Brian Hamilton

Divine Silence

She opens the door to him, and they greet each other with a smile. The whipping of a sharp wind hurries him in, and three leaves—two red, one orange—hurry in behind him scratching quietly against the wooden floor. She motions towards an already set table; they sit. He opens his mouth to greet her properly, but only squeaks before her finger reaches her mouth, silencing him. With excitement in her eyes, she touches her ear then points heavenwards. He watches intently as she looks down at her bowl of rice, black beans, and stewed tomatoes (seasoned lightly), closes her eyes and breaths in deeply through her nose. She raises her hands slowly, cupping them as if receiving a gift, and brings them close to her heart. A shy grin crosses her face as she picks up her wooden spoon and begins to eat. Somewhat bewildered and quite self-conscious, he imitates her movements. A laugh visibly rises to her lips, but does not escape.

After about fifteen minutes, his discomfort has ceased. A buzzer sounds, and a loaf of honey wheat bread emerges from the oven; they cut it together and eat. Somehow, the air has become full of sound and movement. The silence has deepened, and now sounds like a symphony—God directs. The quiet clattering of spoons against bowls, the creaking of their chairs, even the hiss of steam rising off the bread, these are the presence of God in this small kitchen. As they finish their meal, they sit motionless and it feels almost Zen: bouncing thoughts, exploring silence, unable to hold too much eye contact because both are on the verge of laughter. Such joy in this room!

Finally, they stand and move towards the doorway. The wind rattles a finale across a loose pane on a nearby window. He reaches to turn the doorknob, but pauses, turns, and bows: an acknowledgement of Christ in her, which the silence has revealed. She bows in return, understanding. They part, and the symphony grows.

6 November 2004 |
tags: Fiction