Yesterday was a glorious autumn day.  The sky was bright blue and perfectly clear, the sun was shining, and my world was still.  The reverence of the day inspired me to grab our Nikon and stroll through Crown Hill Cemetery to experiment with shadow and light.  Giles and I love historic cemeteries, and Crown Hill is one of our favorites, a true gem in the heart of downtown.  Wherever we vacation, we try to find an old cemetery to explore. Once, in Charleston, we discovered a tiny, gated cemetery tucked behind an old church, with tombstones dating back to the 1700s.  A vicious swarm of mosquitoes, coupled with burgeoning nightfall and the threat of being locked inside, forced us back to our car before we really had a chance to explore it.

I guess I love old cemeteries not only for the historic treasures hidden within, but also the complete silence and peacefulness that I feel when I’m there.  I encountered very few fellow sojourners yesterday at Crown Hill.  In the silence, I could hear the wind rustling through a weeping willow and leaves fluttering through the air and falling to the earth.  Why does it take a place of eternal rest for me to rest enough to embrace the silence?  Our world is so noisy.  Too noisy.  And too often, I accept the noise as normal.  Sometimes, I even bring on the noise so that I don’t have to be alone with my thoughts.  Yet I know that God typically doesn’t shout to get our attention.  He desires for me to be still in His presence, to listen for His soft, quiet voice communing with my spirit.  When the God of the universe wants one-on-one time with me, why is it often so difficult to make space for silence?   

I’m thankful that God has given me many moments of quiet time with Him lately.  But I also recognize that it doesn’t always come naturally.  Actually, it usually doesn’t come at all unless I intentionally choose to be still.