the absence of silence

 "Timely silence, then, is precious, for it is nothing less than the mother of the wisest thoughts." ( Henri J. M. Nouwen, The Way of the Heart, Connecting with God through Prayer, Wisdom, and Silence p. 45) 

I've written very little lately.  For someone who loves to write, the pages of my journal and this blog have been conspicuously empty.  Volumes of thoughts, ideas, and questions are reverberating within, but somehow I'm not sure that my words matter much right now. Instead, I've been craving silence. Though I confess, I'm not sure I even know what silence is.   

I recently began reading Henri Nouwen's The Way of the Heart, Connecting to God through Prayer, Wisdom, and Silence.  The bold words on the back cover say "Ancient spiritual wisdom to 

heal our troubled modern souls." Nouwen writes that "in this chatty society, silence has become a very fearful thing.  For most people, silence creates itchiness and nervousness.  Many experience silence not as full and rich, but as empty and hollow.  For them silence is like a gaping abyss which can swallow them up." (p.52)

I can't help but wonder if our propensity for words has more to do with the fear of silence than the longing for wisdom.  Is it possible that the more we say, the less we think?  The more words we fill ourselves with (in a frenetic fast-food sort of way), the less we actually distill and digest?  Could it be that our souls are becoming malnourished even as we continue to feed?

I have felt bombarded by words lately --a strange confession from someone who usually loves words.  Snippets of words seem to be coming from every direction, all clamouring for my already chronically divided attention.  There are words in texts, blogs, books, pod casts, voice mails, team-snap reminders, magazines, tweets, facebook, and e-mails and they are all firing at once especially when I'm trying to have a good, old-fashioned phone call or a face-to-face conversation.

   

It makes no difference whether I'm soaking in the bath, sitting with my family at the dinner table, waiting in line at the coffee shop, or half asleep in bed, there are plenty of bells and beeps and blings reminding me that WORDS are waiting, personal and impersonal alike.

What do we do with the vast deluge of words that inundate our daily lives?  How do we discern which ones are worth our precious time and attention?  I'm not talking about the inane stuff that we filter out right away (highlight and delete 20 or 30 messages) or the boring but necessary stuff of our day to day living.  I'm talking about the really great stuff: the text or e-mail from a friend, the hilarious or heart-warming story that will "only take a few minutes of our time," the multi-media presentation educating us on the plights of others, the podcast that is thought-provoking (assuming people still take time to think), the book that is an absolute must-read, the regular blog of a favourite author, and hey, there's always the Holy Bible (is it politically correct to call it that anymore??) --we could even crack it open and quickly pick a few inspiring words to consume on the run.  (I shutter, even as I type, to think how alarmingly close I have come to treating the life-breathed Word that is central to my faith as just another quick hit of "feel-good" that I can use on demand, whenever I need it.)   

I don't mean to be overly harsh here, but I wonder if the sheer volume of words available to us has rendered them less meaningful in the grand scheme of things?  

It wasn't long ago that I had to wait eagerly for the next book release in order to read new words from a favourite author.  But waiting is a thing of the past, isn't it?  Unless, of course, I count waiting until coffee break when I can finally snag a moment to click on the author's blog and read today's words hot off the press.  And with a few more clicks of the finger, I can follow a multitude of links introducing me to three or twenty other sites that have something to say on the matter.   

I can read, browse, surf, and peruse more, and yet process, integrate and grapple less.  I can take in a surplus of words and still end up with a deficit of wisdom and understanding. I can consume until I am crammed and utterly filled with the ideas of others and not have had one original thought of my own.  

Can it be any other way as long as I am a stranger to silence? Where else but in silence, can a thought find soil in which to germinate and grow until it brings forth life?

