For years I was a person utterly incapable of relaxing. I HAD to be busy. Proud of my industrious nature, I wore it like an offensive T shirt that said, ”Look at me doing stuff!’

Sitting down felt like a waste of time. If I did stop, I had to be making something, listening to a sermon, or chatting with a friend. I certainly put the ‘full’ in Purposeful. Busy, busy. That was me. Perhaps you identify?
I didn’t realise how much my busyness shut people out. Or God for that matter.

My journey towards stillness has been long (and isn’t over yet) but it began the day that God introduced me to a 76 year old man. An elderly catholic monk was not my idea of a perfect mentor, but the short time I spent with Father Theo the summer I was 22 drenched my desert-like existence with sweet rain.

Sessions with Father Theo were initially wildly frustrating for an intentional ‘martha’ like me. He was as deliberate and slow as a geriatric tortoise with a limp. His manner was quiet and still, never wasting a single gesture or word. Silences were common, long and deep. He would often just sit and look. I couldn’t hold his gaze for long. Frankly, it was remarkably uncomfortable. My eyes darted around his study to his books, icons and papers. I wanted to be ‘doing things’ and longed for him to give me tasks to complete or share wise words with me to scribble down like other mentors had.

My mind raced unpeacefully, accusatory thoughts shouting violently in my brain. Sometimes tears would well up for no obvious reason as painful memories pierced the quiet of his pleasant, flower-filled room.

I desperately wanted to learn to pray better. But I wanted ‘power-points’, plans and 5 things to remember beginning with P. All this silence was not what I signed up for. I wanted my spiritual money back.

But I could see that Father Theo had an internal rythm of prayer. And it fascinated me. Reluctantly. He breathed prayer like I breathed air. The joy and discipline of constant communication with his Father had become so circular that he was completely unable to distinguish where one began and the other ended. He was the most tranquil of souls and being in his presence began to demand and allow the same rythm from me.

Like the best teachers, he modelled most of what he wanted to impart. Occasionally he would punctuate the stillness with expertly-crafted questions or suggestions. But mostly he let God do the work.

I was used to filling silences with noise, questions and laughter. He sometimes smiled at my speech or efforts to be provoking, but rarely engaged fully. He encouraged me simply to ‘be’ in Father’s presence next to him. He was used to God’s company and he didn’t need mine to validate or entertain him in any way.

Little by little I learnt to still my soul. It took some doing. I had no idea that the way I ‘did life’ was so lacking in freedom. I was actually squeezing God out and compartmentalising Him. Doing my quiet time like a good evangelical girl was not enough. The God of my knowing dwelt and stayed boxed up all day every day. My subconscious rules for where He belonged were many and were in danger of ‘restitching the temple curtain.’ (as Doug Hollidge puts it)

Lesson number one from Theo was that I had to learn to be still. Only then would I start to ‘know’ God. The God of predictable unpredictability, of safe danger and loud whisper. It would not happen the other way round.

Time with Father Theo was my first experience of truly dwelling in God’s presence. It was incredibly life-giving and has been a habit I have cultivated and practiced ever since. I am always attracted to people who give me ‘permission to be’ in this way. The kind of people for whom shared silence is tender and comfortable.

How still are you?
How well do you know God?

Ever seen the link?