Speak the Quiet

For the past eight years, it has rarely been quiet at our house. Yes, this coincides with a sweet, blue-eyed blonde being ever-present. It is quite the change for us.

You must understand neither Jennifer or I are very talkative. There was a time in her younger days when Jennifer’s parents were very concerned how she just would not talk. My parents never shared such a concern about me although they could probably tell you about the many times when someone came to our house and I would disappear into another room only returning when the visitor had left. For those who know us this well, they were not surprised when one of the songs we used in our wedding was Allison Krauss’s remake of the Keith Whitley song “When You Say Nothing At All.” It just seemed appropriate on several levels.

Jennifer and I tend to be the quieter, fit-into-the-scenery type of people. I am fairly certain some may even consider me unfriendly or surly just because I don’t really talk that much. Some may even think I am stuck for an answer when someone says “hello” to me. Frankly, maybe I am. I am instead someone who doesn’t believe I have to chime in on every little thing that happens. Sometimes, just keeping quiet is the wisest alternative. Still, some, on the other end of the spectrum, may know my talky side that comes out sometimes. They know how it steamrolls into a rolling, droning, never-ending stream of yawn-inducing minutiae over some subject. Not everyone can be pleased, I guess.

Meantime, some close to me have even said my facial expressions tell a story all their own better than I could even express verbally. Someone once told me I held no toleration for idiocy which must have been written across my face as I don’t remember uttering those words then. I guess I owe all those things to genetics and my feeling of constant bewilderment at the turns our society seems to blunder down daily.

All that said, pun intended, to get to how one recent day it was rather quiet in our house. Jennifer and I often talk how we haven’t had a complete conversation since Hannah learned to talk. We both find her often inserting herself into any conversation we may have ongoing. Yes, we then discuss with her how she should let someone finish what they were saying before stepping into a conversation. It has yet to completely stick though. I am sure one day it will.

Anyway, a recent day found the three of us home. The cold had embraced the outdoors. We also had work going on in another part of our house. In a sense, these factors isolated us for a day. Now, for me, that is an ideal day. The three of us together at our home spending time with one another. Oh, the things we could laugh at together. Oh, the plans we could make together. Oh, the opportunities to have every conversation interrupted by the eight-year-old.

Those conversations though mostly happened uninterrupted. Hannah was much quieter than normal. She was not feeling well. She said her throat was hurting. Since her throat hurt she decided not talking might help it get better quicker.

During the day, I watched her. She clung to a stuffed cat. Her tiny arms held it close to her in a secure embrace. She nibbled at food. She bristled at medicine. She looked like she did not feel good. She looked worried that this sore throat might never go away. I wanted to cry knowing she did not feel well. I wondered how all those parents who have children with serious medical issues deal with that gnawing, helpless, terrible feeling of watching your child struggle.

 

Later in the day, Hannah looked at me. I told her I had missed her voice that day. She gave me a curious look. Truth is, I missed hearing her ask some question every time I tried to talk. I missed her belting out a song out of the blue. I missed her stories of her and her friends.

Life is an odd thing. Many of us hold close to the familiar and safety everyday life can bring. Others like to live on the edge dancing on the line of uncertainty. Life really accommodates both constantly. It always changes. One day you realize the familiar and safe place you once knew sits at another place. You adjust and that new place becomes a new familiar, safe place.

One day, God willing, that voice will change from an eight-year-old to an older, wiser voice. It will do so seemingly as I stand still. That voice will grow up and may not be around as much as it is now. I know though I will always feel the cadence, the pitch, the rhythm of that voice. Maybe then it won’t interrupt me when I try to say something. While I may wish now for that, I know if I am able to live that moment in the future I will miss that voice stopping me while I try to flesh out my thoughts enough to verbalize them. Maybe then I’ll remember how truly blessed I was to be interrupted in such a way.