I guess I'm beginning to wonder if less really is more when it comes to words -- even the really good stuff?

words  and images (unless cited otherwise) © copyright Melody Armstrong 2014

soul stillness

what does it look like?

this thing called "stillness" 

 that my soul longs --even aches for?

this thing I unconsciously arrange for

this thing I am supposed to BE

so that I can know God

is God

the more I reach for it

the more elusive and fragile it becomes

I chase after it

 like a delicate soap bubble 

floating and lifting on a breeeze

but the moment I think I might actually hold it

it's gone

words (with exception of quotes within the collage) & images  © copyright Melody Armstrong 2013

full stop.

a glimpse of green surrounded by deep, white powder

There are a lot of stop signs along my travels and I confess,  I've been rolling right through them lately (figuratively, of course!  Well.....??).   After all, I don't have time for a complete stop.   I slow right down, of course, and look all directions before proceeding, but my wheels still keep turning.

Not today.  This morning I come to a full stop.  After a weekend absolutely filled to overflowing with activity,  I am finally obeying the stop sign -- the one posted to keep me from a serious collision.

I say "no" to my zoomba class this morning (sorry Chantal, in all your zoomba gorgeousness!) and I opt instead for a quiet start, a calmer rhythm, a soulful search.  This is a luxury on a Monday morning, to be sure, but one too easily ignored in favour of a mind-numbing pursuit of the endless "to do's" and a plethora of obligations waiting to be fulfilled.

Instead, I head for the woods....the place where I can really hear all the sounds that make up "quiet"...where I can still find green in the middle of winter (and for those of you who spend winter in Alberta, you understanding my longing for green right now).  It's the place where I can stretch right out and lay on soft, mossy slopes beneath old, creaking pine trees....and the place where I can be alone with God and bushy, red-tailed squirrels (and possibly cougars, but I try not to think about that!)

I cut across the ridge this morning and follow a path the deer have made down into the forest.  It's gorgeous down in there.  It's a world unto itself and I walk respectfully.  I don't have a photo because sometimes even taking photos can be a way for me to keep going - to avoid stopping.  No electronics today.  Full stop.  The only things in my pockets are the unusually red rock I pick up on my way in, and the heart-shaped rock I spot on my way out.  Otherwise, my hands are free.  Like my heart.

moss and rock i brought home from my walk

The woods are a place of quiet --a full kind of quiet, and after navigating around bushes, under branches, over fallen trees and down the mossy slopes, I find the perfect place to hunker down.  The perfect place to be still, to observe, to listen.  

I crush some pine needles between my fingers, releasing their fragrance so I can breathe in the awakening scent that reminds me of childhood camping trips.  I smile as I watch a little red squirrel chattering away on a nearby tree.  Like me, that little creature moves at lightning speed most of the time, but his movements seem so random.  Up there, across here, around that and back to the same starting place again.  Like me, he seems to be in frantic motion but not really going anywhere.  The other day I tallied up the hours I spent driving in my vehicle, chasing from one activity to the other, and realized that although I'd spent nearly 3 hours driving, I never got further than 20 minutes from my own front door.

  I'm going so fast but it feels like I'm getting nowhere with nothing to show for it all.  My heart has been heavy with questions lately. I wonder if I am missing it.  What if, in all of my busyness, I am racing right past the very things that I value and cherish the most:  God, my husband, my children, my family  and friends?  What if I'm not treasuring these fleeting family moments the way I should?  What if I'm not spending enough time teaching my children about faith in God, or more importantly, modelling a life of faith walked close with God? What if my husband and I are so focused on our kids and their busy lives that we are forgetting to nourish our own relationship - to be prepared for the next season of open spaces that the two of us will have to find meaningful ways to fill?  What if I've missed the beauty of this daily life we live together because I've been too focused on how to make it better, richer, fuller, more purposeful?

I realize too, that I have come to the woods to forage (just like my hyper little squirrel friend). I am in search of seeds, long buried beneath a winter landscape.  I am in search of nourishment.  I am in search of green.

I think I have come to the right place.  It may just be possible that my life is surrounded by all that I am searching for but it's not until I STOP that I can see it.


Definitely more on this later.... but now, it's off to piano lessons.

Photos and text Copyright © 2013 Melody Armstrong

a hard look at me

 I took this shot yesterday afternoon on my way home.  I didn't stop for a self portrait.  In fact, the whole reason I pulled over was because of "the red barn" - a favourite landmark I pass driving to and from my house.  It is so old and tired, barely standing, but somehow still beautiful --especially yesterday, cloaked in the bright dazzle of winter sunshine. I stood on the fence so that I could shoot as much of the barn as possible.

