"After I became a Christian. . . I came to see quality of life as measured not by the number of fun things you do, but by how much you love -- period. I came to believe that even if you lived your whole life in the same small town, if you took every opportunity to open yourself to love -- even to people you didn't like, even when it felt uncomfortable -- that your life would be not only better but even more exciting than someone who spent her life jet-setting around to exotic destinations all over the world in pursuit of experiences."

I read this this morning in Conversion Diary, a catholic blog I follow, and the words in bold print are what caught my eye.  This is the kind of faith I want to strive for.  I earnestly want to know and experience God's peace in my life here in this little town.

I'm back after a long silence.
In more ways than one.

Just the other day I turned on the stereo and actually selected a CD to listen to.  A fairly normal thing to do while one is doing household tasks, one might say.  But in fact, I realized that this was the first time I actually listened to music (by myself, I mean) in a very long time.  I'm not sure why.  But I wondered if it's the silence of this place that's finally penetrating my soul. 

The single most striking characteristic of this place, ever since we moved here, has been the silence.  Sometimes, when we're at the dinner table and everyone's chattering away (or often singing, as the kids love to perform their favorite hits at meal time) James will make everyone stop : "Shhhh, listen!"  And we all stop and listen to the quiet.  The only sound's the flowing of the stream outside.  "Do you hear it?" he says.  "It's so quiet!"  Between the kids and the noise of traffic and neighbors and the school next door and all the rest, I guess maybe it was just too noisy for me in Strasbourg to feel like I needed to add more noise.  Except when I went running.  I almost always used my Ipod to cover the outside sounds of the city.  I haven't used it once since we got here.  I want to hear the singing of the birds, or the noises of any other animals I might see.

Now we live in such a quiet place, where the friends and activities are much fewer and farther between.  At first, I think I lived it like a piece of vacation.  But you can't stay on vacation forever.  I have noticed the wistful thoughts about Strasbourg coming more often lately and me being me, I have a hard time admitting my own unhappiness.  But the fact is, it is hard to feel like an accessory to someone else's ministry.  It is hard to live in a small town where everyone knows who I am and where that very identity ("pastor's wife") is often a barrier to relationship.  It is hard to live day after day with my only face-to-face contact being with a mentally ill neighbor (with whom conversation often feels like double monologue) and a smattering of kind ladies over 70.  It's hard to watch my son (Sara seems to be doing okay.) struggling with loneliness, so much so that he runs quickly to play with older boys who tend to laugh and ridicule him.  He has developed a nervous twitch/blink.  Is this related ?

So I put on music.  I listen to sermons on line.  I yell at the kids.  I talk animatedly to almost anyone who calls, or whom I meet in the street.  Mostly just to fill the growing silence. 

Monastically, I am sure this silence would be considered a boon.  The perfect place to pray and study!  But there is one who would like me to fill it with anything but that.  So the battle goes on, one day at a time.