Sacred Silence

Years ago, when our oldest son, Bryson, was about 5, I was speaking at a large, conservative church in the Midwest.  The building featured a massive auditorium with a very high ceiling and stained glass windows.  The average age of the membership was well over 60 and, as you can probably imagine, the services were very orderly with a heavy emphasis on quiet reverence.  I knew from the moment that we stepped into the “sanctuary”, it was the perfect recipe for disaster. 

Things went well through the first several songs.  Voices echoing off the hallowed walls of this pristine chapel gave us just enough cover to hide a preschooler who had not yet mastered the fine art of whispering.  In between songs, Cindy and I scrambled to keep Bryson’s little mind busy so that he would not blurt out some embarrassing question that would no doubt echo around the room and send some poor soul into cardiac arrest.  If you are a parent, you know the kind of questions I’m talking about, the ones like, “Daddy, why is that woman’s hair blue?” or “Mommy, why does that man look so mad?”

Well, we were nearing the part of the service that I would be introduced to speak.  I knew that the effectiveness of our tag team parenting effort would take a serious hit once I left the pew and ascended into that lofty pulpit.  Now you need to know that Cindy is not entirely on her own while I am preaching.  I have been known to place extra punctuation on one of my points in order to provide her with enough cover to deal with one of Bryson’s temper tantrums.  I’ve also been known to raise my volume just enough to mask the sound of a dozen song books being knocked off the pew and onto the floor.   Yet in spite of all that I can do from the pulpit, nothing works better than having Cindy on one side and me on the other.  I knew she was just moments away from being up against the insurmountable odds of a parenting crisis called “Bryson in church”, but what was I to do?

Just then, the worship leader called for a prayer and I was thrilled.  Divine intervention was exactly what we needed.  I anxiously bowed my head and prepared to ask for a miracle, but then the auditorium grew deathly quiet.  I trembled at the potential disaster awaiting us and my supplication for Divine intervention was overwhelmed by a moment of weak faith.  Thick reverent silence closed in all around me.  The deep monotone voice of an elderly gentleman who gave perfect enunciation to a litany of ancient words dating back to 1611 was the only sound allowed to mingle with the somber sacred silence. 

Then it happened.  From somewhere much too close and with a voice that was much too familiar, the auditorium came to life as the hallowed walls of that sacred chapel echoed forth the words, “Uh Oh, Spaghetti Os!”  Like the climactic line of an old sacred hymn, my son had bellowed forth the convictions of his heart.  No “thee’s”, “thou’s” or references to “guide, guard and direct”, just a 5-year-old’s expletive about spaghetti!”  It was a moment to be remembered or forgotten depending upon your point of view.

Psalms 127:3-5 (NKJV)

“Behold, children are a heritage from the LORD, the fruit of the womb is a reward.  Like arrows in the hand of a warrior, so are the children of one's youth.  Happy is the man who has his quiver full of them...”