And then from the corner of my eye,  I see the image that I hadn't stopped for, the surprise beauty, the shadows, the lines, the patterns....and ME, right there as a part of it all.

Life, even abundant life, is so strange and full of paradox....that there is beauty in the shadows, and patterns in the random chaos of a day....that what I come for, thinking I need, is so seldom what I leave with...that I see so much more in places I'd never even thought to look at first.  I see Him, the true Beauty and Wonder of it all.  And I see me, off to the side, looking for ways to capture Him on the lens of my heart, yet struggling still.

There is much about me in this portrait that you can't see.  You can't see that I'm wearing a wool toque because I didn't bother trying to fix my bed-head from this morning, or that I have no make up on because I'm miserable and I just don't care.  You can't see that I'm snowed under with feelings of self-pity because I have a lousy cold, a running nose, a headache, a cough, and because I really just want to go to bed (just as soon as I take these photos!!)  But what really makes me feel worse than anything is knowing that I'm feeling sorry for myself when a boy on my son's hockey team has a mom and a sister both being treated for cancer...when a neighbour just lost her young niece to the same disease...when a homeless man I know is out in this cold somewhere trying to get through another day...when there is so much excruciating hurt and pain and sorrow in this world. And beauty. When there's so much exquisite beauty in the mix.

I resign myself to the fact that I'm lost for words again.  I can't seem to express the deep knowing --of God's grace and ultimate goodness-- that resides at the core of who I am.  My words just trip and tumble and land flat today.  And maybe that's okay.


        p.s. here are the pictures I stopped for in the first place.

photos and text © 2012 Melody Armstrong

"make my prayer pray"

"My prayer-bird was cold--would not away,

Although I set it on the edge of the nest.

Then I bethought me of the story old--

Love-fact or loving fable, thou know'st best--

How, when the children had made sparrows of clay,

Thou mad'st them birds, with wings to flutter and fold:

Take, Lord, my prayer in thy hand, and make it pray."
    
    -George MacDonald (Diary of an Old Soul p. 113)
                     

image a little blurry but still beautiful..........KIND OF LIKE MY PRAYERS.

I've been reading Philip Yancy's Prayer, Does it Make Any Difference?  And I'm grateful that he begins with the same questions I do about prayer. Admittedly, if I spent less time reading about prayer, and actually just doing it, I'd certainly learn a lot more.  Isn't is always easier to think about doing something, rather than just doing it?

I don't always pray to get my prayers answered.  I don't pray because I'm trying to speak his promises into fruition.  I don't pray because I'm always confident that it changes the course of things in my life or the lives of others.   While these admissions may raise eye-brows,  I'm just speaking from my heart.  I believe that He hears my prayers. I do not question that God is all-powerful and His will ultimately prevails at all times, I simply don't understand yet, the role my prayers have in all of that.

I pray mostly because I can't help it -- my soul calls out to the One who knows me best.  I crave intimacy with Him.  I long to be known and understood, even in those places deep within my own being that I do not understand myself.  Also, I long to know and understand Him --Prince of Peace, Perfect Love, Heavenly Daddy, Mighty Warrior, Creator of All, Keeper of my heart.  

I pray because I love God and because He loved me first.  I want to be with Him.  When I'm tucked close to Him I know I'm safe, secure and no forces can stand against me.  My heart feels like it's praying all the time -- even without words.  Usually without words.  

I understand Macdonald's plea:

"look deep, yet deeper, in my heart, and there, beyond where I can feel, read thou the prayer."                                                   (Diary of An Old Soul p.114) 

I think I sometimes have a skewed view of what prayer "should" look like, or sound like.  I get thinking about what "effective" prayer is -- stuck in a rut where my imagination is imprisoned.  It seems ludicrous that my mind narrows when I think about how I should talk to God.  Shouldn't my thoughts expand....out past all the known universes....out into the farthest expanses of human imagination -- AND THERE, MEET GOD?

