I'm learning to speak less and less. It's been a progression of sorts. There used to be this need I had to fill every silence with "love" or "ministry" or "story" or some kind of probing noise. I'm learning, slowly, to find love and some kind of brilliant hope in speechless moments---where tongue loses it's ability.
I just got back from Jamaica. I want to say that somehow this trip "completely changed my life." But it didn't. Because of a variety of circumstances, I have had the opportunity to serve and experience similar things like Jamaica before. Apart from any kind of trip, my life has been a rough progression in growth. This trip has deeply aided in that journey...but it did not, in any way, ignite a journey or "re-stimulate" it.
We went to the infirmary when I was in Jamaica.I didn't quite know what it was or what the infirmary meant. All I was told was that it would require a 45 minute bus ride home in silence. We arrived though--and I was waiting to be shocked. And I was. I was shocked at the deprivation, at the disconfiguration, and the mild care for the elderly escalation. It was tear striking, if that's the word that fits. (Language, my language, has some kind of limitation that falters in accurate conveyance.)
I wandered at first, until I found an awkward place that seemed fitting, sitting on the ground--the red concrete and hard earth...next to her. Legs crossed, her bones had adjusted, or broken, to the criss cross position on the ground. Toes overgrown, mangled. Eyes lazy and fallen. Dress open and her chest falling through the thinly simple material. Her body had the misfed representation of a small 12 year old, and the toddler coincided when I noticed the large yellow diaper, suited for her adult use. No teeth, but this one that loosened itself from any kind of gum gripping and just sat, dangling.
She sat, and when I came down beside, she retreated in a number of concentric circles---which seemed to translate--"go away." So I stayed. I felt like I was at a museum exhibit, or worse, at a corrupt zoo, watching this frightened animal turn towards a comforting block wall, afraid, seemingly, of the person. It was the most painful feeling.
I didn't know what it was that drew me to stay, but something ached every time I thought to go. We both sat there, her refusing to take notice of my eyes, but rather shook and grunted in some kind of misunderstood pain.
I reached out to stroke her boned leg. She swatted me away. I tried again. She turned to the wall. I kept trying. And trying. And she let me, and then timidly lifted her head towards me to catch one of my eyes.
This kept happening.
She would draw back in circles to hug the wall. I would touch her leg. And she would wait, almost fearfully, to make an association with my eyes.
We were supposed to bring our Bibles. I guess to read to them. But she was mute...and from what the nurse said, could hardly understand words.
She started moving closer to me. She saw my Bible and she picked it up, upside down. She opened it and began grabbing at the pages. I suppose she found Psalm 119 entirely unnecessary.
The page fell to the dirty floor, but her anxious hands grabbed for more. Next was my journal. She picked up the pages of a month of empty writing and held them at an unreadable slant. She then tore at the bindings, and I thanked God that my words could be few.
Another lady living in the infirmary walked up. An elderly woman, with communicative and demonstrative abilities. She saw my nameless friend with my upside down Bible and holding my ink filled pen. The lady spoke to me, or rather, rebuked me and my friend sitting on the ground. She told me that she should not be touching my Bible, the Holy Book. She said that she would ruin it and was going to destroy the Holy Book by ripping out the pages. This elderly woman seemed offended at the lack of regard for the Words of Scripture and continued by explaining to me that this woman was mute and that she couldn't understand me. The only thing I could say was that it was ok. She kept telling me that I should stop. But all I could say was, it's okay. Thank you ma'am, but it's okay.
There was something painfully beautiful about this interaction. The elderly woman walked away and I was left with my friend on the floor. No talking. No words. No language. No stimulative thought. We sat in concentric turned explorative silence.
I said one thing. It was the only thing that I could think to say. I was embarrassed that tears filled my eyes, but I looked at this woman and the only words that were misunderstood but poured were, "We are the same." It seemed to be the only thing slightly fitting. Both, we are broken and mangled and unresponsive(at times) and disabled and timid and fearful and in need. Both. We are. At different levels and to uniquely separate degrees.
My nameless friend and I sat in silence, with occasional simultaneous clapping when I would sing in this tuneless voice amazing grace. And she would smile. And that was it. But there was such a hopeful beauty in the more persistent absence of sound. Our interaction, thought some may call slight, lasted the entire duration of the groups' time at the infirmary. Maybe it wasn't worth it to some because she was just one of the many. But maybe the many wasn't as important as the one. And maybe, probably, tomorrow she'll forget. But the stillness of sound exceeded the ability of voice in volumes. At least for me.
"We need to find God, and he cannot be found in noise and restlessness. God is the friend of silence. See how nature - trees, flowers, grass- grows in silence; see the stars, the moon and the sun, how they move in silence... We need silence to be able to touch souls. " Mother Theresa
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