The Moment Before the Moment
“In the silence of midwinter dusk, there is a sound so faint that for all you can tell it may be only the sound of silence itself. You hold your breath to listen. You are aware of the beating of your heart. The extraordinary thing that is about to happen is matched by only by the extraordinary moment just before it happens. Advent is the name of that moment.” Frederick Buechner
"Silence is like a river of grace inviting us to leap unafraid into its beckoning depths. It is dark and mysterious in the waters of grace. Yet in the silent darkness we are given new eyes. In the heart of [God] we can see more clearly who we are. We are renewed and cleansed in this river of silence. There are those among you who fear the Great Silence. It is a foreign land to you. Sometimes it is good to leap into the unknown. Practice leaping." Macrina Wiederkehr
Advent is a collective holding of our breath. INHALE. That moment, in some ways, is our whole lives, isn’t it? We hold our breath together, awaiting. Like the angels perched in anticipation for the command of the Father to the waiting Son. Has the fullness of time arrived? And that command: Is it a whisper? It is a trumpet sound? Is it simply a knowing nod? We wait breathlessly for the Father's go ahead: “It’s time, Son. Bury yourself in the silence of Mary.”
EXHALE. The weary world rejoices.
But first, we wait. This waiting. It feels like both wonder and fear to me, like:
That threshold moment—standing at a doorstep in the cold night after a seventh date. Is tonight the night? Face to face, breath to breath—a split second before the warmth of a longed-for, first kiss.
Jockeying for position atop the stairs, matched in Christmas jammies with your sisters, like downhill skiers at the gate, awaiting Daddy’s call: “Come on down! Santa came!”
Inching up the clickety clack of tracks to the peak of the rollercoaster’s first hill, high as the trees, your heart in your throat, and your hands clenching the safety bar in front of you. Can I let go of the bar, raise my hands and really let go? AHHHHHHHH!
The waiting is BOTH a fearful AND wonderful thing. BOTH/AND is the only way I know how to describe it. The anticipation is overwhelming. Remember how Carl McColman called silence "the edge of waiting"?
At our silent retreats, I often confess my fears at the beginning of the day: “What if He doesn’t say anything? AND at the same moment, What if He does say something?” Fear and wonder.
Silence is like Advent in that. It evokes a fear and a wonder. Sitting with a friend today, she voiced that very thing: When I get quiet, the voices that tell me I’m not doing it right get louder. The voices of shame surround me. I don’t want to get quiet.
But like a seed in the soundless soil, something imperceptible happened when my friend closed her eyes and quieted her soul. I followed suit, even over Zoom. I entered the darkness behind my eyes and slipped into God's presence with her. We stayed together like that for some time. Once, I peeked open an eye. Is anything happening? My friend was still still. It quieted me. We stayed like that that longer, lingering.
Softly, she said something and I opened my eyes, “Thank you," she offered. "Doing it together was not so scary.” Together, we were silent. God spoke. Something very specific, something very meaningful to my friend. She wept. Something gently pressed through and peeked open. Something imperceptible arose.
That’s what our silent retreats are like. We wait like first kissers, like kids at Christmas atop stairs, atop thrill rides. We wait like seeds in the warm soil of each other. We wait with the angels. With fear and wonder: Will He come? We do it together.
“It’s time. Bury yourself in silence.”
JUDY