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A tiny, nearly forgotten cemetery lies at the edge of the prairie. Some of the graves are marked; others are not. These were pioneers, people who plowed the fields and toiled with their hands. It may sound strange, but I have come here so often that I feel as if I somehow know these individuals personally. In springtime, daffodils bloom among the scattered graves. In winter, sparkling snow drifts quietly upon the rough-hewn headstones. In this remote location, the only sound is the trill of a random bird, and then, as I concentrate in prayer, even that recedes into the distance until all is silent.
In the silence, we can truly listen for God.
We spend a great deal of time talking to God, petitioning Him with endless requests, but how often do we actually listen to Him?
Being a good listener doesn't only apply to our fellow humans. God might want to speak, too. Will we let Him, or will we just keep talking ourselves into a frenzy until He finally turns away in sorrow? When we examine our prayer habits, is there an equal amount of both talking and listening?
Can God get a word in edgewise?
For me, the cemetery provides a remarkable place to encounter the silence. The people who rest here have been gone for a very long time. However, I try to listen to them, too. What tremendous stories can these hand-carved gravestones tell? What could their lives have been like? Why did they select this particular spot to bury their wives, husbands, children and friends before moving on in search of a better existence somewhere else? While thinking of the past, I can almost hear this silent, abandoned land humming with life as the settlers' busy plows turn the fertile earth. But now, everything except this little cemetery is gone. There seems to be nothing to hear anymore, except the sound of the wind.
But that wind, and the silence that follows it, could very well contain a message from the voice of God, just as this simple, neglected graveyard could contain a message from the past.
We'll never know unless we listen.
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