Sounds of silence

I have long been a lover of words, but in recent months, I have also become a lover of silence. I crave silence, long for it almost bodily, like I crave water or salt. I spend my days in the company of three talkative children, and after fourteen hours of being barraged by demands ("Mommy, watch me!") and questions ("Mommy, is zucchini a fruit or a vegetable?") and loquacious accounts of the day's drama ("Then my friend said..."), I am exhausted. I want nothing more than to retreat into a quiet hole and be accountable to no one but myself, to be granted the space to unfold my limbs without another body pressed against me, to unfold my thoughts without interruption.

Yet the truth about silence is that it's rarely silent. Two weekends ago, we drove across northern Tanzania and out to the coast, where the warm, shallow waters of the Indian Ocean lap against land spotted with palm trees, swamps and beaches. For three sweet nights, we stayed in a thatched-roofed banda within sight of the ocean, and for two days we collected shells and sea urchins, went swimming and snorkeling, and discovered that the children love lobster and shrimp. Early one morning, I crept out to the porch to breathe the salty air and to listen to the fullness of the silence. Until that morning of listening, I never knew that palm trees make a sound—that the palm fronds, rustling in the constant breeze off the ocean, sound like falling rain. Or that monkeys, calling to one another in the darkness, sound for all the world like wailing babies.

Then last weekend, we joined some friends for one final safari, one last glimpse of the majestic wild creatures that call Tanzania home. We saw dazzles of zebra leading herds of wildebeest across the baobab-studded landscape; we turned a corner to spot two giraffe galloping across the dry grass, outpacing our car with their gangly gracefulness. And we saw dozens of elephants, groups of mothers leading babies of all sizes, some so small they still found refuge between their mothers' huge legs. At one point, we watched a herd of elephants cross the Tarangire River and encounter another herd, and they appeared to greet one another, to raise their trunks in acknowledgement. Our driver told us that indeed the elephants were greeting one another, not only visually but also audibly, except the frequencies they use are so low that our ears can't hear them. What a wonder:  not only can silence be loud, but what is loud can also be silent.

Over the past eight-and-a-half-months, I have used my words to describe and muse upon our family's adventures in Tanzania. Yet here at the end of our journey, I am keenly aware of the limitations of my words, of the way these stories are a crafted reality, a projection of truth. Although I have tried diligently to present my life honestly, I know that I have tucked the ugly, messy edges in; I am cognizant of the way I filter and fine-tune my tales. And I am aware of this in photographs, too, how pictures may be worth a thousand words but rarely tell the whole story. For example, our photographs of the gorgeous Indian Ocean don't tell you how the trip there was achingly long, fraught with frustrating police checks and harassment by immigration officers. And our photographs of the majestic African elephants don't tell you about the misery of the biting tsetse flies, which kept us swatting our arms and legs throughout much of the day.

I will always love words, but I believe I am drawn to silence now not merely because of my talkative children. I am drawn to silence because, in a land where I can't communicate well, silence is frequently my only option. I am drawn to silence because I see how people perceive life so differently... And when we open our mouths to speak, too often we judge without understanding; we criticize without acknowledging the validity of another person's experience. I am drawn to silence because silence can be wiser than words.

As we have journeyed here in Tanzania, I have fallen in love anew with the God who not only spoke with words—with poetry, prose and prophesies—but also with a life embodied. In his wisdom, this God knew that it would take more than words to win us; we needed the Word made flesh, Jesus, who would humbly inhabit a human frame, move into the neighborhood, and grow in knowledge for 30 years before breaking his silence. Even at the end of his journey, Jesus was silent before suffering, that he might silence sin and death. And at the end of my adventure, the end that is also a beginning, I pray that my silence—and my words—may be to his glory and by his grace.