The Gift of Silence

(adapted from a sermon by Peter Morales)

Sermon by

Sharon A. Beckhard M.D.

February 1, 2009

Silence. Silence is the absence of sound, but it is rarely empty. There are many kinds of silence, aren't there? The muted quiet after a snowfall, or the pregnant calm before a storm. The speechless silence of human rage, or the peaceful stillness of an infant's sleep. But today, I would like to explore one kind of silence – the silence we can give to each other as a gift, as receptivity that is full of wonderful possibility.

I have learned some of the most powerful lessons about the "gift of silence" from my patients. I would like to share three of their stories with you.

I was a lowly 3rd-year medical student on my second clinical clerkship, an oncology floor. I was still trying to reconcile the intimacy of patient suffering with the two-dimensional sterility of the textbook and the chart. But I had not yet been taught the "taboo" of death. Beth was a young mother of two, who was dying from ovarian cancer. The attending physicians had stopped making rounds on her… their aggressive treatments hadn't worked, cure was not possible, so their job was done. Perhaps they felt a feeling of failure, or even a squeamish reminder of their own mortality. After all, they were human too. And the medical models of the 80's had little to say about death. Beth's two daughters, ages 7 and 9, were not permitted to visit their dying mother… the family thought it best to "protect" them from seeing their Mom in her terminal state, lest the stark images taint happier memories from times of health. Even Beth's husband avoided her. He busied himself with the care of the children and the house. When he did visit, he sat restlessly across the length of the room, awkward and uncomfortable. His visits were brief.

As a dutiful student, I made sure all her lab numbers were in order. These were the days before Palliative Care had either name or sanction… I gave her as much pain medicine as I could get past my chief resident, and Beth was relatively comfortable. Still, it felt like something was missing. One night after having been on call, I passed her room and felt an intense longing to go in. She patted the side of her bed, so I sat down, and took her thin feverish hand in mine. I had no idea what to say, so I said nothing. After a couple of minutes, we settled into a calm, comfortable silence. After a few more minutes, time became timeless. We sat like that, connected by our hands and our silence, for a long time. When I finally got up to go, she said quietly to me, "Thank you for not being afraid of my death." I went home to sleep.

The next morning, I learned on rounds that she had died at 4:30 that morning, peacefully in her sleep. For weeks I tormented myself with feelings of inadequacy and abandonment – I had missed the moment of her death. But gradually I came to realize that I had done as much as I could, and that maybe – without a word being said – it was enough. Perhaps, just by offering a compassionate, accepting presence, I had allowed her the permission she needed. I'll never know for sure.

Then there was Ray. I met Ray six years ago, when I diagnosed him with a brain tumor. But he refused to be sick. He was a spunky, happy-go-lucky guy my own age, always ready to tease and joke. And he always wore his favorite baseball cap, turned cock-eyed to the side. He did things his way, and that was fine with me. We shared a lot over the years of his illness, becoming close. He far outlived his prognosis, but eventually the tumor grew. An inveterate biker, when Ray could no longer walk, he did wheelies and other tricks with his wheelchair. And then it was time for home hospice. He had a wonderfully loving and supportive wife, and excellent nursing care. The medicines I gave – steroids, pain medicine, seizure drugs – were all working. But frankly, I missed him. So I went to his house to pay him a visit. There he was, wearing his cock-eyed hat. As his wife went to make coffee, I sat next to him and took his hand – the one that could still feel and move. I didn't say anything, and neither did he. Then the strangest thing happened. Ray started to thumb wrestle with me. I gave it my all, but he still won. An impish smile slowly crept across his face, and he winked. This was Ray's gift to me, given in our affectionate, caring silence of transition. In a humor all his own, a humor without words, he eased my grief. Now, whenever I think of him, I remember that smile, that wink, and that silly cock-eyed hat.

