Walking in the darkness, listening for the silence --some thoughts on Psalm 19

“…not a sound to be heard…”

--Psalm 19:3b

 

 

Walking this morning in the hour before sunrise, I was struck by the depth of the darkness still visible; the depth of the shadows cast across the lawns and into the bushes. Looking up, part of Orion’s belt still lingered high above the treetops.  I was reminded of the night before when my daughter and I had been out walking sometime between nine and ten. As we walked, I commented to her on what seemed to be a difference between the darkness of morning and the darkness of night. And it was not the one I had expected.  In fact, quite the opposite; it seemed to my eye that the darkness of night was more bearable and even somewhat brighter, and that the darkness before dawn was somehow deeper and more impenetrable; perhaps even a little more unsettling.  It was as if nature herself were confirming that old adage: it is always darkest before the dawn.

 

But another aspect of this is the silence.  Before dawn, walking the streets, I am often alone.  Not a soul out, except for the occasional possum slinking off to a day’s rest after a night of foraging. But at night, as Lucia and I walked, there were still sounds of life all around us.  Cars coming and going, people closing up garages, or pulling trash cans to the curb, neighbors out walking their dogs or riding their bikes.  There was activity, signs of life.  And, Lucia pointed out, there were porch lights and driveway security lights to dim the darkness just a bit.

 

But back to this morning’s walk. This morning, on my walk, I was stirred by the stillness and the silence. Pausing in the middle of the street to look up into the lingering remnants of the night, I felt the wonder of the silence and the intensity of the darkness. And for a moment, a deep and impenetrable sense of my own incompleteness and isolation swept over me.  For a brief moment, I felt utterly alone. Yet I was not afraid.

 

I don’t know how long I stood there, before I noticed the headlights of a car stopped some 20 feet away, the driver patiently waiting for me to get out of her way.  I smiled and moved toward the curb and let her pass.  There could only be one reason to get in your car before dawn: a doughnut emergency. And I certainly didn’t want to stand between a driver and her Shipley’s.

 

Her car crept past cautiously, and she nodded, then drove on. Watching her taillights disappear around the far corner, I figured it was time to head home, so I turned around and started back.  And this was when I noticed something else.  The world around me was stirring, scattered birds had begun calling to the dawn, the shadow of a squirrel crept down into the damp grass, testing the cold, and in the distance I could see another person out for their morning walk. Clearly, I had never been quite as alone as I felt in that moment.

 

Walking home, I was heading east and I could see the first rosy glow of dawn blossoming on the horizon. The darkness above it fading into a soft bruise of blue and red. It was beautiful and comforting.  Curiosity made me stop and turn and look back the other direction. And with a kind of strange elation, I realized that behind me I could still see the night.  At one end of the street, the sky was filled with darkness, the moon smiled, and a single star still glistened. And at the other end, the day was breaking.  And in the middle was me… getting positively silly with wonder.

 

Psalm 19 begins with this thrilling image of God’s glory being proclaimed by creation, the day speaks of it to the day and the night to the night.  Not a word is spoken, the psalmist says, but the message is clear, and it reaches the whole world.  Just look around, and even in the darkness of night you will see it –the glory of God’s love is luminous.  It lights the darkest of nights and even the darkness before the dawn is filled with it.  But, to see it, to sense it, to hear it, to know it, we have to pause and look and really listen. We have to listen to the stillness.

 

“…no utterance at all, no speech,

not a sound to be heard,

but from the entire earth it arises,

a message reaching the entire world…” (cf. 19: 3-4)

 

And that message, sung by all of creation, that is our Light.

 

Presence and silence—the witness of Job’s friends

 

 

“The friend who holds your hand and says

the wrong thing is made of dearer stuff than

the one who stays away.”

--Barbara Kingsolver

 

“They sat there on the ground beside him

for seven days and seven nights. To Job

they spoke never a word, for they saw

how much he was suffering.” –Job 2:13

 

I’ve been thinking about the importance of presence lately, of just showing up. Just being there.  The willingness to step up to the plate, whether you are a 300 hitter or a .177 hitter, whether you have already struck out the last three times up, or you hit a homerun and 2 doubles; the willingness to go back out there and step into the batter’s box and face whatever the pitcher has in store for you.  There is a kind of courage and hope in just showing up. In that willingness to risk going from hero to heal in just the swing of a bat. Think about it: bases loaded one out, Jose Altuve comes to bat and –sometimes even the greats strike out, or worse--hit into a double play.  But, one of the things that makes them great is their willingness to take the risk, their willingness to just show up.

 

The friend that Barbara Kingsolver describes in the above quotation is like the utility player who shows up every day ready to play.  He knows most nights he won’t even get off the bench, but every once in a while there is that moment when he’s called. And no matter where the coach sends him, he says yes.  Will he make a few errors? Of course. Will he strike out or foul out or bunt into a double play? Yes. It’s gonna happen.  But, he is willing to be that person who says yes, and puts himself out there. If baseball is any reflection of reality, then possibly even ¾ of the time he will “say the wrong thing,” or get an out (in baseball speak). But, every night he will be there. Ready to go. Willing to take the risk, ready to hold somebody’s hand…so to speak.

