Reflecting in the Silence

Recently I read two news articles. One was about being busy and the other was about a few moments of silence used to reflect. The busy article spoke on how we equate busy with important. People say they are busy and that makes them feel that their lives are filled and valued. I decided not to call myself busy years ago. I am not important and so I omitted describing myself as busy even at Christmas when our wood-working laser business fulfills hundreds of orders for last minute shoppers.

The other news piece I read had to do with the need for silence. Governor Ron DeSantis asked that in his state of Florida school children be given a few moments of silence at the start of the school day. He feels that kids need some time to reflect in quiet. There are no guidelines for what those moments are to be used for, no mandates of prayer or meditation. (If there had been a time of silence at the beginning of the school day when I was a child, I would have probably used the time to pray for math class to be canceled. Forever.)

Like the Governor I have felt my need for quiet. Away from laptops, cell phones, the TV, and even conversations. Just the solitude for the sake of seeing what it will unveil for me.

These days the cemetery is where I go to experience that much-needed break from the world. I load up the Jeep with pens and notebooks. Sometimes I stop at the gas station along the way and pick up a cup of coffee.

The cemetery, snuggled between Durham and Orange Counties, isn't far from my house. Once I was instantly greeted by a gaggle of Canadian Geese. They walked aimlessly in circles, some cackled by the grave markers, some drifted away from the group. I followed the wayward noisey ones, and took a photo. When I turned my back to head to my Jeep for my notebook and pen, I heard a loud cry. Those discombobulated geese had taken off into the air in a formed V-line. One second they had appeared helpless and confused and then in the next, they lifted wings and soared. They had a purpose. I watched them sail into the autumn sky---making their geese sounds as they flew---until they were out of sight.

After they left, the cemetery was still again. I sat by my son Daniel's grave and stretched my legs. In the silence I thought of how over the years I'd been wandering, uneasy, perhaps making sounds like cackling after Daniel died. But through moments of silence and a desire propelled by his memory, I came to find what I wanted, and what I needed, and that was purpose.

In the early days of monumental grief, I reverted to what I had done as a child----I wrote. I penned poems and articles and how-to grow through grief and loss pieces. I came up with my own psalms of woe. On scraps of paper I wrote book ideas. Some of my work was published. Most of it was too emotional and flawed and didn't need to see the light of day. In the moments of reflection (some silent, many with tears), my spirit called out to God. My wrestling propelled me toward healing.

And none of it could have been done without participating in those bouts of silent contemplation. What is most important to me, especially as I get older, is not filling my days with activities and events, but in making the time for the simplicity of quiet. I need my treks to the cemetery. From these silent experiences, my spirit gains strength and I can hear life calling me to joy.

An Image of Prayer

They say to write what you know, but I will add write what you want to know.

As a child, I saw the old man, a bowl of gruel, a thick book, a knife, glasses I'd never want to wear, and a loaf of bread.

The framed painting was a fixture over my aunt Mollie’s desk. The gray-haired and bearded man sat with hands folded, eyes closed. I sure wouldn’t want to have to live like that man with an unappetizing loaf on the tabletop were my thoughts at the time. What was he praying? Had he asked for his daily needs and opened the pantry to find the bread? Was he pausing to thank God for it? He seemed to have little and his demeanor was as bland as his surroundings as though his favorite color was drab brown. Later in life, as a teen, I’d view the picture as a symbol that signified only the old and destitute spent time praying at a lifeless table.

I thought about prayer often after my four-year-old son Daniel died. In church services and at women’s Bible studies, people talked about the power of prayer and we all joined hands and prayed together. I had felt close to God whenever I'd prayed, but after Daniel's death, I felt betrayed and removed. Getting back to prayer took time and trust.

I came across the familiar photo again, a smaller reproduction of it, on my friend Allyson’s fridge. Allyson told me it was one of her favorites. When I went home I did some research to learn more about the picture. And that's where the write about what you want to know came in handy.

Apparently the artist, Eric Endstrom, took this photo of a man named Charles Wilden during the era of the Spanish Flu, somewhere between 1918 and 1920. Charles came to his studio and posed, even signing a waiver of some sort that the book on the table was a Bible. The book is certainly thick enough, but the truth is, it's not a Bible. It’s a Swedish-English dictionary. According to a man named Harris Burkhalter, Charles came to Eric’s studio in Bovey, Minnesota, and “. . . by highlighting Wilden’s devout posture and humble surroundings, he aimed to evoke the spirit of religious faith, thankfulness, and humility he associated with many of the newly-arrived European immigrants to Minnesota.”

“There was something about the old gentleman’s face that immediately impressed me," said Eric Enstrom. "I saw that he had a kind face . . . there weren’t any harsh lines in it."

The townsfolk testified that Charles Widlen was a man who drank more than he prayed. But Eric didn’t seem to mind. He must have been a smart businessman, knowing people would like this photo and buy reprints of it. Eric’s daughter added some oil paints to the original black and white photograph and that’s why some of the reprints show additional colors. In 2002, this photo known as Grace, became the state photograph of Minnesota.

The picture speaks as it hangs in homes and churches. To some, it coveys thankfulness, deep gratitude, reverence. Wanting to make others think the dictionary is a Bible, and that Charles was not a man of growing faith, doesn’t take away any of the sentiments the photo has for me. In fact, it tells me about human nature----we often want to appear more pious or holy than we really are.

I grew up with this image of prayer and have come to love the simplicity of it. Now, because of curiosity, I know more about it. Thanks to the wealth of knowledge on the Internet, I have the story of how this famous piece came to life, and for that, I'm both amused and grateful.