What If God Turned Off the Sound?

What If God Turned Off the Sound?


What if we could hear what God hears?

We would hear a child come back to life

In the hallow thud of two bodies meeting in a hug.

One man a soldier and also a son.

The other a father with a family of none.

The mixing of tears on huddled cheeks,

Cementing two together in a moment,

Trapping the silence between them

As they exhale sighs that whisper gently

Through the hair on their shoulders,

Sending a breeze to stir the

random notes of wind chimes

Hanging heavy above the porch

To play music that isn’t chance.

It’s a song of Welcome Home son—

Never let go.

We would be able to hear hate

Slowly receding into love as it loses speed.

As a wave crashes angry on a beach,

So violence passes away,

Leaving the foam to withdraw

And hush itself as it fades

Like a father quiets a child

With one finger held in front of his face.

Whispering a lullaby that plays

The note of everything will be okay.

We would hear the sound of sleeplessness,

Shifting weight on a hospital bed

In the quiet refusal of the sick

Uttered in the hopeful groaning leaving their lips.

We would need to listen with a keen ear,

Look up at the stars so we could hear

Them twinkle like the playing

Of a pianos highest key.

We would hear the sounds our world makes.

Hoof beats towing the sun across the sky,

A wolf howling, lifting a nose and

A full moon on a glittering night,

The grass as it awakens, shaking dew off its spine.

Would a babies laughter sound like a miracle?

Or would a miracle be the sound of laughter

Spreading faster than light in a dark room?

Or walls for barricades cracking and crumbling,

Forests splitting and scorching—

Or would the miracle be in rebuilding?

Would it come in dirt shifting,

New-born roots crawling

Like fingers above the soil, stretching,

Making room for spring to bloom?

Could our ears handle what God hears?

The fleeing of footsteps from fatherhood.

The clouds, thunder reminding the world

Of wars of old and the bombs we hurled.

The desolation and desperation that squeaks

In in the frightened hunger of a mouse searching

Over splintered floors for a crumb of cheese.

Miracles forfeiting the chance to be rebuilt

In the sound of brick being laid on brick,

Or earth covered seed splitting and sending

Tiny limbs out to settle in the dirt,

The laugher, aborted to die in a tomb,

An unwanted miracle, an empty womb.

Could our ears handle the hatred

Thrown against us in rage?

If we could hear these ourselves from above,

Would it be crazy to think that God has

Lowered the volume on what he’s made?

Or covered his ears with calloused hands

In fear of going deaf from all our pain?

Maybe he’s sick of listening to ignorant

Complaints, whining adults,

Cursing the death He died in vain—

Wouldn’t that be a shame?

Because the ones who still believe in Him

Are the ones who daily pray.

But it I guess it wouldn’t matter,

The world would be on mute, and

God wouldn’t hear them anyway.


I welcome your comments.


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