Silence
is golden, unless you have something you need to say. The psalmist, which in
the way of the psalms is always meant to be whoever happens to be reading the
psalm, is wasting away one night at a time. You've been there, or maybe you still
are. You toss and turn waking every hour on the hour as things said or left
unsaid replay in your head on a continuous loop. A sleepless night is followed
by an endless day until back in bed it starts all over again. Maybe you've also
been in that place where sick and tired of being sick and tired you come clean
and tell the truth and determine to do what you always knew you had to do but didn't have the will or the courage or the desire or the help to begin. Of
course that makes it sound so simple when it is often only by bit and bridle
and living “many are the torments of the wicked” that one tells the truth and
acknowledges sin to oneself, to the Lord, and here’s the hard part, to someone
else who loving us will not abandon us to more of the same. It is why we are
called to be in community and if we weren't always putting on a happy face and
pretending as if everything is fine and I’m okay, really I am, we might take
advantage of what the church was always meant to be; a hiding place where no
one hides.
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