Surprised by Stillness - A Story About Fishing, Fathers, and Formation

"Do you remember that time we went fishing?" 

Dad asked me this question every time we spent time together. I would roll my eyes internally. 

He would describe the one fishing trip we took together.  It was a hot autumn day on a lake I don't remember. We motored our little rowboat around and fished quietly as the sun stretched time into sticky stillness. The punchline of this story was when he'd smile and say, "you leaned back, closed your eyes, and said, 'dad, this is fishing.'" 

Our relationship had gotten so complicated since then. Grief and disappointment, bitterness and rage, estrangement and confusion made it hard for both of us to sit still in each other's presence for long. 

Every time dad brought up this story, I wanted to change the subject.  Dad, did you notice when I placed in the all state chorus? Did you see my first show? Are you proud of my award for English, or the way I learned to play guitar? I wanted dad to notice my accomplishments, to be impressed, to be proud.  

This story came to mind this morning as I reflected on Psalm 131, where the Psalmist describes his soul as a weaned child on its parent's knee. 

My younger self might have wondered why this is a positive image. How exactly is a quiet soul like a still 3-year-old?  Why is this a laudable condition?  The soul is associated with desire, energy, creativity, and even will.  What benefit could possibly come from such a passive state? 

Now that my daughters are in their teens, the image of a weaned child makes more intuitive sense.  I miss snuggling and wrestling my little girls, carrying them on my shoulders, and playing in the park.  I miss our weekly trips to the zoo, piggyback rides to bed, and silly dances as a part of our evening ritual.  (I offered to carry my 15-year-old to her bed this week as she sat motionless and weary, complaining of her need for sleep.  She just rolled her eyes.)  But, more than anything, I miss sitting quietly together… one girl per knee, attentive, content, and free.  

Contemplating Psalm 131 this morning stirred these memories, both of dad and of daughters. Determined to notice and celebrate my daughters, I started listing their talents and accomplishments.  Then, a voice in my heart and mind said, “which one of these accomplishments, talents, or abilities is more meaningful than the times you spent sitting quietly and attentively with your daughters?”  My heart and mind went hollow as the answer became clear… none.

Could it be that God’s delight isn’t in our accomplishments, performances, or talents?  Could it be that God is more delighted to sit quietly and contently with us than to watch us perform our ministry activities, spiritual disciplines, and moral actions?  Could it be that the way to intimacy with God is a willingness to sit still and allow God to love us?  

It’s embarrassing to admit, but, like my relationship with my dad, grief and disappointment, bitterness and rage, estrangement and confusion make it hard for me to sit still in God’s presence.  Lord, did you notice the ministry I’m leading?  Did you notice the book I wrote?  Did you notice the ways I helped this student, that neighbor, or this community?  Do you notice the pain I absorb as a leader, or the ways our ministry is growing?  

I want God to be impressed with me for the same reason I wanted my dad to be impressed with me.  Intimacy is terrifying.  Opening the heart to the kind of attentive attachment that bonds parents and children means risking heartbreak.  It’s so much more sensible to settle for admiration, appreciation, even affection, if these are at a distance.        

But then here is God, like my dad, asking, “do you remember that time we went fishing?”  

That’s when I saw it.  Dad wasn’t blind to the talents, activities, and accomplishments of my life, he was asking for intimacy.  Dad wanted another chance, even if it was just in shared memory, even if it was in hospice, to sit with his son in contented stillness.  

This morning I sit, in silence, in the presence of God.  My soul is more like a wriggling toddler than a contented child, but we sit.  Chesterton once claimed that “grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony… It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.”  Perhaps this sitting… this learning to exult in monotony, is the way to a deeper life with God.  

Psalm 131

O Lord, my heart is not lifted up,
    my eyes are not raised too high;
I do not occupy myself with things
    too great and too marvelous for me.
2 But I have calmed and quieted my soul,
    like a weaned child with its mother;
    my soul is like the weaned child that is with me.

3 O Israel, hope in the Lord
    from this time on and forevermore.

 Lord, my heart is timid, and my eyes scan the room for distraction. Still, my soul is present and needs the presence and blessing only you can bring. Sustain me in hope. Make this time of stillness with you more prominent than my fears of intimacy. You are my hope today.