by Teresa McBean
I’m not the kind of gal who walks on tiptoe and slinks off quietly into the night. Mostly I talk to strangers—in my sleep and at inopportune times. I say things that others wisely believe should be left unsaid. My laugh is too loud, and if you rent an expensive limo, I believe you should use it for the entire time and take advantage of all the accouterments. This is why there might be pictures of me standing with my head poking out of a sunroof while cruising down Fifth Avenue in NYC, flailing my arms while wearing a feathered hat.
I do not understand silence, especially God’s silence. On delusional days I play with God and imagine what it would be like if I had gotten his job. I consider all the opportunities to smite and instruct, command and control. Ten commandments? Seriously? That’s hardly trying. If I were God, I dare to dream, there would be numerous breakfasts and beratings, lunches and lectures, dinners and discussions, not to mention the board meetings and big ten revivals.
God’s silence has been an anathema to me for decades.
I’ll never be God, so everyone can relax. But I am a mom. (Hence, the experience with breakfasts and beratings, lunches and lectures, dinners and discussions, including a few come-to-Jesus meetings.) My husband and I are hands-on parents. And although much of my parenting style was probably passive-aggressive, I was never silent. Until, one morning, I realized my children were no longer babies, toddlers, or teens. As closely as I monitored their every move, they still managed to surprise me when they grew into their full-sized selves. In that moment of shocked realization, I fell silent.
“Mom, Jimmy and I are thinking about traveling on bicycles through South America.”
“Wow.” (This is as silent as it gets for a mom.)
“Mom, I saw this girl at a coffee shop and I just know she’s the one for me. As soon as I can figure out who she is and how to get in touch with her, I’m going to ask her out. Do you know any good P.I.s?”
“Hmm.”
“Mom, I’ve rescued the cutest puppy, but you know I cannot keep pets in my apartment. I’ll be bringing her home this afternoon.”
“Yay!” I responded (and actually meant it).
Let’s imagine for a moment that I had maintained my previously held notion that silence is NOT a gift.
“Mom, Jimmy and I are thinking about traveling on bicycles through South America.”
“Are you kidding me? South America? Is that safe? Do they have a decent road system? You? On a BICYCLE? First you’ll need to learn to ride one! No son of MINE is going to hop on a bike he can barely balance and travel through a THIRD WORLD CONTINENT! How about we take a nice trip to Disney, as a family? My treat.”
“Mom, I saw this girl at a coffee shop . . . ”
“Are you nuts? I have the perfect girl picked out for you—lovely parents. She wants to be a missionary and have at least six grandchildren— hrmph!—I mean children. Sweet thing. In fact, we have a meet and greet scheduled for next Thursday evening. Please wear a tie, and for goodness’ sake, show up clean-shaven. Her parental units are opposed to facial hair.”
“Mom, I’ve rescued the cutest puppy . . . ”
“Take her back! Dad and I are committed to an empty nest, and it has no space for a PUPPY! This is outrageous. What a bad decision! When you are married and own a home, then get a puppy. And what’s her breeding? Did you even think to check on that? We’re a lab family. We don’t accept other, lesser breeds.”
Trust me. Silence is the way to go in parenting after a certain age.
I’ve been practicing silence in my contemplative prayer time for a while now, and it has come in handy as a parenting discipline as well. Recently, I have been awakening to the idea that my daily parenting practices are also having some positive influence on my relationship with God.
I hit Interstate-64 heading west with a grateful heart. My trip would take three hours, and I planned on spending it in silence. No CDs, no phone, no Sirius radio—blessed silence after a hectic month. I planned on utilizing that time to beg God to save my child, who I perceived was stuck in the mud of a low-grade depression and a high level of frustration. I was hoping that God might send me a “sign” to tell me that if I just keep silent, my boy would figure out his life and call me—any day now—with the good news that he had life all figured out, that he was good to go, no need to worry any longer. I was met, instead, with the silence of God.
Mostly I was afraid, but when I feel fear I usually end up expressing anger, so I began to talk to God out of this sense of frustration. I was mad. I wanted him to get down here and help my son.
More silence.
As the minutes ticked down toward my destination, I began to relax in spite of myself. The day was sunny and the sky a beautiful deep blue. The car was climbing now, straining to make it over Afton Mountain—a ride that is freakin’ scary in rain or fog or sleet or snow, but beautiful and blessed in spring on a mild day.
I’m not saying God spoke, or that the silence was broken, because it wasn’t. But I just came to a “knowing” that has changed my uneasy and fretful relationship with a God who often prefers silence to barking orders.
I began to think, “Is your new-found practice of silence with your children an indicator of withdrawal? No! Do you love them any less in silence than you did in screaming mode? No way! Why, Teresa, have you begun to practice silence in so many of your conversations with your children?”
I responded, “Well, that’s easy! Because they are adults, and I trust them. More to the point, I trust God with them, and I trust them with God. To continue to parent like they are children would be disrespectful and unworthy of my commitment to their development into people of strength, character, and the capacity for intemperate, extreme sacrifice for the cause of Christ.”
“Then why, my child, would you expect me to love you any less than you love them?”
The silence of God is not punishment; it is permission. Time is allowed for thoughtful consideration, pondering, and inquiry. The silence of God is not end-stage-codependent-withdrawal or abandonment; it is companionable and patient. My shoulders relaxed and my breath released for the first time in months. Oh, thank you, Lord.
Every parent, even God, sometimes needs to speak up. But on those occasions when He remains respectfully silent, that’s okay too.
Source: Recovering Faith: Words for the Way. Volume 2 [Kelly Hall, ed]
