Notice the silence

Learning to be still

After a busy day of errands and appointments and driving to town and back, listening to podcasts and music in the car, I found myself at the farm in the chilly dusk, bottle feeding a calf and topping off water tanks. As I stood at the fence watching the water level in one of the hundred-gallon tanks (very) slowly rise, I kept feeling the pull to find something to do in my waiting.

I glanced down the fence line to make sure the wire was tight, but there was no sagging. I looked across the pasture at the well-head cap I had secured that morning to make sure some curious calf hadn’t pushed it off again, but it was snug as I’d left it. I looked around for trash to pick up or some little task to fill my time. There was none.

I stood waiting for something to come to mind—anything I could do instead of just stand there in the silence while the water ran. Hundred-gallon tanks take quite a while to fill.

I watched the cows. One mama patiently stood while her calf nursed. This is not a quick event. A calf will nurse all four udders, going around and around, bumping with its head to make sure all the milk has let down, trying each one repeatedly until it is satisfied there’s no more to be had. A good cow will stand for 20 or 30 minutes while her calf goes through this instinctual process several times a day.

I wondered what she was thinking that whole time. She can’t do anything or go anywhere. She can’t eat or drink. She just stands . . . and waits.

I wondered if this was what God was asking me to do in that verse in Psalm 46—not the nursing part but the being still part. Is this what he means when he says to “be still and know that I am God”?

Being still does not come naturally to me, at least not mentally. I can stay in one position for a long time—ask anyone who’s ever gone to the beach with me. I could sit in a chair and watch the waves literally all day long. But quieting my mind? That’s a different pile of sand.

I don’t know if this is true for everyone, but I have a running commentary going through my brain all the time. I self-narrate my own life. I replay past events and conversations and I plan for future ones. I scold myself, remind myself, what-if everything to death, and I do it all in a never-ending parade of verbal thoughts. There is never a time when I don’t have words running across the screen in my head like a fast-moving Times Square news ticker. I don’t really even notice this until I try to stop it and quiet my brain, which I do so rarely it’s embarrassing to admit.

I was reminded of all this last night while I was reading Emily P. Freeman’s The Next Right Thing. I’ve read this book before and enjoyed it, but I’m reading through it again because I am trying to learn to be a little more reflective in my later years, another thing I’ve never been good at. I can tell you if I feel happy or sad or [insert emotion], but I can’t usually tell you why, and I hope learning to reflect will help with that. Emily is the queen of reflection, and I am trying to learn from her.

At the end of every chapter, she offers a prayer and a practice. At the end of chapter two, titled “Become a Soul Minimalist,” she suggests this practice:

“Notice the Silence: Silence may be more accessible than you think. Begin to notice the naturally silent spaces in your days . . . Rather than filling these times with sound, or holding on to the soul clutter by rehearsing past conversations or future possibilities, decide instead to let yourself be quiet inside the silence and see if your friend Jesus has anything to say.”

I love that.

Let myself be quiet inside the silence and see if Jesus has anything to say.

Instead of moving right on to chapter 3, I put the book down and just sat, thinking about this advice. I am a doer, a mover, a what’s-next-on-the-list person, and I realized that, although I spend dedicated time with God every day reading his Word and praying, I don’t do much listening.

Okay, I do almost no listening. I am always ready to hear what God says to me through his Word, but is that the only way he can speak? What if I got quiet for a minute and gave him a chance? What if I pushed aside my internal dialogue with myself and practiced hearing? What if, instead of being in control of the conversation, asking all the questions and offering all the commentary, I let someone else talk, someone who has infinitely more important things to say?

When my children were very small, we wanted them to learn to sit in church with us, and that required that they be still and be quiet. So we used to have sitting practice at home. I would line them up on the couch and put some preaching on to listen to. We started with just a minute. When they got good at that, we’d go for two or three minutes. We slowly worked our way up to 30 minutes or more so they were used to not fidgeting, not asking for water or toys or entertainment. It taught them self-control at a young age and I’m sure they absorbed a lot in those days of sitting in church with us.

Is this what I need? Yes, I think so. I need sitting practice. No phone, no tasks, no conversation, nothing to accomplish—just be still.

But beyond that, be still and know. This will not be an effort in futility. I don’t have to wonder. I can know that he is God, he is there, and he has something to say if I will stop surrounding myself with a constant stream of noise and be ready to hear. He tells us numerous times, “he that hath ears to hear, let him hear.” Hearing in this context is not a passive activity. It’s an active leaning forward in anticipation of what the speaker may say.

Remember last week when we talked about being a beginner? This is my chance to learn a new thing, to practice and become good at something I’ve never been good at before.

Be still. Hear.

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