Today I enjoyed a great lunch with one of my very best friends. As I’m losing my voice at the moment, I did more listening than talking. Oh, sure, I did some painful talking. But for the most part, my silence allowed my friend Dawn to fill me in on her most recent work.

photoDawn is the Renaissance Woman. For one thing, she’s got her own belt sander and knows how to use it. For Christmas one year, she gave me a candle that she made. And one time I stopped at her farm as she was finishing up making shampoo. But one of my favorite things about Dawn is that she doesn’t mind silence. If she has nothing to say, she won’t make idle chitchat. She’s content in the quiet.

Many of us aren’t.

We seem to be bombarded with noise and music and chatter these days, as if we’re afraid of our own silence. Why? What do we hear in silence that we need to tune out, to avoid, to drown out?

The awesome quiet can be exactly that: Filling some with dread while others find wonder. “Awe” is tricky like that.

And while hardship, grief, and loneliness can be unavoidable, why should they be  the only things dwelling in our silent places?

What if we could fill them, say, with the voice we thought we lost?