Whispers of Extreme

The wind tells the story with the song of noise. Once it begins the only way to cease is the God of creation. The hand of the wind makes the garbage cans shake and rattle, the shingles on the roof ripple, the waves rush and flow. It carries the sound of trucks roaring and the rush of a molten mixture of everything. It also carries the beautiful song of children laughing and playing, the gentle lap of the water at the edge of a lake, a normal sound of rain gently falling. What does it say? What does it whisper?

The silence after the storm, the quiet that is so loud you can hear a snowflake falling to the ground. The wings of the eagle as it flys overhead, the fish jumping in the lake. The subdue nature of the air brings sounds from further away. The chirping of the birds, the flutter of the tractor miles away, or the swishing of traffic off in the distance. The straining to hear, the ease to hear what is so close, the sound of what is thought to be nothing. Is this what the world calls profound? Is it indescribable?

The context of each moves the soul. The noise of the wind spurs on the adrenalin while the silence can create anxiety. The joy of events and the high of emotions is not fully understood until experiencing the lows of the silence, the sorrows of trials.

For his anger endureth but a moment; in his favour is life: weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning Psalm 30:5

The search for the word joy brought the realization that being joyful is noisy. When we truly have the joy of the Lord we get a bit louder. We share more boisterously, smile a bit bigger. We even laugh loudly. The actions are bigger, the voice a bit stronger. Our vision becomes a bit tighter, a bit more focused.

In my experience sorrow is not the opposite, but it is different. My mind bounces around and creates more noise then a busy highway in the height of tourist season. The flood gates open and the mind becomes so harried I wonder if I will ever hear a bird chirp. Noise becomes loud, intense, and forces me to stumble. Nothing is in focus, it is blurry and in distinct.

In my quiet, grief raises its ugly head. The tears begin to course the tracks of my cheeks on a free fall. I try in myself to find my worth that grief stole. I begin to think less of myself. Less of who I am. Who could love me again. Who really cares about me.

This is not a pity party for me, it is to show that when more than half of who I am was so rudely ripped away, it still hurts years later. The silence of “holidays”, the noise of marriage conference invites, yeah it still hurts. Friends and family that slip in and out on their own convenient path. It still makes me flip out inside. I wonder what did I do?

The extremes are just that, extreme. I need to experience them each to appreciate the balance.

I hear the call, I hear the Whispers. He calls to me. He beckons to me. Come, taste and see…The Lord is good! He has good things ahead. My back hurts, my knees crack and pop from time spent in prayer. Long nights, many of an afternoon. Nothing is more precious then time with the goodness of God! The spirit reaches out and always comes back full. Always!

Author: thewidowwomanblog

I am a 53 year old widow who is watching her kids step out into life while holding tight to the Creator's hand.

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