The Silence of God

Guitar strumming. Angelic singing. A melody I’ve heard but can’t quite name drifts down the hallway where I stand brushing my hair. Allie sounds so much like her mom, I think in surprise. Returning to the music room, I laugh at myself. The singer is Allie’s mom. I sit on the piano bench opposite my daughter and listen while she finishes the song that dares to believe all will one day be well.

Tears fill both our eyes. It’s a prayer. A hope. But it offers no answers to our questions. No explanation of how or when we’ll understand and especially not why. It’s more of a lifeline while we bob here aimlessly in these dark waters. Hold on, the lyrics suggest. Don’t let go. You’re gonna make it even if there are never any answers.

Katy turns toward me, and we begin to talk. About our loss. Our disappointment. Our faith in the crosshairs. Praying is difficult right now. We don’t know exactly what it is anymore. The last time we tried, we lost Rob anyway. Explanations fall short. None of us understands why things turned out this way.

There’s only One Who knows. And He’s not explaining.

Where I sit on the bench belonging to the baby grand piano Rob bought for me, I confess to her that I can’t play it right now. Music touches so deeply it hurts. I know it’s a comfort to many, but I’m not one of them. Reading lyrics is fine, but I mustn’t allow my heart to be caught up in either the swells or the whispers of music’s voice. I would surely drown in the emotion.

Yet, there’s a song she wonders if I’d like to hear. Or read. The title says it all and I ask her to show it to me. Finally, someone speaks something into my pain that validates both this wounded place where I live now and the God Who stands speechless beside me.

 

The Silence of God

It’s enough to drive a man crazy; it’ll break a man’s faith
It’s enough to make him wonder if he’s ever been sane
When he’s bleating for comfort from Thy staff and Thy rod
And when heaven’s only answer is the silence of God

It’ll shake a man’s timbers when he loses his heart
When he has to remember what broke him apart
This yoke may be easy, but this burden is not
When the crying fields are frozen by the silence of God

And if a man has got to listen to the voices of the mob
Who are reeling in the throes of all the happiness they’ve got
When they tell you all their troubles have been nailed up to that cross
Then what about the times when even followers get lost?
‘Cause we all get lost sometimes  . . .

There’s a statue of Jesus on a monastery knoll
In the hills of Kentucky, all quiet and cold
And He’s kneeling in the garden, as silent as a Stone
All His friends are sleeping and He’s weeping all alone

And the man of all sorrows he never forgot
What sorrow is carried by the hearts that He bought
So when the questions dissolve into the silence of God
The aching may remain, but the breaking does not

The aching may remain, but the breaking does not
In the holy, lonesome echo of the silence of God

~Andrew Peterson

 

I’ve read more than once that this place where we live now, this grieving place, is holy. The invitation to sit beside someone who has lost their world is a sacred one where witnessing their sorrow is a gift to both. I did not know that until I found myself on this side of grief. Weeping with those who weep is what Heaven does. It’s also what friends do. So, if you’re one of those who has sat and wept with me, I am thankful beyond words for you.

I keep thinking about Rob’s love of all things Tolkien and C.S.Lewis. About Aslan, the lion, a type of Christ in The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. And a conversation in that book about this powerful creature—whether or not he is “quite safe.”

The answer surprises. “Who said anything about safe? ‘Course he isn’t safe. But he’s good. He’s the king, I tell you.”

God is not safe. He doesn’t fit in a box. He cannot be controlled or manipulated. But He’s good. His heart is compassion. His character is sacrificial. He sympathizes with our weaknesses and identifies with us in our suffering.

My daughter wonders if the reason we can't hear Him speaking is because He's crying too hard with us. I wonder if He were to tell me why we had to lose Rob if it would really make any difference. I don’t know. My heart hurts too much to understand anything right now. All I know and have known through all of this is one thing—God is good. It’s the only thing I’ve been able to hold on to, despite all my tears and demands and accusations against His decision and His silence.

I know He is good.

And that somehow that will make a difference in my healing.

The aching may remain, but the breaking does not
In the holy, lonesome echo of the silence of God.