What I Heard in the Quiet

Five summers ago, my husband and I traded blueberry-lined wooded trails and lakes for sidewalks in town, neighbors on every side, and a short walk to the post office. I’ve grown fond of both spaces for their particular beauty and familiar sounds.

In these seemingly endless months of pandemic however, I long for the shifting shadows of towering trees and the crunching sound of rocks and sticks beneath my sneakers.

Maybe it’s the incessant, random chatter in my head that has me pining away for solo walks in the woods.

What will school look like in the fall?

Even if we resume pre-Covid 19 life, how we can help to ensure safe spaces for the most vulnerable? What does that look like?

Should we consider homeschooling? What would that mean for Sam’s therapies?

Will I ever write again in silence, without interruption? 

What is our future in camp ministry, a vocation that is considered non-essential in pandemic life?  

How do I keep my own feet tender as I rethink how to walk with those who bear calloused heels, hardened from their refusal to acknowledge the Black experience in America? 

How can I be a better ally in the Black community?

How can I be a better ally in the adoption community?

How can I be a better ally in the Down syndrome community?

What do I do with this disappointment in people I thought I knew and respected?

I’m not doing enough.

What can I say ‘no’ to in this season?

Is this area really the best place to raise our kids? If not, where do we go? If so, how do we move forward with what we know and have experienced here as a transracial family? 

Please tell me I’m not the only one with squirrels amped up on Red Bull living in my head. Is your mind loud these days, too?

Maybe this deep need for nature is related to the constant noise in my home that leaves me filled with both gratitude and frustration because I love these people but can I please have ten minutes without interruption? Silence isn’t necessarily an invitation to tell me ALL THE THINGS.

Maybe it’s the quarantine life we’ve taken seriously since the Ides of March. The walls in our large, old home seem to shrink a bit more every day. Related, my kids are practically full grown adults now. Their exponential growth is likely related to the eleventy billion snacks they consume daily between breakfast and lunch. What is this nonsense? Is a full breakfast of two eggs, a bowl of peaches, and a fruit smoothie no longer enough for the Carper children’s palates? Questions for God, I guess.

Maybe it’s the fatigue that always seems to tag along with sadness. I wish to be with my family. I haven’t seen my parents in 10 months, my sister in 14, and my brothers in 18. Two of my nephews graduated high school and my parents have weathered some health issues. I’ve missed being present for all of it.  

In response to this deep need for quiet, I recently drove just 10 minutes north to a remote park to pray, write, hike, and weep. I longed for a space big enough to hold the heaviness.

As I hit the trail, without another soul in sight, the Spirit offered these words that I penned when I returned. I assure you, they hold no magic. Reading them won’t diminish the throbbing pain of our world. Speaking them won’t eliminate the pervasive injustices. Sometimes however, we need a quiet, dusty trail riddled with pines to point us to the truth that in the midst of every sorrow, we are not alone, the deep work within and through us matters in this life and the next, hope is alive, and love will have the last word.

May these words serve you, dear reader.

“You’re carrying burdens you were never meant to carry.

You know that’s not My way.

Would you release your need to hold the pain of the world? 

Would you believe that I AM with you?

Would you believe that I AM for you?

See that tiny bird? I was there when it hatched.

I have not forgotten the needs of the sparrows, of the world I made.

I have not forgotten your needs.

I see you.

I see your dreams–I gave them to you.

I see your work–I made you for it.

I see your grief–I weep with you.

I AM present in the pain of injustice and in every loss.

Rest in My unfailing love and faithful presence.

Hope in the truth that I AM making all things new.

Do the hard work of justice.

Practice mercy.

Move forward in courage.

Pray for the oppressed (and the oppressors, too).

And remember always,

You are My beloved.”   

Featured image by arsbuchatski at Unsplash.