The Unspoken Tongue
In the halls of my darkened memory, the night of my father’s passing is well-preserved. I may have forgotten a great many things about those weary days - and dreary nights - but I will never forget that evening. Indeed, I have walked the well-worn paths of that memory many, many times.
I remember how sudden it all was. Without a moment’s notice, my father simply packed his things and made his way home - to his true and lasting home. I remember the golden light fading from the hospital room as night crept into the place of day - a shadow of things to come, an echo of the nightfall that was beginning to encroach upon our day. I recall family and friends waning into shapeless shadows as the room grew pale, their darkened movements dancing upon the hospital walls.
I also remember the silence.
Muffled tears and soft words broke the moment now and again, like small pebbles tossed onto the calm, unbroken surface of a lake. However, all these noises seemed swallowed up within the silence itself - the silence was roaring. One would expect the normal reaction to death and loss to be tears and grief; but when you come face to face with the beast itself, silence often feels most natural. Indeed, when faced with the unspeakable, who are we to speak? What can be said? What are mere words in the face of heartbreak, sorrow, and devastation? In fact, I did not mind the silence - I did not have the words to speak, and I did not want to be spoken to.
One by one, the shadows of family members stole across the walls as they made their way out of the room. Within only a few moments’ time the room where my father passed was nearly empty, leaving only myself, my sisters, our mother, and one or two others.
After a few minutes, I lifted my heavy eyes from my father’s bedside and began to gaze across the room. Nestled a few feet from me in the dimly lit corner, a shape began to shift its weight from against the wall. The figure slowly emerged from the shadows. It was my cousin Jason, my dear friend; a man I esteemed as my own brother, and still do. His hands were awkwardly folded within themselves, his eyes and face unsure of where to focus or what to do. Suddenly, he stood up straight, embraced me within his arms, and as he began pulling away spoke a few words, the likes of which I will never forget:
“If you ever need to talk, or even if you need someone to just sit with you in silence, I’m here.”
With these few words Jason excused himself and made his way home.
—
I think we are often far too critical of Job’s friends. In the midst of his unprecedented suffering and God’s inscrutable sovereignty, Job’s three friends allowed their words to run incredibly loose. But, they did not begin this way: “Now when Job’s three friends heard of all this evil that had come upon him, they came each from his own place… And they sat with him on the ground seven days and seven nights, and no one spoke a word to him, for they saw that his suffering was very great” (Job 2:11-13). When confronted with the unspeakable, it is best not to speak. Not at first, that is. For, there is a time for everything: “a time to keep silence, and a time to speak” (Ecclesiastes 3:7).
For as long as the Lord gives me breath, I shall be indebted to my dear friend for his act of truly unspeakable kindness on the night my father passed away. Jason weighed the moment in his mind and measured out each of his words carefully to meet the needs of the hour. For anyone who has at any point experienced profound loss and sorrow beyond words, this gift of silence needs no further explanation. And for those of you who are at any point put in a position where you can comfort another, I would advise you to at first speak little, and listen much. Do not presume that your words are the most precious gift in such a moment. Allow the Lord to do His work; He will give you the words in due time.
In the days and years since that night, Jason and I are yet to speak openly about this moment. It was an exchange of immense depth and intimacy, and I think we both realize this. However, this moment has forged between us an even greater depth of friendship than could have been possible otherwise. A friendship that at times moves beyond words altogether, one bound by the unspoken tongue of silence itself. Indeed, we never have to talk about it - therein lies the beauty of silence.
Author’s Note: In an effort to write with integrity and as unto the Lord, it is important to stress that, though these events are in fact true, I do not always recall the exact words used in specific conversations. As much as I’m able, I strive to remain faithful to the event in question, capturing the ‘intent’ of the conversation when my memory fails with respect to exact words.
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