I love the words of Nicole Nordeman:

           "Oh, Great God, be small enough to hear me now."

                  (from her beautiful song Small Enough) 

There is much more I'd like to say.  But perhaps right now, instead, I will pray. 

photos and text (except citations) © melody armstrong

ugly beautiful

my favourite lone tree

more broken now than ever

wind-beaten

and still standing

barely.

bare.

final leaves cling

in frosty

cocoon

to the branch last living

hanging splintered now

pointing to earth

instead of sky.

Living and losing 

pressed so close and hard 

it hurts to breathe

yet

dare I say it

all is Grace 

even the ugly beautiful.

taking a closer look

same tree, different view

sometimes you have to move in closer to find any beauty at all

if you look hard enough.........just please, keep looking!

photos and text©melody armstrong

giving or receiving, which do you prefer?

I read it in Donald Miller's book Blue Like Jazz (p. 84) and it smacked me right between the eyes:

"I love to give charity, but  I don't want to be charity."

I knew the moment I read it that his comment describes me too much of the time.  I would rather be the one giving.  I would rather be the hero.  I would rather think my way into believing that I don't need - that I have so much to give.

How foolish.

Whenever I consider myself to be in the "giving" role more than the "receiving" role, I have blinders on.  Not only is that perspective naive, it is arrogant, ugly and completely mistaken.

I am constantly in need.  Why is that so difficult to admit?  I am continually on the receiving end of grace, mercy, and love, every moment of every day.  How could I think otherwise?

I have not earned this life.  I have not earned the love of my family, friends or my Creator.  I have not earned my health.  I have not earned my birth place in Canada.  I have not earned my freedom.

All of these things have been GIVEN to me.

ALL THAT I HAVE TO GIVE, HAS FIRST BEEN GIVEN TO ME. 

ALL IS GIFT.

There is one specific instance where I distinctly remember REFUSING CHARITY....and ultimately refusing a chance at deeper friendship.  It is an occasion I have regretted ever since, and although I asked forgiveness of this friend, it remains to me a painful and powerful lesson about the importance of receiving.

I was a mess!!  I was flat on my back, hurting with back pain and trying to cope with a newborn baby, a 14 month old, and a 3 year old. My lovely neighbour arrived at my house one day with a meal in her hands and a casual "I've come to clean your house."  She was exuberant.  But instead of being overjoyed and  accepting her offer with gratefulness, I refused her with a sort-of joking but overly harsh: "You are not cleaning my house!"  And that was it.

Her countenance changed.  Her excitement fizzled into politeness.  In that moment, a budding friendship was halted because I refused her gift.  The joy that both of us could have experienced, her in giving and me in being super spoiled by such a caring gesture of friendship, was lost.  

I could spend all day trying to justify my refusal:  Why should she have to work so hard?  Her offer was too generous to accept.  Such a kind thought but I'd be fine on my own.  

THE TRUTH WAS,  I NEEDED TO DEAL WITH MY PRIDE. 

I didn't like that I was needy.  I didn't want someone else to have to do my dirty work.  

No, I wanted to be strong, capable and in control.  I didn't want to be laying on my back in pain....I DIDN'T WANT TO BE CHARITY. 

These days, I'm learning to say it out loud.......to caste aside my pride and declare:

I WANT GRACE.  I WANT CHARITY.  I WANT TO BE LOVED.  I WANT MERCY. 

I WANT GIFTS THAT I HAVEN'T EARNED.  I WANT TO RECEIVE. 

 I WANT TO BE FILLED TO OVERFLOWING.

And then, the outpouring of my love to others will be fragrant with humility and a beautiful understanding of ALL THAT HAS BEEN GIVEN TO ME.

THANK YOU, JESUS, FOR BEING THE ULTIMATE GIFT -------- I WANT ALL OF YOU, ALL DAY LONG, EVERY DAY.

