That Thing Called Silence

The sign for the delivery person when I’m practicing silence. Photo by Angela

March swooped in, reminding us that time waits for no one. I hope you are well, truly well—mind, body, spirit, soul, and heart. Happy March.

 As promised, I wanted to share my reflections on that thing called silence, the focus of Today’s Heart Matters on Substack on Wednesday, March 4, 2026. Here, I’m exploring this topic a little differently from the live stream, taking more time to reflect on my experiences and extending the message for deeper exploration.

 The story of Hannah in 1 Samuel 1-2 came to me one morning while reading the daily lectionary. It deepened as I reflected on her sad heart and unwavering faith. Six weeks later, I shared my insights with To Be God Be The Glory Ministries on Facebook after being invited as a guest minister for meditation and devotion.

 This reflection is a result of deepening my practice of silence. Deep listening that doesn’t always come from hearing words but from staying present with whatever arises. Hannah’s story isn’t finished with me yet; there’s so much more to explore, especially as I prepare for the Mother’s Day Sermon on May 9, 2026. I often wonder what shifted in Hannah as she cried over her “consolation prize.”

When That Thing Called Silence Gets Interrupted

At first, practicing silence was manageable. Working from home and being an empty nester offered me plenty of quiet time. On the third Sunday of each month, I remind John that I’m observing silence. He respects my space, even if he doesn’t join me in it. Early Monday mornings, he quietly slips out, knowing my silence will end when he returns.

However, for the past three months—December, January, and February—I’ve had to adapt to finding pockets of silence: an hour here, twenty minutes there.

In December, we planned a getaway on the third Sunday, and during our drive, I mentioned my intention to observe 24 hours of silence. John agreed to join me.

“Together we can find pockets of silence,” I said, unsure of how this would unfold because by nature we are a chatty couple. Perhaps I should have reconsidered the practice while on vacation.

John understood that my silence wasn’t about shutting him out. It was about creating space for stillness, not the kind of silence Rebecca Solnit describes as “the ocean of the unsaid, the unspeakable, the repressed, the erased, the unheard.” Rather, it was about quieting body, mind, and soul long enough to absorb God’s love—allowing myself to be enveloped in it without distractions.

I invite you to reflect: what distracts you from simply being present with God? Offer it to the Lord.

Arrive at Our Destination

As we reached our destination, a deep, inky darkness settled around us. We navigated the curvy, narrow road to the resort. The first time we visited, ten years ago, we arrived in the daylight. As we turned left up a steep hill, the high beams of an oncoming car blinded us. Trees lined the road, and nothing felt familiar as we slowly ascended further.

Finally, we saw the lights of the parking lot filled with cars. When we stepped out of the SUV, the place didn’t look familiar; we were at the ski resort. After getting directions, we carefully descended the hill, guided by the faint light of our headlights. In that silence, we focused on steadying our nerves and ensuring safety. John drove while I lightly pressed the passenger’s brakes, guiding him with calm words: “Left, right, there’s the V&V Barbeque sign, turn right.” Safety mattered more than time.

Christmas lights adorned trees, bushes, and fences, illuminating the parking lot when we finally arrived. We checked in, received our keys, and studied the map before continuing along another stretch of dark roads to find our condo. We remained alert to the danger posed by the darkness. A truck veered into our lane. We stayed calm together. A silent calm filled with gratitude for safety, not complaints.

Once we arrived, we parked, planned an unloading strategy, and, in silence, unpacked: suitcases found their places, food went in the fridge, games stacked on the table, and snacks lined the counter. I approached the evening without my usual Great Silence prayer, the one that prepares me for the next 24 hours of silence and sharpens my awareness of distractions.

A prayer for silent moments.

Instead, that night became a prayer of thanksgiving for our journey, our safety, and the beautiful sunset that accompanied us along the way. We cuddled on the couch, wrapped in blankets, watching Elf, and eating popcorn. Laughter peppered the quiet, and we lingered together before ending the evening.

A Morning of Silence

Monday morning greeted us with silence, coffee, crumb cake, and Lectio 365. We sat quietly listening, then took our time to respond to the phrases that stuck with us. After sharing our reflections, we returned to the couch — me coloring with colored pencils while John chatted. Later we went for a walk. I listened as John talked.

Insights From Holding Silence

I noticed how often unnecessary talking fills our days. That thing called silence can make people uneasy; when one person goes quiet, the energy in the room shifts. Suddenly, others feel responsible for filling the space, fearing boredom or disconnection. But what if the pause is just a pause? Silence is a natural part of human interaction that we have been conditioned to fill—often at the expense of reflection or real connection.

After lunch and more outdoor activities (not skiing), we found another pocket of silence. I spent that hour reading a short story by J. California Cooper, whose narratives reveal vanity, self-absorption, and the power dynamics of everyday life. One character always reminds another that life without God as its center becomes a trap.

December’s silence taught me how to embrace the practice while meeting others where they are. I’ve also deepened my commitment not to explain myself so quickly. As French philosopher Gilles Deleuze writes, “It is a relief to have nothing to say, the right to say nothing, because only then is there a chance of framing the rare, and ever rarer, thing that might be worth saying.”

This understanding was helpful when the snowstorms, Benjamin and Hernando, kept John home on Mondays in January and February. Together, we cleared the driveway.  We had to create a strategy to clear the driveway and communicate effectively as we maneuvered our snowblowers past each other through layers of snow. Afterwards, we treasured pockets of silence that followed, sipping warm tea, reading, and admiring the layered frost against a horizon brushed with yellow, deep purple, and orange.

Silence isn’t emptiness; it is a space where God’s presence has room to meet us. When we resist the urge to fill every moment with words, we begin to notice what has been hidden in plain sight: patience, grace, breath, and blessed assurances that God loves and holds us.

And even the small pockets of silence can become a place of encounter.

P.S. On the third Sunday in March, we’re going to the Patti LaBelle and Gladys Knight concert. It starts at 7 p.m., so my silence may need to make room for a little singing.