In a world that prizes quick answers and loud opinions, what happens when God calls us to the quiet work of listening? Elijah, Jeremiah, and Barbara find themselves wrestling with the power—and cost—of silence.
The December wind swept through the small park like a whispered warning, tugging at scarves and rattling the brittle leaves that clung stubbornly to the oaks. Elijah adjusted his glasses, the lenses fogging slightly as he exhaled. He pulled his coat tighter, the wool scratching against his neck, and glanced toward the bench where Jeremiah sat, his knit cap pulled low, hands folded like a man guarding a secret.
Barbara arrived last, her gray scarf trailing behind her like a ribbon of smoke. She carried a thermos of coffee—strong, black, the way Jeremiah liked it—and a paper bag of ginger snaps. “Fuel for the saints,” she said with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Elijah noticed. He always noticed.
They gathered on the weathered bench, the wood cold and damp beneath them. For a moment, no one spoke. The silence stretched, not awkward but heavy, like a quilt stitched with unspoken questions.
Finally, Barbara broke it. “I had words ready,” she said softly, “but the Lord told me to hush.”
Jeremiah’s eyes flicked toward her, then back to the bare trees. “Sometimes,” he said, voice low and steady, “silence is obedience.”
Elijah swallowed hard. He had come with a burden—a sharp word for a brother who had wounded him—but now, in the hush, that word felt like a stone in his pocket. He thought of Proverbs 17:27: ‘Whoever restrains his words has knowledge, and he who has a cool spirit is a man of understanding.’ The verse pressed against his heart like a gentle hand.
Barbara leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “I wanted to fix it,” she admitted. “To explain, defend, make it right. But the Spirit said, ‘Be still.’ And I realized… maybe my fixing would only make it worse.”
Jeremiah nodded slowly. “The tongue can heal,” he said, “but it can also cut deep. Sometimes the holiest thing we can do is close our mouth and open our ears.”
The wind picked up, scattering crumbs from the ginger snaps onto the ground. Elijah watched a sparrow hop toward them, pecking at the fragments. He thought of Jesus’ words in Matthew 12:36: ‘On the day of judgment people will give account for every careless word they speak.’ Every careless word. The weight of that truth settled on him like the chill in the air.
Barbara’s voice softened. “Silence isn’t weakness. It’s surrender. It says, ‘Lord, You speak. I’ll wait.’”
Jeremiah’s eyes met Elijah’s then—steady, searching. “Brother,” he said, “what’s stirring in you?”
Elijah hesitated. His jaw tightened, then loosened. He looked down at his hands, weathered and lined like old maps. “I came ready to fight,” he confessed. “Ready to prove I was right. But now…” He shook his head. “Now I just want to listen.”
Barbara reached over, her hand warm against his sleeve. “That’s grace,” she whispered. “That’s the Spirit.”
The three sat in silence again, but this time it was different—lighter, like a room after a storm has passed. The wind still blew, the trees still stood bare, but in the quiet, something holy had taken root.
Closing Prayer
Lord, teach us the strength of silence. Guard our tongues from haste and our hearts from pride. Help us to listen—truly listen—to You and to one another. May our words, when they come, be seasoned with grace and truth. In Jesus’ name, Amen.