There are times that silence has a way of penetrating my soul. The sound of discontent after an argument with my husband. The sound of my kids being lost in a video game. The sound of a waiting room or a child’s practice when all of the adults are glued to their screens instead of engaging with the people, their children, around them.
In those moments, the sound of disappointment, of disinterest, can turn out to be the thing that I hear the loudest. I confess that I sometimes hear that sound above the sound of success, love, good fortune, and peace.
My friends are busy – we are all busy. I do not expect them to set a reminder to text me on a regular basis to check-in. When they do, I love it, but it doesn’t change how I feel about them. Whether we talk daily, monthly, yearly, or rarely, they are always in my thoughts and that makes me feel close to them. I know that feeling is mutual.
For the last few years, I’ve been in a season of heartache over the silence I’m receiving from a particular loved one. My texts to say hello, or I’m thinking of you, or have a great day go unanswered. Surgery well-wishes ignored. Birthdays and anniversaries overlooked. Moments that could connect us, in the silence, bring us further apart.
I’ve asked what I did. Nothing.
I’ve asked what I can do. Nothing.
I’ve given more love, yelled, cried, pleaded, given space, confronted, shown generosity. Nothing.
To be clear, I don’t text people in an effort to receive a response {in fact, it’s quite the opposite}. I text people because I want to, because I feel called to, because I love them, because I like them, because I want them to know something, because they’re on my heart.
And at the same time, I know that not everyone does things the way that I do – for better or for worse.
This person holds a special place in my heart…which is what makes this so challenging for me. I will not write them off. I will not let this change me. I will not stop praying for us. But I’d be lying if I said that the silence that is returned to me doesn’t hurt my heart. Because it does.
Today I came home to a tiny box on my front porch.
While I typically prefer big boxes (!), the logo on the exterior told me that this was the package that I had been waiting for, for what turned out to be, for forty years.
I unpacked the tiny silver stick and immediately headed to my computer. Almost instantaneously, the finder window that I had been waiting for appeared.
Weeks earlier, my parents presented me with six film reels. They were preparing to throw them, along with the dozens of others they unsurfaced, into the garbage. Instead, I knew that if I was lucky, the memories on the tapes could be digitally recreated for posterity.
Reading the blue ballpoint ink written by my mother on hand-torn masking tape, I felt a yearning for them to come-to-life.
- Noelle Jan. 29, 1978 Christening/1st Cereal,
- Noelle Disney World May 1978,
- Memorial Picnic May ‘78,
- Noelle – 1978 Terri Loo Zoo/Park/1st Birthday Party,
- Noelle’s First Birthday!/Christmas Eve 1978, and
- A masking tape-less sixth reel
The first moving images appeared.
Me with my mom. Me with my dad. Them kissing me. Them holding me. Them smiling at the sight of me.
But there was something missing {aside of my brother who wouldn’t join our party until 1979}. There was no sound.
I pushed every button pleading my computer to share the audio with me. But there was only silence.
Realizing that my attempts were futile, I quietly stared at my computer – viewing moments that, though I could not remember, I could feel as if it were happening right then and there.
Tears fell quietly.
Six reels – not more than three and a half minutes in length apiece, gave me a glimpse into my first year of life.
I found myself wanting to hear what they, what we, were saying. The noises I was making. The sound of their laughter and the creaking of the swings. That was not to be. What I saw, though, was kindness. Happiness. Contentment. Family. Love.
Words were not needed at all, in fact, because what I saw was coming through loud and clear.
I cannot force anyone to love me in return, but I will never stop sending my love out into the world.
I believe that I care so deeply about the people around me because of exactly what I “heard” on those silent films.
I was raised to love.
I was taught to show kindness.
I was surrounded by radiant light.
And I’m so thankful that I have been given the gift of silence.