 

As I read Barbara Kingsolver’s words, I think the point she is making is that it is really about presence.  Being present. Showing up.  The power of someone sitting beside us, silently holding our hand, is immeasurable.  It witnesses to us that we are not alone. In our hour of need, we are not abandoned. And that witness reminds us of something else: that we matter. We matter enough that someone made an effort to come and see us, to come and sit with us; enough that they are willing to give us this portion of their life, this 15 minutes, this half hour or more. They give it to us because they want us to know—we matter.

 

So—just showing up, very important. Heroic even.  But there is something else I want to say about the friend who shows up.  As we cared for my mother-in-law, there were days and days when all we had on our minds was medicine schedules and meal plans: what will fix for lunch or dinner. When is it time for the next dose of morphine or the next dose of anti-nausea meds. What snack should we fix and have ready before hand.   Even simply sitting with her as she napped, everything felt fraught with anxiety and worry. It was exhausting. And when a friend would call or stop by to check on us, there would be the immediate temptation to say: We are fine. Thanks for calling.  Talk to you later.  A temptation to wave away the distraction so we could return to what? Our stress and our anxious  waiting?    That was a habit that it was easy to fall into.   But with time, and the persistence of our friends, something I learned was the healing power of distraction.  A chance to sit with a friend and grieve is invaluable. But, we shouldn’t neglect the importance of a chance to talk about something other than medication schedules and hospice care, a chance to remember that there is more to life than bed sores and bedside toilets. That friend who refuses to leave us to our own devices, that friend who keeps us on the phone or sits with us –even in silence—is often the friend who draws us out of our darkness into the sunlight where we find ourselves laughing about something ridiculous or simply basking in the beauty of a breeze drifting through the leaves. For me, there were friends who showed up and let me moan and unload my struggles, but then stuck around for one more pot of coffee and some silliness that left me smiling and unexpectedly renewed.

 

Laughter, conversation, and company renew us for the work at hand, but it also reminds us there is still a world outside of our suffering, a world beyond the shadows of our sorrow.  

 

That being said, let me turn for a moment to the famous friends of Job.  These guys are famous not for their wisdom or consolation, but for the wrongness of their advice.  In fact, they are the poster boys for bad bedside manner, most famous for blaming the victim.  And yet… they showed up.  They even sat down with Job for 7 days and 7 nights in silence, out of respect for his sorrow.  They were models of presence. Of showing up.  If Kingsolver is right, and I suspect she is, then I wonder how Job felt about these friends afterwards?  Did he resent them for their poor theology? Or did he hold them as dear, because when even his wife was telling him to “Curse God and die…” these guys showed up. And they stayed.  Letting Job know, he mattered.  And that even in his hour of need, he wasn’t alone. I am rereading the Book of Job, and I find something has changed in my view about these friends of his.  Despite the wrongness of their words, I am starting to think: at least they showed up.  

 

 

Learning to sing --remembering my mother-in-law, the silence of God and the wisdom of Psalm 13

“How Long, Oh Lord, will You forget me? Forever?

How long will you turn away Your face from me?...

 

As for me, I trust in your faithful love, Oh Lord.

Let my heart delight in your saving help.

Let me sing to the Lord for His generosity to me,

let me sing to the name of the Lord the Most High.”

--Psalm 13:1, 5

 

Lynne’s mother passed away about two weeks ago.  It was beautiful and quiet and the whole family was with her when she died. But the aftermath has been strangely difficult. Lots of tears, of course. Lots of sighs.  But it’s the silence and the emptiness that stand out. Lynne and I are both having trouble with sleep. She has difficulty settling down and going to sleep. I have trouble staying asleep.  This mirrors our shifts as caregivers.  Lynne would stay awake with her mom until 3-4 in the morning, and then I would get up and take over so she could sleep.  Well, two weeks later, I am still waking up around 3am every morning to take that second shift. But there is no one to relieve, no one there for me to care for, except perhaps the cats—who sense me stirring and think that means it is time for breakfast. 

 I am still feeling a strange and inexpressible absence or emptiness when I step outside in the morning with my cup of coffee and my bag of peanuts.  These days, Lynne joins me. The two of us sit there watching the squirrels and sipping our coffee. But we know something is missing.  In fact, there is that extra cup of coffee we bring out with us every morning, to remind us.  Walking this journey with Carol was a strange and often overwhelming blessing. I think we are all still grappling with the gift of that blessing. The blessing that comes from surrendering to the needs of another. The blessing of the demands her dying body made upon us as a family. Demanding that we put down everything else and really pay, wake up and really live—not for ourselves, but for the love of another.  I know I will be pondering this gift for the rest of my life and probably writing about it for quite some time.  Anyway, those comments are by way of an introduction.  Here is a piece that I began working on while Carol was still alive.  I just finished it this morning.

