The sun was slowly rising to reveal the thick blanket of snow that had caused the school's 2 hour delay. Everyone was still sleeping and I enjoyed the longer than normal quiet morning. I had my quiet time with a hot cup of coffee and my Bible. The quiet continued as I slowly browsed my blog feed and the quiet continued as I snuck upstairs to start making pancakes. I soon heard the end to my silent morning as my 3 oldest children climbed the stairs, already bickering and calling for me. They sat at the table and continued to talk loudly and I sighed. The quiet was gone. Nowhere to be found. Sometimes I forget to appreciate this kind of noise.
Later that afternoon Zachary and I headed to therapy. It’s always quiet when Zachary and I drive to therapy, church, or the store. It’s quiet when I fold laundry in the afternoon. There’s the occasional babbling and he cries when he’s hungry or tired, but otherwise it’s quiet all day.
My heart aches and I long to talk to my 2 ½ year old. I desperately want to hear his voice tell me what is wrong. I want him tell me he hates his dinner, that he doesn’t want to go to bed, and to ask “why” 500 times a day. I'd even love it if he yelled at his siblings and joined in on the noise! But there’s nothing.
Oh Zachary, I’m hopeful for the day I hear what your voice sounds like. I wait with anticipation for you to talk to me on the way to and from therapy, to talk so much I want you to be quiet! But until that day I’ll pray for you through the silence, trusting God's plans in the quiet.