(And Hope, if you read this.....please know that although I apologized to you long ago, I have never forgotten this lesson and I have worked very hard since then to remember that  IT IS JUST AS IMPORTANT TO GRACIOUSLY RECEIVE AS IT IS TO GENEROUSLY GIVE.  And I promise to accept if you should ever offer to clean my house again!!!  oxoxox) 

I invite your comments and reflections in the comment area below.

words and images © melody armstrong 2013

when the fog rolls in....

I can't seem to make up my mind about fog.  

Sometimes it's dreamy and delightful.....like the morning of my birthday this August when my husband woke me early on our summer holiday to go out on the lake and watch the sunrise.  The fog sat low in the valley, hovering between mountains on either side.  It drifted in heavy...rolling and teasing and curling around us as we floated.  I loved it.  The morning was straight out of a fairytale.  And when the haze cleared and the sun rose,  a bright and glorious morning unveiled before our eyes. 

Last week the fog stretched past our home and settled into the nearby river valley as if it were sinking into lazy-boy chair.   The river was still there but I couldn't see it.  So was the farm just on the other side of the river, and the hills rising beyond that.  Nothing had changed.  The permanent things that I always count on being there - were still there, I just couldn't see them.

Fog is like that.  When we're in the middle of it, beneath its heavy cloak, we just can't see.  It's unnerving --especially when we tend to rely more on what we see than what we know.  Sometimes our lack of vision even makes us doubt the things we know.  

I have experienced times in my life when the fog has settled in, thick and heavy and bewildering.  I want to see and I can't.  Nothing is clear, nothing is obvious, and I grope and stumble my way through obscurity.   It's not dreamy.  It's not delightful.  

If only I could recognize the hazy times in my life as an invitation to sit in awe and trust.  To rely on what I know, rather than just what I see.  To be still. To cease from striving and planning and pressing forward and controlling. 

 To simply BE.

when life is dusty dirty

when it's dark and lonely

when I'm chipping and cracking everywhere

when the papers pile

when the work piles

when I'm soaked in the rain
JUST BE.

Because EVENTUALLY THE FOG LIFTS, revealing what was shrouded. Clarity comes.  My eyes are able to see what my heart has known to be true all along.

And I give thanks - again.  

For God's faithfulness.  

that I can trust - even when I can't see.  

For His invitation to 
BE STILL AND KNOW THAT HE IS GOD.

text and images © melody armstrong 2012

Are there questions God can't answer?

My first son Chase was about three years old when he asked me a question that I have never forgotten:  “Mommy, how many ways can you squish a marshmellow?” 

I still chuckle when I think of it. Though it wasn’t really answerable, the question was  adorable and imaginative.  It reflected the way he saw the world, the things that mattered to him, and his curiosity about how life worked.  That was so precious to me.

I wonder sometimes about the questions I ask God.  I have so many.  Are they precious to him, just because he is my loving heavenly Father and he adores me?  I'm constantly asking how...? why...? when...? can’t you...? where will...?  And then there are those times that I behave childishly, stomping my feet and getting pouty when He doesn’t seem to answer.  

Not only do I want the answers, but I also prefer them to be instant and gratifying.  Thank you very much!

Three years ago, after my dad passed away, I read C.S. Lewis‘ A Grief Observed in which Lewis grapples with the agonizing loss of his beloved wife, Helen.  His raw and tender writings were never originally intended for publication, they were simply his own personal reflections and a way to process the pain and questions arising from his own “dark chasm of grief.” (see introduction)  He addresses this idea of questioning God in one particular passage which has come to my mind many times since I first read it, especially in my own seasons of intense introspection and questioning:

“When I lay these questions before God, I get no answer. But a rather special sort of ‘No answer.’  It is not the locked door.  It is more like a silent, certainly not uncompassionate, gaze.  As though He shook His head not in refusal but waiving the question.  Like, “Peace, child; you don’t understand.’

Can a mortal ask questions which God finds unanswerable?  Quite easily, I should think.  All nonsense questions are unanswerable.  How many hours are there in a mile?  Is yellow square or round?  Probably half the questions we ask--half our great theological and metaphysical problems--are like that.” 

(p. 685 in The Complete C.S. Lewis Signature Classics.  Copyright 2002 Harper Collins Publishers.)

