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.

A Lesson From Geese

It's a slow process but quitting won't speed it up.


The first time I stood over my son Daniel's gravestone I wished it wasn't so small. Sadness, coupled with regret, wove a shroud around me. “Don’t worry, baby," I said in the way a mama talks to her child's grave. "I’ll make things right. I’ll tell the world about who you were as my boy.”

As the March wind rustled over the last of the dead leaves from autumn, I made my promise. I would atone for not spending more money on a lavish marker---one larger than life---as he had been to me. I was a writer; I would write a book in his memory. Not just any book, it would be the kind that sparkles against a deep starry night. It would be brilliant and bold, honest and filled with the things he loved.

I wrote poetry about his soul being in Heaven, stories about the way he lived and the things he had enjoyed---watermelon slices, trips to the beach and mountains, watching Toy Story over and over again. Some of the poems were published. Articles I labored over about losing a child after cancer treatments ended up in bereavement magazines. I wrote some novels too and made sure each one had a character who had experienced a significant loss. I compiled three cookbooks in memory of children gone too soon. More time passed; my three living children grew up and left the house.

But the book I had vowed to write was still a long way from being completed.

The cemetery provided spring mornings for sitting and writing. The aroma of mowed grass and the songs of the birds that nestled in the oak by Daniel's grave all became part of my healing. But there was life on the other side of the cemetery that called me and took my time. My husband and I had a wood-working business and there were orders to fill, sanding, and staining to do. When I made time to write, the words that I typed felt bulky and weighted. Writing a memoir was more difficult than writing a novel. I wanted to get the facts right and poured over articles by memoirists about emotional truth.

When I woke during dark mornings at two, I thought about how I could tailor the book and make it shine. But it didn't shine, it didn't even glow. My inner critic told me to give up writing a book about Daniel. One day I was so fed up with it all I decided to listen to her. I went into the garage and found some wires and jump rings and things that I'd stored in a box from previous years when I made some very sad looking earrings. I looked online on how to make necklaces with beads. And one afternoon when business was slow I made a necklace. And then I made another. I ended up making three necklaces. They were pretty and I wore them. But they were not my heart. They were just a detour to keep me occupied until I could figure out what I really needed to do to get my book into shape.

On an autumn day under a gray sky, I learned a lesson that would transform me. God used a gaggle of geese to show me the art of persistence.

When I arrived at the cemetery on that particular morning, across from the circular drive where I always park my Jeep, I saw a new sight, something I'd never seen before or since then at that location. Canadian Geese greeted me. A few walked in circles on the pavement. Others walked away from me as I approached with my camera. There was one who darted over to a grave. The overall consensus was clear to me. These creatures were confused, and as my aunt Mollie would say, discombobulated. None of them were in cahoots but all were cackling, wobbling, vocal. I took some more pictures and then decided it was time to get my pen and pad from my Jeep and sit on a towel by Daniel's grave and do what I came to do. I walked away from the noisy encounter and the screeching conversations I did not understand.

When I got to the Jeep, I opened the door and that's when I heard the most air-shattering sound. The ruckus made the entire cemetery come alive. I looked overhead because that was where the sound was the loudest. That's when I saw it. In a V-format, flying through the sky, were those discombobulated geese. I grabbed my camera and took a picture, but by then, the geese were far into the sky and just little specks dotting the gray.

When the cemetery returned to calm, I asked, "How?" How had those geese, who had been so confused just minutes before, were now flying in sync together in harmony with purpose and direction? Which one of them had given the sign that it was time to be responsible? Had one of them lifted a foot indicating that it was the moment to leave? A wink? Can geese wink? How had such a motley crew taken off in such a glorious formation?

I spread Daniel's Thomas the Tank Engine towel, and sat with legs stretched out by the tiny grave that I had struggled with all these years.

I picked up my pen. I wrote a few words.

I had begun. Again.

One more time.

My inner critic had even been transformed; she was now my cheerleader. "One day," she told me in that way that critics speak to us, "if you do not give up, it will resemble a gaggle of geese who have found their place after a morning of confusion."

To the untrained eye, the photo I took of the geese in flight doesn't look like geese. Some might mistake it for a crow, a drone, or a smudge on the print. But to me, it is one of the tangible items I view to show me not to give up. Persistence is what we have to put on every day, if we want to pursue what is ours to do.

The Simple Quiet: Finding Sanctuary in a Broken World

“God doesn’t want something from us, He simply wants us.” - C.S. Lewis


In a noisy world it’s easy to become overwhelmed.

