My mom, I think, was afraid of silence. If no one would talk, she would fill the silence with her own voice, even when she really didn’t have anything to talk about. She would try to engage others in conversation but got frustrated when we didn’t want to talk. I’ve spent most of my life in my own head, not always noticing the silences — or being grateful for the few I found. So I wasn’t much help to my mom in filling the silences of life.

I’m experiencing one of those right now. A Silence of Life. But I noticed a frightening trend recently: I, too, have grown fearful of silence. Even when I’m alone I’ll have the tv on, or music playing. It’s been a rare occasion to spend time in silence. I noticed this a few weeks ago as I rode with Adria somewhere. She was in her own head and I longed to be in mine. She seemed content in the silence, but the silence felt strange to me – – not strained, as if we were estranged or something. Just strange. Foreign. I don’t like that feeling. When did I get this way?

God seems intent on bringing me fully into this silent moment, drawing me into it, begging me to turn off the noise and leave it off, calling me to be still.

I don’t know what this is supposed to accomplish. It feels like I’m accomplishing nothing, doing nothing, going nowhere. I want to get up and DO something. Anything. Especially with noise. But like a disciplining parent, God keeps putting me back on the blanket every time I roll over and crawl away. He turns of my loud-music-toys that I’ve turned on and calls me back into silence.

Perhaps this is what spiritual Nap Time looks like.