The Quiet

The forest has a lot of things to say, but it is not when I am crashing through the undergrowth, with the leaves and the fallen branches breaking under-foot, that I hear them. But when I lean my gun against a tree and sit down on a fallen log, then the voice of the forest becomes clearer—the grinding of one limb against another, the fall of a nut, the flitting of wings, the scamper of a rabbit, the drumming of a woodpecker, in the tops of the trees the stirring of the wind. The forest says, "Be still, and you will hear my voice."

The season of advent is many things but, unfortunately, I often find myself crashing through its days distracted by my own noise and the voices all around me. The laughter from the party seems inviting, as do the smells from the kitchen. The mall and the brightly lit downtown streets all seem friendly and so I am pulled along.

And then I hear it. Softly the advent voices call. I need some silence for them to become clear, some quite amidst the noise. Advent, like the forest says, "Be still, and you will hear my voice."

We often associate noise and bustle with great undertakings. We like to hear the confused murmur about a new building or a new bridge—the songs of the workers, the rattle of machinery, the sound of the hammer and the saw. The horns and the laughter are like promises that something grand is about to take place.

But gently advent calls me.

There is something important, away from the noise. Something big taking place with nearly no fanfare. It’s time to prepare, time to get ready because it will be hear soon. The king is coming, and we must prepare the way. It won’t be done in the chaos. You won’t find the way in the racquet and the noise.

Silence.

Quiet.

Peace.

"Be still, and you will hear my voice," the king says in a still small voice. “Be still, and know that I am God.”