There’s a country song called Voices by Chris Young that I like. The gist of the song is that the singer ‘hears voices’ of his parents and others, giving him good advice. Well, thanks to some old cassettes and the digital endeavors of my daughter (thanks, Hillary!), I also am hearing voices. Years ago I taped my father and grandmother telling family stories. I hadn’t heard those tapes in a very long time, but now they are only a click away. In addition to my dad and gramma, there are recordings of my children when they were little (hearing Hillary hiccough at age 3 weeks and Sam in a radio interview when he was 8 are just so sweet!), piano recitals and band concerts and even Karl and my wedding vows. Precious.
At some point I’m sure I will listen intently to all those recordings again to concentrate on the content of the stories, but for now, the very best part is just the ability to hear those voices. To once again be surrounded by my dad’s gruff, low voice, or hear Gramma’s cackling laugh, I can’t describe the joy of it. When the sound of a loved one’s voice is quieted, stilled because of death, or distance, or even anger, the quiet that ensues is immense. The emptiness gathers in my ears and seeps, like a cold fog, into my heart and my thoughts. To me, grief comes in the silence.
I never heard Jesus’ voice here on earth, and while I’ve seen God’s leading and often feel His presence, I haven’t heard Him, either. There’s an empty space inside of me that can only be filled by His voice, and I look forward to the day it will be filled. In the meantime, I’ll study His written word and be thankful for the daily ways I am assured God is near. I’ll let myself be satisfied with that. And I’ll wait. I’ll look forward to that cool day when His voice is in my ears and fills my soul.