 A few weeks back I wrote about sitting with my mother-in-law and sharing the psalms over our morning coffee.  In that piece I wrote about how Psalm 31 seemed to open her up a little and got her talking about her faith—a little.  Anyway, the very next day as we sat there with the blue jays and the squirrels and Bobby Darin singing from the I-pad, I opened up my book of psalms and found myself staring at Psalm 13—and it just seemed like fate:  31 / 13… Why not? So I began to read.  When I finished, I asked her whether any part of the psalm spoke to her.  Without looking at me she said something that sounded like: the singing.   She didn’t say anything else.  Nothing about God forgetting us, or about the enemy delighting in our every stumble.  She just very quietly said: the singing.

 Okay, I thought. I can live with that.  And so, I tried to just sit there with her, listening to the blue jays calling each other, and Bobby Darin singing about somewhere across the sea, but despite my best efforts I kept going back to that lament: How long, Oh Lord? How long? How long will our life be governed by sleepless night, bedside toilets, medicine schedules, and an overabundance of cats!

 After a bit, the song changed and without realizing it, I found myself softly singing along with Nat King Cole: 

 Smile, though your heart is aching….
Smile, even though its breaking….
You’ll see the sun coming shining through,
if you…  just... smile…

 And then I heard another sound, a soft whispering voice, and realized Carol was singing with me. We were sitting there together in the quiet of a Tuesday morning, coffee in hand, and both of us hesitantly, shyly singing…together.

 That was when I realized what a wise woman my mother-in-law was, and how she was still teaching me things—even in her silences, even through her shy singing.  Without any fanfare or self-aggrandizement, she was humbly and graciously teaching me to listen to God.

Here’s what I mean:  when I read that psalm I got stuck on the pain and the anxiety of the first part; the fear of being abandoned by God and overwhelmed by life. I even feared for Carol. Worried about how she must feel, what she must be thinking... There was a brief period when her symptoms seemed to subside; she seemed to be getting healthier and her appetite returned to something like normal. In the midst of that, I found myself not feeling grateful and thankful but worrying: What does this mean? How long will this last? She still needed our care and 24/7 attention but what if she just stays at this level. What if/ What if? A How long could we manage this schedule? Sleeping in shifts? Surviving on 4-5 hours of sleep a night? nd where was God? Why wasn't He helping us? As Jesus warns, I was worried about many things (Luke 10:41) … And high on that list was the desperate question: How long?

 But Carol seemed at peace. Despite the fact that she was unable to sleep at night, and that she was –in truth-- growing weaker, she awoke every morning ready for her coffee and the porch. And our psalm.  And the singing. As we sat there listening to the crooners she loved, she would always find something to praise. She would tell me how good the coffee was, or how the muffins I made were the best she’d ever had, or she’d simply tell me what a good job Lynne and I were doing taking care of her. Sometimes she seemed almost overflowing with gratitude and praise. 

 Looking back, I think she was becoming a model of presence for me, an example of living in the moment.  Instead of getting lost in fear and dread, she simply lived in the moment, simply enjoyed what was right in front of her, accepted everything as gift, as grace. While I was reading psalms in search of profound insights and answers, she listened to them with an openness and innocence, ready to receive whatever God had to offer. And, I think it was that approach that led to her always looking for something to be grateful for, and something to praise.  And something to sing about…

 Looking back now, I have been struck by how obviously that was/is the point of the psalm.  The psalmist cries out that God is distant and silent; that God has abandoned him to the enemy and everything feels hopeless. Sound familiar? It does to me.  And, on top of that, the psalm offers no apparent response to this lament. Instead, the psalmist simply tells us that despite God’s absence, he will be grateful and he will sing God’s praises.

 Gratitude and praise.  Suddenly I realize it: that is the answer. That is the lesson Carol was trying to teach me.  Gratitude and praise.  Yes, life is hard. Sometimes it is unbearably hard. And unfairly hard.  And there is nothing you can do to change that. But you can change yourself. You can begin to change the way you look at life, at the world. Despite your hardships, your struggles, you can begin to look for things to praise, things to be grateful for. 

 And when all else fails, you can sing.  It helps. It’s scientifically proven. Here is an article from the BBC to explain. Something to do with endorphins, I think.  Whether you have a weak voice, or sing like Pavarotti, you will be amazed at how much better you feel when you look at life through the blessing of a song.

 Sitting there –on the porch-- singing that mournful song about smiling through the heartache, and the pain, I suddenly felt better. I suddenly felt a little more grateful for the time I had with Carol, for the mornings together. And I began to realize that I wasn’t alone. That there was even someone who I wanted to praise and thank for such a gift. And so I kept on singing, even after Carol stopped. Me and Mel Torme singing an old Fred Astaire song: They can’t take that away from me.  And it’s true.   

And I am so grateful.   

Thank you, Carol, for teaching me how to listen and how to sing.