The Sound of Silence

It's been quiet here this past week at the casita. Too quiet. Just seven short days ago this little house was filled with so much life and love and laughter. It was glorious! The whole crew came in to celebrate Pulliam Christmas with us over the New Year's holiday.

Fifteen precious souls stretched these walls and grew this cottage to overflowing in all the best ways. It was loud. It was chaotic. It was busy. We scooched past one another with, "Exuse me-s" and "Oops" and "Sorry-s" while at the same time taking these close quarters' opportunity to give hugs and pats on the back as we went.

Oh, how I miss it.

The height of anticipation we had for their arrival equaled the dull ache we felt in seeing them go. This is but a way-station now. Home is elsewhere for each of them. I don't resist that truth and I don't resent it. It is simply as it should be, but how thankful I am that they choose over and over again to make this pilgrimage to the hearts that love them deeply and beat more lively when they are here.

The silence that permeates the space with their absence is a strange thing though. I never hear it, acknowledge it, in my daily goings on. It's only when the house has been full, conversation and laughter sparkling like the champagne we toasted with on New Year's Eve that the quiet becomes deafening.

It reminds me of the seasons of life. The ebb and flow of all things created. God has given us these juxtapositions that we might appreciate all of it to the full. Light and darkness. Heat and cold. They can only be grasped individually by comparison. Darkness, the absence of light. Cold, the absence of heat. The seasons push us ever onward to appreciate the warmth of summer, the cool of fall, winter's rest and spring's rebirth.

Life is rhythm. All of it necessary. All of it meaningful.

I look at my children, now grown, changing the world in their respective spheres, several of them raising children of their own, and I am humbled. Humbled at their poise and their talent, their kindness and their humility. I see the hard work they put into trying to be the best in all God has called them to be and to do. When I look at them that way I'm transported to a time when I tried my best to do the same.

I think about how life has come full circle.

I sit out on the swing of the back deck and relive the games of "Fox across the River" and "One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish." I remember the smiles, the silliness, the safety and acceptance each of my grandchildren feel in this place. I look around at the chairs where my kids visited and laughed with one another just like they did when they were children. What precious memories!

I have no tears, except perhaps of joy, for that is exactly what I feel.

All too soon our time was coming to an end, and the silence began to make its way in.

Before they all loaded up their cars and made their preparations to set off, one of my grandsons was drawing a picture of this little house, this casita we call home. He was asking me if he got it right. "Yes, Baby, you got it just right," I said, for I knew he felt it too. This place was special not because of its amenities (because let's face it... in a two bed, one bath house aren't many) or because of its attractions (which consist of a big backyard and a sidewalk "river.") This place was special because of all the love and life that fill this place when we are all here together.

The seasons. The ebb and flow. The chaos and the quiet.

The silence would hardly be noticed without the vibrant sounds that fill this place on those wonderful occasions. So. So I will take the silence and smile in the face ot it, for it can only be fully understood by the glorious volume, the incomparable joy, and the exuberant stuff of life that preceded it. And I will be...

forever grateful.