Sunday comes. “How was your week?” she asks.
I want to say mundane. “Uneventful,” I tell her.
I don’t tell her that I spent an hour the night before, staring at a blinking cursor in my Word document.
Or that the blank Word document feels a little like my life lately.
Not terrible. Not wonderful. Just a little blank.
Call it lack of sunlight. Call it a slump.
I remember waiting outside the door to her studio, nervously wiping my hands on my jeans.
She hated how I played Bach. But she was also the first person to show me that the space between the notes was just as important as the notes themselves.
It’s Sunday when I know I’m stuck in the space between.
And it’s easy to try to fill the silence.
To bang out the notes, whether they belong in the melody or not.
I’m not growing enough. I’m not using my time wisely.
To become convinced that the age-old promises about abundant life are not for me.
And it’s easy to let the silence fill me.
To forget to pray in the morning. To wonder if it really matters when you don’t feel the pleasure of it.
She hated how I played Bach. But she was the one who showed me that silence can be intentional.
That some pages are left blank on purpose.
From the pulpit, he reminds us that Jesus didn’t start his ministry until he was 30. And what happened in the years before that?
It gives me hope that maybe there is growth between the lines.