Noted
Elijah had a bone to pick with his fellow Israelites, and he wanted God to do something about it. The zealous prophet from the Old Testament had been tromping through the desert for weeks, the heat and exhaustion fueling his fury. Rather than encountering a retributive God, he was given some food, water, and a simple question, “Why are you here?” Instead of answering, Elijah launched back into his list of grievances against those who had forsaken God’s covenant. That’s when God told him to go climb a mountain. At the summit, Elijah must have expected to behold a dramatic scene to match his rage against his people. He did find plenty of drama on top of the mountain in the form of a great and strong, rock-shattering wind, an earthquake, and finally, a fire of Biblical proportion. Yes, thought Elijah, this is the hellfire and brimstone that I’m looking for. The problem was, God was not in any of it. All that super-natural, and no God. Instead, the divine appeared in what came next: the question again, in a still small voice. “Why are you here?”
Elijah answers the way most of us would, by ignoring the question and filling the quiet with a noisy litany of complaints and a list of justifications for his ire. But that didn’t seem to satisfy the quiet God, who did not want to be placated with more words.
I am in the word business, and, like Elijah, silence isn’t my cup of tea. If I’m going to ponder big questions such as the purpose of my existence, I prefer to think out loud, talk things through, or argue my point. Our oldest, Campbell, on the other hand, communicates more like his father than Elijah and me. He appreciates the value of a few quiet moments, especially if he is contemplating something important. When he was a teenager, and I wanted him to do something he didn’t want to do, I would try to convince him with more words. He might push back and argue for a while, but eventually, he would signal that he was done with his side of a conversation with a simple “Noted.” This did not mean that he agreed or would follow my advice; he just wanted to be done with words. Maybe he was listening for a still small voice. Aren’t we all, sometimes?
I find mine during a long walk in the woods. I may start out with a head full of restless, noisy voices, batting around ideas, outrage, or imagined conversations with an adversary. But at some point in my journey, I fall into a comfortable rhythm and find stillness.
Maybe this was what God hoped for Elijah on his mountaintop when, instead of meeting anger with more anger, He told his petulant servant to “go back by the way of the wilderness.” The story doesn’t tell us about his return trip, but I can imagine it. How many times have I left my house full of angst and arguments and wandered in my own wilderness until I gave myself over to nature’s still small voice. I can picture Elijah, nose out of joint because God wouldn’t meet his ire with His own divine wrath. How long did he walk before he took God’s question to heart and wondered, Why am I here? Perhaps, while he picked his way down the rocky trail, he found solace in his own still small voice, reflected on God’s words, and replied, “Noted.”
A book I’m reading describes focusing on something (mundane mostly or sublime) with the question “what is this?”
I have a strong tendency to be wordy in writing and storytelling. One of my copilots years ago, was a credentialed psychologist specializing in helping folks with addiction. In his studies he learned hypnosis and also nuances of communication. I found his stories fascinating. He seemed to enjoy my stories as well and we enjoyed a lively cockpit work environment.
After a couple days, he expressed that he loved my stories because I used all the senses in telling. He said, “I can hear it, see it, feel it, smell it, and even taste it!” This struck me speechless. My husband often complains that my stories are too long with too many details. My cohort was sorry that he had inadvertently muted me. He explained they took a test in one of his courses to see how many communication channels each student had. He said there are seven; the five senses that we have and two others which I forget that are more psychological and obscure. He explained that normally men communicate with one, maybe two; and women normally communicate with three or four. “You, on the other hand, use them all! I get so enfolded in your descriptions that I’m there feeling every nuance and seeing everything you saw.” I was stunned. He said, “So tell me another story.” I could not. I had to think this over. For years my husband would query, “How was your trip?” and I would try to tell him him of my adventures. He got so he’d interrupt and say, “Just the short version.” I’d petulantly retort, “I flew a flight with a copilot, flight attendants, and passengers.” He’d go, “So what?!” I’d go, “I’d tell you about it but you don’t want details,” and the conversation would deteriorate.
It’s a chasm we have that we both work around. It’s why I write - no one stops me for “too many details.” He pointedly pulls out necessary details with pointed questions, and I resist blurping all the other details spinning in my head to paint the whole story. I have learned that not everyone wants the WHOLE story. I feel like that’s a pity. I credit my copilot that day who gave me the piece of knowledge that I communicate differently than most people, and I must work to tone it down for “normal” people, and exorcise the story to paper.