What are you hiding from?

an essay

Photo by Rod Long on Unsplash

What are you hiding from?

In her recent book, Reclaiming Quiet, Sarah Clarkson writes that: "the fear of quiet is as old as Adam and as visceral as grief.”

It reminds me of a high school student I taught, years back, who couldn't exist without music, talk, or booze. If there was a pause in life, she quickly popped her headphones over her ears. If there was a lull in conversation, she would find something with which to distract herself. She was truly afraid of silence, because within it, she knew she would have to process the horrible things that had happened to her. And I understood. I also understood that, until she let the quiet in, she would never begin to truly heal from any of it. Neither will we.

Last month, I tweeted a bit about my experience with healing and received a flurry of private messages in response. I shared how, after my divorce, I thought I had done most of my grieving. But it wasn’t until I got married again that my mind, heart, and body felt safe enough to begin the true work. This included intense (and surprising) emotional triggers where I would suddenly find myself in a fetal position on the floor for hours, sobbing and desperate, despite my newfound happiness.

Others wrote that they could relate; that it wasn’t until the memorial service was over and the casserole dinner-train had ceased that they finally sat in silence with their grief. Some said that, like me, it was the security of their second marriage that finally gave them space to process the pain of their first.

After the triggers and unexpected cry sessions, my depression hit. It had been lurking, just waiting for my survival mode to kick-off before setting up camp. Now that I felt finally secure and happy, I seemed to be plunged into the worst depression of my life. My husband and I were both so confused. Our brief courtship and wedding had been a flurry of unexpected joy. In the afterhush, I discovered what Clarkson describes as “the hovering possibility of grief” that exists in the quiet for so many of us.

It will meet us there and have its due.

Which is why we often avoid it. And it is incredibly avoidable. You can scroll, eat, talk, listen, sleep, run, work, work, and work. But there is work to be done in our hearts, and maybe it’s about equipping ourselves with the courage to enter that work.

In this fearsome task, I am encouraged by Jesus. The book of Luke records how he often withdrew to “lonely places” to pray. He chose quiet even though he knew what would be waiting for him there; thoughts of his impending torture and death, and prayers so earnest that he would sweat blood. Being God, he knew God better than any of us, and armed with that knowledge, knew he would be safe. He trusted his Father.

This morning, the three-year-old told me:

“I don’t like the quiet.”

“Why not, baby?” I asked her.

“When I’m sleeping I can hear all the sounds and I close my eyes.”

“What kinds of sounds do you hear?”

“Maybe a shark or a dino. And I just make sounds back so they will go away!”

Now I know why I hear her shouting sometimes through the baby camera before she falls asleep. She is trying to talk over the silence and push back her fears with gusto. It’s not a bad tactic. But I reminded her of something else she told me recently, that is perhaps a better approach.

“Remember what you told me about why you aren’t afraid of the dark?”

“What did I say?” she asked.

“You said that you aren’t afraid at night because Jesus is with you the whole time. And you can just talk to him.”

“Oh yeah!” she smiled.

I painted often that first year of my second marriage. I was finishing up a master's degree from Scotland while living in Iowa. During study breaks, I would leave my desk and walk over to my art easel and add some color to a prairie scene or texture to a country church. This was before we had children, and I would sip my morning coffee in stillness. I would paint in the quiet. I would write in lonely places. It was a season of immeasurable grief and happiness.

There is little quiet in my life these days. I am exhausted and joyfully distracted by constant toddler questions and baby babble. I am cleaning up messes and creating new ones with my children all throughout the day. Other times, I am working with authors on their manuscripts, in meetings about titling and sales, or setting up a meal train for someone at church.

God is merciful to give us seasons. Were every season one of quiet processing of grief, we would hardly survive. But neither can every season be raucous if we hope to get to the other side of our pain. At some point, we will have to let the quiet in.

When that time comes, will we walk to those lonely places with courage in hand? Will we trust that, even if it is tearing grief that awaits us, God will also be there?

I believe Jesus always sits beside us in the dust of what has happened. God keeps track of our tossing, puts our tears in a bottle, and records every sigh in his book (Psalm 56). Silence may be scary, but I am less frightened of it now, having survived what it possessed for me.

What are you hiding from?

Maybe it’s time to stop running, talking, and scrolling. Maybe it’s time to let the stillness in.