The clamor of the opinions of others consumed me. I read a variety of thoughts and views on current political, racial, and Covid-19 events and I couldn’t seem to stop. Determined to learn and understand, I opened newspapers and listened to YouTube videos. I felt like a soda bottle about to split at the seams. Something in my spirit, perhaps it was the Holy Spirit, let me know that I needed help. God’s voice was what I craved, but other opinions were louder.

Yesterday I got in my Jeep and drove. I didn’t stop for coffee at the little convenience store along the way. I was eager to get to Markham Memorial Gardens, a cemetery on the corner of Durham and Orange counties. I knew that physically going to this location would bring peace to my soul.

However, when my four-year-old son Daniel first died, the cemetery held no peace. It was my valley of anguish. I hated standing at his small gravestone because that stone meant Daniel was gone from life with us. Having Daniel's name, birth, and death dates etched on the marker gave me a reason to have to be there. And I didn't want a reason to have to stand with tears sliding off my chin and a hole in my heart.

Somewhere in the early months of grief, I wrote a poem at the cemetery. It would win no awards, but it was about how I knew that Daniel was alive in Heaven with Jesus. That truth rejuvenated me. It made me smile.

As my family and I continued to come to the cemetery, which we named Daniel’s Place, a strange thing happened. I felt at home among the epitaphs and plastic bouquets. We went to the cemetery and celebrated Daniel’s birthdays by lifting helium balloons with love notes into the August sky. We ate watermelon slices because watermelon had been his favorite. We brought decorative pinwheels to place at his marker. We spread blankets and towels and devoured sandwiches. We shared Daniel stories. My children have grown up with me as we have made our pilgrimages to the cemetery to honor the memory of a boy who loved Toy Story, Cocoa Puffs, and stickers from nurses at the hospital.

If the cemetery had a growth chart you could see how I’ve grown from a newly-bereaved mom of thirty-six to a seasoned veteran of fifty-nine. The cemetery has played a large role in both my grief and my faith walk. While there, I pray, I sing, I read the psalms. I listen to the chatter of birds and watch the clouds. Sometimes I sit on Daniel's Thomas the Tank Engine towel under the massive oak by his grave, sip coffee, and write my own psalms. Some days my words are filled with woe, and other days, they are sentiments of happy praise.

As I walk the grounds and say hello to graves belonging to people I have never met, Daniel's Place reminds me of the brevity of life on earth. Our days are numbered and only God knows when our last breath will be. The cemetery makes me think about what is important and how I want to live the rest of my days.

When I turned into Markham Memorial Gardens yesterday, immediate emotion swept over me. The tears that blinded my vision were unexpected. I’m no stranger to tears; I’ve cried at the sloping grassy knolls surrounded by oaks plenty of times. I’ve even been known to wail. But I had never felt tears like these. I analyzed them. (Yes, I do label my tears!) The tears that morning stemmed from a pilgrimage that began twenty-three years ago when I wanted nothing to do with this burial spot — to the past decade — when I choose to come because I'd discovered a sanctuary of holy calm. The cemetery encourages me to recite the first verse of Psalm 61: “O God, you are my God, earnestly I seek you; my soul thirsts for you, my body longs for you, in a dry and weary land where there is no water. I have seen you in the sanctuary and beheld your power and your glory. Because your love is better than life, my lips will glorify you.”

Your place of simple quiet might not be a cemetery. Perhaps it's at a park bench or a chair in your back yard. Maybe you are one of those who has a beautiful garden. Wherever you find that space where you go for the purpose of seeking God, go there. Sit down. Stretch your legs. Close your eyes. Breathe in. Take care of you. Take care of the precious life you have been given. Sometimes it's necessary to physically travel to a spot — like a park bench or river bank — where you can connect with God. When you arrive there, you know that pulling yourself out of your usual day-to-day surroundings is life-giving.

In a world vying for our attention, we need to make time to pause. Remember who God is and who we are. Our minds are confused, but God is peace. Our hearts are heavy, but he promises to ease the burden. In the sanctuary of the cemetery I walk among the graves barefoot because like Moses, I feel God’s holiness. I come with brokenness and pain, a fragile creature. He feeds me with forgiveness, hope, and healing, as only he can do.

When I left Daniel’s Place yesterday, I was aware of the need I have in a noisy world to cling to the righteous hand of God. "So do not fear,” God says, “for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand." (Isaiah 41:10)

Pinwheel at the Grave

Here's a simple and extremely economical way to decorate the grave of your loved one.
1. Buy a pinwheel at The Dollar Store
2. Use the stickers a friend from Japan sent (in my case, watermelon, of course)
3. Place stickers "artistically" around the pinwheel's "spokes"
4. Place the pinwheel by the grave
5. As the wind spins the pinwheel, recall a happy memory
6. Don't forget to smile.