I think Lewis is right. Many times, I’m just not asking the right questions.  Not that there’s a trick in it - I can come before God with all the questions of my heart and know that I am received and loved by him.  However, I readily admit that my questions are laced with ignorance, more often than not.  They are sincere, certainly.  But no matter how sincerely I come before my Creator, if I am honest, I can see that my questions reflect a limited and often skewed understanding of who He is and how He works.  Is it any wonder that many of my  questions are not answered?  How does God answer nonsense questions with anything but compassion and love?

being surprised by his stunning
perspective 

I’m beginning to ask the best question:  what is the right question, Lord?  

If I want to get closer - to know Him better, am I willing to surrender my perspective and seek His when asking my questions?  Beyond that, am I really willing to listen for his answer?

I'd be honored to hear your perspective in the comment section below.

photos © melody armstrong

on being small

the mossy woods in Caroline, AB.

Have you ever laid down on a soft piece of moss in the middle of the woods and starred up into the trees?  Or laid on a cool patch of grass and been mesmerized by an endless shimmering of stars? Have you ever laid in the sand near the ocean and listened to the rushing, roaring, symphony of waves crashing on the shore?

have you ever felt incredibly small?

What about the times in your life when you've laid flat out - but not by choice?  When you've been completely broken -- in heart or in body?  When life has left you battered, crushed and powerless in a world where we are valued for our strength, power and independence?

My soul has been longing to understand what an abundant, successful life looks like in God's economy, where the first will be last, where if I lose my life - I will find it, and where when I am weak - I am actually strong in Christ. 

And what about my dreams, my grand hopes for the future, my longing to really be somebody one day--all in the name of "accomplishing something special for God"?  How do those secret places of my heart fit with God's perfect plans for me?  Do they have any resemblance at all?

I read the words of F.B. Meyer (in Ann Voskamps one thousand gifts. p. 171) and they tip me right upside down:  

"I used to think that God's gifts were on shelves one above the other, and that the taller we grew in Christian character the easier we should reach them.  I find now that God's gifts are on shelves one beneath the other, and that it is not a question of growing taller but of stooping lower, and that we have to go down, always, down, to get His best gifts."

wildflowers in Kananaskis 

I am so incredibly small, but can I accept that as a good thing?

Nothing in the world tells me that smallness is good.  That, in fact, that it might actually be true greatness.   Nothing I read in magazines or watch on TV tells me that if I want to be great, I need to learn to be the servant of all.  No self-help book that I know of has ever spent a chapter on being meek, reminding me that it is the meek who will inherit the earth.

This idea of "smallness equals greatness" seems only to be a God-thing, completely foreign to the confines of popular thought today.  And really, can God be trusted when the culture I am woven into applauds strength, success, independence, empowerment, and getting ahead at almost any cost?  

God or culture?  What am I willing to risk, to live a life of love and humility?

I'd like to end by retelling (and abbreviating) a story I read in Peter Scazzero's book The Emotionally Healthy Church (p. 119): 

There once lived a water carrier in India who made the same trip every day from the stream to his master's house, using two large pots attached at either end of a large pole he carried across his neck.  The one pot was perfect and became very proud that it always delivered a full load of water at the master's house.  The other pot had a large crack in it and became very discouraged that it only ever arrived at the master's house half full.  Finally the cracked pot spoke to the water carrier at the stream one day and apologized shamefully for its brokenness and for only ever delivering half its original load.  The water carrier smiled at the cracked pot and pointed to the beautiful flowers that lined one side of the path back to the master's house saying: "I have always known about your flaw, and I took advantage of it. I planted seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we passed these spots, you watered them.  Now for two years I have been able to pick those beautiful flowers to decorate my master's table.  Without you being just the way you are, I would not have this beauty to grace his house."

What gifts of beauty have grown from your brokenness?  What new perspectives have resulted from your smallness?  Is being strong, independent, and powerful really all it's "cracked up" to be? (pardon the pun!)

If you wish,  you may leave your thoughts and reflections in the comment section below.

photos © Melody Armstong