Attentive Silence and Ripe Figs

This moment I'm sitting in is a good one.  I put in a full, good day of work, and I now sit in one of my favorite, shabby little coffee shops near the Ross Island Bridge.  SE Grind is always full of people, mostly students with laptops, late night coffee, sweatpants, and curly hair so luscious it could make you cry.  This is a moment of stirring yerbe matte tea in a white ceramic cup with an old spoon, a moment of cold noses and warm hats, gentle sounds and bright lights, strange art and familiar strangers.

It's a moment set aside to pause, appreciate the warm teacup in my hands, and contemplate the year unfolding in front of me.

Never in my lifetime have I run short of ideas.  Ironically, too many ideas and interests have a way of stilling forward motion.  Sylvia Plath captured it perfectly in The Bell Jar:

"I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story.  From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked.  One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South American, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and apack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out.  I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose.  I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet."

It's been pretty discouraging, especially because God's only recent input has been a teasing, 'Do not pass Go, do not collect $200.'*  That made me balk for a bit - was God telling me that I need to stay in America for 2 years? 10 years? Forever?  I've wrestled and wondered, trying to avoid worry, to narrow down options and plans.  And all the while, God has been so quiiiiiiiiiiet....

This weekend I crossed paths with family friend I've never met before, a lovely woman, who has apparently been following my writing over the past couple of years.  As we talked, I felt God's attention.  It wasn't a directive, a correction, or a divine pity for my frustration.  It was more like God broke the silences and said, 'Uh-huh, I'm listening.'  The acknowledgement was like a deep breath of cold, fresh air. For the past year, I've felt frustrated and isolated by God's silence.  It's only in this moment that I realize the best listeners don't say anything.  I've had a lot to say.

I intended to take this post in another direction, but I think this is where I'm supposed to leave it - sometimes God is silent because He's intently listening to you.  It isn't the silence of abandonment, it's a gift of gentleness.

"You have given me the shield of your salvation,

and your right hand supported me,

and your gentleness made me great."

Psalm 18:35 (ESV)

The deepest loves I've ever known were nourished with a soft vulnerability, the byproduct of consistent gentleness.  It builds up the muchness of a person, the substance, the essence.  This kind of gentleness isn't inspired by pity, but intimacy.  I've shared the closeness of silence with my dearest of friends, but never before with my God.  A new discovery within my oldest relationship.  Remarkable.

*Apparently God cheats at Monopoly.