Silence is weird. I’ve spent the majority of my adulthood running away from the quiet. I filled my home with the chatter of children - sometimes the decibel level exceeds safety standards, cats, dogs, and the occasional chicken. I’m the person who cranks up the car stereo to epic proportions. Cursory glances from motorists at traffic lights prompt me to mouth, “What? Is my Carole King too loud for you?” Silence has always been a trigger for me.
Heart palpitations, sweat freckles, the angst of being lonely – these are some of the ways my psyche reacts to extreme quiet. It reminds me of my childhood. Only children unite. Countryside summers in the 70s were nothing more than infinity stretches of anti-sound. Like the movie A Quiet Place, I spent days barely hearing my own voice. TV was a luxury and never a given. Weeks went by with only the swoosh of a turning encyclopedia page as my soundtrack. I’m sure my sweet mother spoke to me often, but I only remember the mantra of “good girls can entertain themselves.” I especially hated my parents’ Sunday afternoon naps. I would get so lonely that I would resort to wandering around our acreage. At least the birds, the stray cats, and my cousin’s mule would make a little noise. My how the mighty have fallen.
It occurred to me, just this morning, that my home was eerily quiet. See, the kids and grandkids who lived here for two years have moved out. Around 9 am, after the dogs were fed and the cats were settled, before the podcasts beckoned, there was simply nothing. How odd for a summer morning. Gone are the sounds of little fingers punching in codes to the side door. There are no more greetings of “meow, meow,” the universal house code to prevent me from being startled. The mews meant there was no need to worr y about serial killers entering my home, just wayward grandchildren
in search of snacks, ramen, or perhaps a hug. No boundless energy or endless stories. No pleas for games on my iPad. No requests for me to cook anything, fix anything, or stop a little brother from touching others. There were no shrieks of laughter, no requests to swim, and no granddaughter beckoning for the Google hub to play a current favorite song. She’s really, really into Ozzy Osborne lately. There was nothing but silence.
It has been a challenging two years. Tears pricked my eyes as I thought about God and his mistake-free will for us. He plucked a young mother and placed her in my home, her sense of normalcy nonexistent. She had to alter her rhythm to mirror mine. I had to do the same. Two women co-existing with a polar opposite generational outlook on silly things like schedules, discipline, organization, timelines, dietary everything, and even entertainment standards. It should not have worked. It should have been a disaster. Yet, here we are, still standing, still speaking. I often wondered when this odd experiment would be over, when they would leave me be. And now, I’m so very sad. It is quiet and there are no encyclopedias to occupy my time. I miss her, this daughter-in-law of mine.
Two years have brought so much change over me. I daresay it has changed both of us. We grew closer together. We grew stronger in our faith, independently. We definitely grew stronger in faith together. We developed traditions. There will always be a Lolly & Didi state fair day, for instance. We share hobbies. There were many nights of hours-long laughter over card games, tears streaming down our faces. We have a playlist. New restaurants beckon us together. We started taking our health seriously. We made nutrition a priority. We work out together. We have sourdough starter. We tamed kittens, so many kittens. We do red light therapy. We both wear sleep masks at night, our hair secured with silk ties, our heads reclined on silk pillowcases. While I don’t mean this as any sort of comparison, for seventeen years my heart has ached for the presence of a beautiful girl to hug each and every day. It finally came to fruition.
I am proud of us, this almost daughter and me. It wasn’t easy and was certainly imperfect, but we did something most cannot do. We kept this ship sailing in smooth waters for two whole years. What a gift I was given. Thank you, Lord. Thank you for sending them a mere three minutes down the road rather than some banana republic on the other side of the world. Thank you for forging this bond. Thank you for allowing so much chaos into my life that a little quiet is a welcome thing, finally. Instead of fearing the silence, I am relishing in the absence of noise. Perhaps a Sunday afternoon nap is in my future, after all. For now, I shall just sit here, soak in this blessed quiet, and drink some excellent coffee on this random Wednesday morn. After all, the grandkids are coming by this afternoon. Amen.
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