This week I’ve been thinking about empty spaces.
An empty bedroom.
An empty motherhouse.
An empty chair around a table.
It’s interesting how quickly we want to fill them.
We rearrange the furniture.
We change the subject.
We begin planning what’s next.
Anything to avoid sitting with what has changed.
But I’ve noticed something while accompanying communities through seasons of transition.
The empty spaces are rarely empty.
They are often filled with gratitude.
Memory.
Love.
Prayer.
Sometimes even quiet anticipation.
I’ve come to believe there is wisdom in not rushing through these moments.
A field is not barren simply because it has been harvested.
It is resting before another season.
Perhaps our lives are sometimes like that too.
Perhaps the empty spaces are not asking us to solve them.
Perhaps they are inviting us to notice what is quietly emerging beneath the surface.
I’ve been wondering…
Where in my life have I mistaken a season of quiet for an absence of life?