She sat in the quiet and collected herself, or was she collected by it. Swallowed up by reflection. And the rain pummeled the tin for hours on end and if she didn’t know better she thought it might never end.
But she peered ahead and she knew from reports, that hours from now it would all be dry. And the sky would find peace and quiet again from the raging rains of biblical proportions. But until then the quiet is so loud while the clouds open up and release their crocodile tears.
She held her own back because it would sound redundant and too cliche to let them roll down the cheek while they fall from the sky. This is heaven’s day to rain down. Hers will wait.
Nestled in the quiet, the disappointment and the dreams she released seem to act out and cry for attention like a parlor clown. Needy and demanding.
It occurred to her the other day that each day feels borrowed, like a library book which will need to be released back. That ever since she stepped into that place, on the generously other side of the half-century mark, there is no time like the present for all of it. The days become numbered, fragile and fewer. Marking them important, marking them royalty, holiday, worthy of celebration. Just for being. Each is exceptional, worthy. It was always that way, only now it truly is. She decrees it as law, for her life.
So she resolves to speak love more, forgive more swiftly and loudly, to create more art for the one single solitary sole that may be in the path of it, and to laugh.
Like the raindrops lodged in the screen so tight, she holds on to her saline tears and waits for release. Because today there is joy in the drenching wet grey world, and there is hope, though hiding out somewhere. Perhaps in the white and weary sky.
Because the weather wants to mirror her mood, or is she simply reflecting external conditions.
And she knows at the end of the winter there will be a spring and at the end of the sadness there will be joy. She knows well from the past and the present tells too. There are visible signs in the vine, it will bloom.
On the to do list there, written in stone, the mundane, though joy-giving things are outlined to be done. There is folding and washing, sweeping and such. There is walking and splashing with dogs in the rain. There is shaking the remnants of last nights bad dream. And peeking round corners for surprises from Him. There are phone calls and letters to a girl in Peru, and making the trip home from school seem special indeed. Homemade soup is always comforting on days filled with rain. And by evening they all will come home once again.
There are poems to be written and prayers to be prayed.
And she knows from reports that the rain will soon end and the quiet loud will become quiet again.Recede with the waters that look like a flood.
It wouldn’t be pollyanna at all if she said, the sun waits to shine at the end of this day.
(author’s note: this was the end of the post until the phone rang. This is my revised ending.)
And a phone can ring in the middle of a life and speak words that a mother could just die from, the shared grief shatters the soul like the rain on the tin.
We lost a young friend the age of my son just hours ago. And so fragile and breakable is indeed life and our hearts.
Lord, mend and heal and quiet the loud cries of your people. Now we do join the tears of the heavens with our very own.
Joining Jen and Heather and Emily Wierenga.
13 thoughts on “In Which The Quiet is Loud – Letters From The Village”
Oh Lord, have mercy.
This: “There are poems to be written and prayers to be prayed.” Yes. Thanks be to God for this.
Thanking you friend. He was 24. Yes Lord have mercy, my prayer too.
Oh friend, so sorry for this interrupted ending. Praying you and this family find Him in all the sadness. This breaks my heart, how circumstances can turn upside down so suddenly.
Yes, it is fragile this sweet life. Thank you friend for your tenderness. Love that I know you, sweet soul that you are.
Prayer and hugs coming your way.Thank you for sharing your words and the courage it must have taken to do so.
It’s so wonderful to have you here. The hugs, the prayers, the visit, all so appreciated. Hope to see yup here again, Jennifer.
oh. oh. tearing up over here. what a perfect yet tragic ending…. praying. and thank you. for speaking life, friend.
The tears of these days, He holds each one. Thank you for walking out this and much more alongside me.
This is so lovely…like a novel I wanted to go on. And I’m so sorry, so very sorry.
Thank you friend. That is surely unmerited praise yet to tell a writer you didn’t want it to end…well I am humbled.
Oh, Lord, mend and heal. Dear Elizabeth, I am so sorry. This borrowed time, these fragile lives, these honest words. Bless you and this family. Sending much love.
Oh my. Sorry is so inadequate. I have been behind on reading blogs this week, missed several posts, and this, oh friend. The art of your words conveys so much more than words. The pain and the beauty of this fragile life, all beautifully worded, painted, sung. Praying for you and your family.
I’m saying a prayer for peace for you and yours. I’m sorry.
Your words are beautiful. Thank you for joining in with Just Write.