The house is still. The only sound is a slow drip. . . drip. . . drip. . . from the kitchen sink. I jiggle the faucet, wondering how long the leak has been persisting beneath the noise. How many days did it go unnoticed? A small puddle has formed in the cabinet below, but the damage isn’t permanent. I sigh, relieved and grateful for what those few moments of quiet uncovered.

It’s amazing what we find when the clang and clamor falls away. The quiet waits, patiently nestled beneath our busyness and distractions and ready to divulge its secrets. It holds its breath in anticipation for when we might pay attention to the underlying sounds not only in our homes but in our hearts.

Perhaps that’s why we work so hard to avoid it.

We fill gaps of time because silence is revealing—and we do not want to hear what it has to say. We’d rather start another podcast episode or scroll through funny cat videos than linger in the blank space, because as Justin Whitmel Early observes, “When you stop, you have to face your thoughts, which terrifies most of us.”[1]

What is waiting for us in the quiet? What are we afraid to view head-on? Uncertainty about the future, a strained friendship, a looming shame that won’t unclench its claws—the list could go on and on. We may not even know what’s been camping out in our souls because we have been inundated with commotion for too long. The entertainment, pursuits, and pace of life have become an anesthetic—a way to numb the wounds, rather than to heal them.

The drug of noise has become so familiar we do not even know it is in our veins, until it is not. Until we find ourselves with a few minutes at a traffic light, grow restless, and reach for the phone. Heaven forbid we left it at home.

But what if all the noise were stripped away? What is happening beneath the clutter that reverberates in our minds, bodies, and emotions? What is the din doing to our souls?

Like most people, I am rather content not knowing the leak exists. It is much easier to be distracted than to see the damage down below, to confront our fears and failures, our unmet desires and motivations, our anxieties and disappointments. And yet, a life on the surface does not fulfill us. When the Netflix series ends or the Instagram comments stop coming, these place-fillers leave us wanting because the human soul was not designed for chaos, but for connection—for attachment to God and to each other. [2]

Madeleine L’Engle wrote, “When I am constantly running there is no time for being. When there is no time for being there is no time for listening.”[3] We cannot enjoy the nearness of God and the lush serenity of green pastures described in Psalm 23, without first being led “beside quiet waters.” For it is in the stillness where we meet with God, where being makes way for belonging.

When we’re strung out from fast-moving activities, screens, information, and opinions, we leave no space for knowing and being known. We become disconnected not only from who we are and our stories, but also the story of God in us and through us. We do not have time—let alone mental and emotional capacity—to sit in the silence, to acknowledge the Gentle Knowing of his presence, and to invite His Spirit to speak. As a result, hearts designed for feasting have become accustomed to scraps.

But it doesn’t have to be this way. The slow leak doesn’t have to go unnoticed. We can invite the quiet to come near, to hear what it has to tell us. Because the silence that initially might make us panic or feel hollow will lead us toward the communion our souls crave.

NEXT POST: Taking a look at solitude, silence, & Jesus.

NOTES:

[1] The Common Rule: Habits of Purpose for an Age of Distraction (IVP Books, 2019), p. 17.

[2] Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art (Convergent Books, 2016).

[3] Really, this narrative is strung throughout Scripture, but feel free to check out Matthew 22:34-40; John 17:20-26; and 1 John 4:12–16 to get a peek at how interconnected our love between God and each other is.

feature image by Luis Tosta via Unsplash