Growing up, we spent more of our evenings outside than inside, especially when my Mamaw was alive. She had an affinity for watching the sunset each evening, for listening to the critters and creatures near her old house chitter and chatter, for simply feeling “God’s breath” on her neck. I sometimes thought it was Satan’s breath in the West Texas summers, but I was young and dumb and simply didn’t understand the wisdom she had at that time.
Outside there wasn’t a TV or radio. Outside there weren’t walls separating us from the neighbors who often happened by or the myriad of things left on the never-ending to-do list. Outside there was simply a world of beauty and a family she loved. Outside, even with the noise of children playing, an old well running, animals and traffic on the nearby highway, it was quiet and often as the light faded the world slowly stilled.
The mason jar of tea would go out on the back porch at 4pm every day, no matter the weather, no matter the stress of the day, no matter how much of an ass I had been, at 4pm, the tea would meet the sunlight and start brewing.
That simple action was lost on me for so long. Her willingness to forget the stress of the day, the needs of the house, and any animosity she held for those of us who had spend our day making her crazy and simply end the day seeking a quiet stillness seemed unnatural even in the 80s and 90s before social media had taken it’s hold on the world.
What I didn’t see was that she started her day on the other porch of her house. Until I stayed with her one week, mostly because she’d told my parents I could go home when I learned a little respect towards women, I never knew that she didn’t wake up at full speed. No, that woman would wake up, brew a pot of coffee, and step out on her front porch to watch the sunrise.
This habit had so long been her way that even the local wildlife knew her pattern. That week, I watched as every morning she would say hello to a couple of rabbits as she tossed them the end of whatever vegetable she’d cooked for dinner the night before. She’d laugh at hummingbirds fighting over their favorite spot on her old feeder until she’d finally call one by name and tell it to behave and give the other a turn today. She’d wave at the farmers as they started moving, mouthing about how much time they’d already wasted by waiting until the sun was over the horizon to start their day.
Eventually, her old rooster would crow, she’d mouth some profanity at it followed by, “yeah, yeah I know time to get to work” as she’d stand and start the arm’s length of chores she’d decided to do that day.
Even after that week of time with her where she made sure I knew there wasn’t a difference between “women’s work” and “man’s work” (a story for another day), the truth of her simple, quiet morning and evening routines didn’t hit home with me until recently.
In the past few months, I’ve come to realize those moments weren’t so much about seeking stillness and quiet but about hearing God’s voice. My Mamaw had discovered, probably as the world became increasingly busy that to hear God, we need to stop, to listen, to wait. We needed to watch the storms pass by, endure the earthquaking, suffer the flames and wait for the still, soft voice to come in the aftermath.
And as time moves on, I find myself seeking more of those moments. I long to find the stillness, the quietness, so that my heart and my soul can hear. As much as I use technology to work through my day-to-day, I am finding that there needs to be a point in my day where I stop, turn off the screens, and walk away. I also have to find a way to stop waking up with my phone in hand, but to take the time to enjoy a morning cup of coffee at the refreshment of the crisp morning air.
And I intend to get back to that evening glass of tea, sitting on the porch as the sun goes down. I’ll even bring an extra glass, so that if you need a moment to simply sit in the stillness twilight, you won’t have to do it alone. We can simply sit there together, waiting for God’s voice one glass at a time.
J.Rhett Lively 