Too Quiet

"It's too quiet."I find myself repeating that phrase to John-Mark over and over again the past few days.How are you? It's too quiet.  What are you thinking? It's too quiet.  What's up? It's too quiet.  The tears stream down my face.Two weeks ago, Jacob's birthday was truly one of the best days of my life. I mean that with all sincerity.  The best day.  And then it was over, too soon.  Our time - though beautifully long - was cut too short.And the next day we walked into our front door and into the quiet.A home that once held three now only holds two.Family and a few friends have visited.  Television has been on. Movies have been watched. Games have been played. Music. Laughter. Sobs.  Conversations.But there's a quiet.There are many good times in our lives when we long for quiet - when the noise is too much around us and we just need a minute to think.  And there are times when we are still, times when things just seem exactly as they ought to be, and we have a moment to rest, to pause, to reflect.  Even as an extrovert, I can appreciate the quiet.  Some moments are just meant for that - no noise, just being.  There's serious goodness in quiet.But then there's that quiet that doesn't belong.  Like when mischievous kids - or pets - are in the other room and it's a little too still.  Or when you're anticipating something - a phone call, a conversation, an apology - that never happens.Or when there's supposed to be noise but there isn't.  A quiet that signifies a lack.  Something is missing.Someone is missing.There was no physical room created for Jacob, but there still is an empty space for him in our home.  There was no noise that he created in the womb - besides hearing his heartbeat occasionally at the doctor's office - but still there's a silence now.  There is no change in our nearness - we're side by side, in it together - but there's a subtle quiet between JM and me, even after months of anticipating this and grieving this together.  We just don't have the words right now. And that's okay.This quiet - it's tempting to fill.  It's tempting to try to make it go away.  Maybe x, y, or z would make it all feel better.  If only we had this much money and could buy that thing, or if only we could escape from it all, then we'd be set.  My heart knows that there's nothing in this world that could satisfy it.  There's nothing that can fill the quiet.  There's nothing that will fill the void.And deep down, I don't want it to.The quiet means that my sweet boy has value, that he did fill a space, that his life did mean something to me, to us.  The quiet shows me that there was a life that had significant meaning and purpose.  You don't miss something that wasn't there - even if it's only in a dream or a wish. The quiet now is part of the process, it's part of the journey, and the fact that it exists suddenly gives me hope.The quiet points me to see that there once was something beautiful in its place.The sweetest thing to me over the past two weeks has been the joy that has come from getting to share Jacob with others.  I love getting to gush over my sweet boy, to tell the simplified story of how he quickly came into the world, and to share photo after photo of him to anyone who will look.  I love that, for those few moments, the quiet is filled with memories and we're able to remind ourselves that he was real, that the last nine months did happen, and that Jacob was - and still is - so loved.I'm reminded of Psalm 62 - a psalm that I have clung to in the past when life was too hard.  A psalm I quoted as I was in the final moments of laboring and then delivering our son.  Ironically, tonight, I'm reminded through this psalm that quiet can be good, and that hope that fills the silence rests in the Lord and what He has for me.  And I love that I spoke it in those sweet moments just before I met my Jacob.  May these same words be honey to my soul tonight.

For God alone, O my soul, wait in silence, for my hope is from him.  He alone is my rock and my salvation, my fortress; I shall not be shaken.  On God rests my salvation and my glory; my mighty rock, my refuge is God.  Trust in him at all times, O people; pour out your heart before him; God is a refuge for us.Psalm 62:5-8

I think I'll always wish that I had to set an extra set of dishes out at our table.  I think that I'll always feel like there's a voice missing in our conversations, a load of laundry that is supposed to be done, a face missing from our photos.  There will always be a reminder to us that part of our hearts are tied up with our sweet boy in Heaven.  Part of our lives will always still feel a little quiet.My prayer tonight is that I'm able to begin to embrace it.  I pray that I'm able to see that the quiet means that there was great love in his little life.  I pray that I'm able to just be in the stillness.  To let myself grieve & process & ache.  I don't want to fear it.  I don't want to dread it.  I don't want to fill it with noise that's unnecessary.The quiet can be a good thing, if I let it.