed this day in her quiet spot, watching the silence and breathing in the stillness. She even took a moment to think of me and snapped me a photo to share the moment’s peace.
How do we see the stillness?... What is stillness if not absence of movement? How can we see what isn't there?
How do we hear silence?... What is silence but absence of sound? How can we hear what isn't making a sound?
Funny how a snapshot can arrest the flicker of flame and the flutter of snow. Yet, I am certain they are not stopped but active. I know this by the bend of the light — its reaching and grasping for air. And by the blur in the distance, briefly obscured by the wet lattice of flakes.
I know movement, even in its absence, by the evidence of its presence. It invites me to see it and teases me to hear it. It calls me to see and to hear with senses different from those I usually trust.
Stillness... Silence... Stopping me to focus...
There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God, the holy place where the Most High dwells. God is within her, she will not fall; God will help her at break of day. Nations are in uproar, kingdoms fall; he lifts his voice, the earth melts.
Psalm 46: 4-6
Even as nations roar and kingdoms crash, there is a place to call Holy. Can we see it? Can we hear it? ... if we stop