Sometimes, the gift of gentle attentive silence creates a space into which burdens can be safely placed. Michelle came to me in consultation after seeing numerous other specialists and having endless tests. She had a file of records over an inch thick. There was an array of technologic proof that nothing was wrong, and a long list of doctors telling her she shouldn't feel sick. But she did feel sick. She told me all her symptoms – in plenty of detail, but in a strangely emotionless manner as if she were reciting them. Her examination was indeed normal. There had to be more. So I leaned forward, and waited. Soon the silence between us became filled with a passionate torrent of words and tears, describing a horrific childhood of alcoholic and abusive parents, nights of terror and violence, her feelings of isolation and shame. She shared how the pattern had repeated with her husband of ten years, and how her life revolved around trying to hide the chaos and pain within her household. When she had finished her story, she paused and looked at me strangely. "I've never told anyone else any of that." As she left, she hugged me and said she felt better already. I had said hardly a word; I hadn't ordered any tests, or written any prescriptions. Now, I have no illusion that she was miraculously cured. In fact, her next journey may well be more painful than the medical one. But at least now, her memories and secrets had found their voice, and no longer had to scream through her body to be heard. It seems that what she had needed most was a quiet, open, validating presence. She needed another human being to listen to her, in a safe and caring silence. Someone who has faced fear, intimidation, and violence values peace and compassion in a way few others know.

Listening is doing something. Genuine, whole-souled listening is doing much. It is even greater than doing. It is being. Poet Mary Sarton writes of listening in her poem, "Death of a Psychiatrist:"

"…It was not listening alone, but hearing,

For he remembered every crucial word

And gave one back oneself because he heard.

Who listens so, does more than listen well.

He goes down with his patient into hell.

It was not listening alone, but healing.

… And I remember how he bowed his head

Before a poem. "Read it again," he said.

Then in the richest silence he could give,

I saw the poem born, knew it would live.

It was not listening alone, but being.

… Because he cared, he heard; because he heard,

He lifted, shared, and healed without a word."

Now, I am not making any claims to having this "quiet stuff" mastered. Probably my worst mistakes happen in speaking with my daughter. Sometimes she will tell me something, and I jump right in with all my wisdom and experience, brilliant insights, and just the perfect advice to help. Only problem is, she wasn't asking for advice or help. She just wanted me to listen. So we all know how well that goes… The Gift of Silence, of truly attentive and receptive listening, is a skill which requires mindfulness and ongoing practice. I'm still practicing.

In addition to the gift of silence between two individuals, there is great power in collective attention, in communal silence. We can feel that sacred silence together here as a congregation, in between the words and the music of our services. We reflect in it during our silent meditations. We trust the compassionate silent response of this community when we share our joys and concerns.

So let us practice this gift of silence amongst us, when we speak – and listen – to each other. To offer the gift of silence is to begin a process that opens a path to deep communication – a communication that consists of more than opinions and pleasantries. The gift of silence creates a safe space where we can offer our thoughts and experiences, our hopes and fears, our passions and our journeys. We can risk being our most real selves. We can share our deepest sense of what it means to be alive.

May we share this precious gift with each other. May we allow silence to work its wonders. For the gift of silence opens us to knowledge; knowledge leads to love and respect; love and respect lead to a strong community that shares its values with the world. We come to know compassion, friendship, and enduring love.

And it all starts with a gentle, open, embracing silence.

May it be so.

Additional Readings

Opening Words: "Meditation" by Jacob Trapp

If it is language that makes us human, one half of language is to listen.

Silence can exist without speech, but speech cannot live without silence.

Listen to the speech of others. Listen even more to their silence.

To pray is to listen to the revelations of nature, to the meaning of events.

To listen to music is to listen also to silence,

and to find the stillness deepened and enriched.

Chalice Lighting: by Albert Schweitzer

At times, our own light goes out, and is re-kindled

by a spark from another person.

Each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude of those

who have lighted the flame within us.

Reading: from "But I'm Lonely" by Percy R. Hayward

Blessed are they who catch the meaning of life's silences.

The silence that follows words, when meanings linger to haunt the mind.

The stillness of the night that seals and sanctifies the day.

The silence that follows farewells, when the memory of loved ones

calms the troubled heart.

The silence before courageous action, a stillness that is ennobled by

what the will is about to do.

Silence as the final answer to controversy and slander,

stillness in the face of pain,

quietness that is the fitting tribute to joy.

Meditation: from "Stability" by Timothy W. Ashton

Let us seek the quiet and the calm.

Let us lay aside our loud calling.

Let us lay aside our struggle.

Speak softly: let us listen to the melodies that recall other proportions.

Our moments tarry not with us;

Let us then seek the dimension that endures

beyond all now-ness and here-ness,

beyond all requirement and all particularity.

Let us speak softly that we may hear.

Let us enter into the quiet.

Benediction:

Let us open our minds and hearts to the place of quiet,

to the silent prayer for the healing of pain, and to

the soft, gentle coming of love.