On Silence

Catholic father is a wannabe monk

Hello friends! This is Peregrino, a newsletter about the journey. You’re about to read essay #34 of “40 Before 40,” a memoir I intend to finish before I enter midlife in Q1 2024. The previous 33 essays in this series can be found here.

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The first time I experienced culture shock was when I was studying abroad in Finland. The girl who volunteered to pick me up from the airport and take me to my apartment was on time and polite. However, she was a Finn through and through, and if you haven’t had the pleasure of meeting anyone from this great country, one thing they’re different from Mexicans is that they’re okay with silence in conversations. For the Finns, there’s no reason to fill gaps in conversation with idle chatter if they don’t have anything essential to say. As a Mexican, this made me uncomfortable.

Silence used to be uncomfortable–growing up, there was always a source of noise: the radio, the TV, cars and buses, people on the street. Monterrey’s metro area is home to north of five million people, which contributes to the noise–noise was the norm; it felt familiar.

When I moved to Phoenix, I lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment—unfurnished, except for my bed and a chair. Silence was abundant. Sometimes, it would be too much, and I would play music or put a movie in the background. But, over time, I got used to doing things in silence.

I had two roommates before getting engaged to Diana, my forever roommate. These guys were pretty quiet. One of them would practice his Spanish skills in the living room. I would be in my room, and suddenly I would hear him say things like: “los soldados no son poetas.” Even though we had a TV in the living room, it was always peaceful.

St. Joan of Arc, the parish I started attending, has a Perpetual Adoration chapel. Perpetual adoration is a devotion where the faithful sign up for a “holy hour” they commit to spend in front of Jesus in the Eucharist. As Catholics, we believe that the body, blood, soul, and divinity of Christ are present under the disguise of a tiny white host. I learned more about this devotion by volunteering with the youth group and attending young adult events that involved spending time in front of the Eucharist, praying, meditating, and in silence.

Initially, I couldn’t sit still for more than fifteen minutes. Physically, I was at the chapel, but this would be happening in my brain: “Walther, remember the restaurant you said you wanted to try?” “Shhh, I’m trying to pray.” “Sorry, my bad...did you lock the car?” “I did. Shush.” “Are you sure?” “YES.” “What are we going to have for dinner?” “I don’t know.” “How about that restaurant you said you wanted to try?” It was a challenge, but gradually, spending an hour in adoration became more manageable, and eventually, I signed up to become an adorer. I have spent one hour weekly in front of The Blessed Sacrament for the last decade.

It helps to have something to pray about while in the chapel. If you must make a big decision, I suggest you bring it to the Lord in adoration. For example, when Diana and I were dating, we would do a weekly holy hour as part of our discernment process. The graces are there for the taking, and He wants you to visit Him. He will patiently wait for you.

As you probably imagine, having four children at home is not conducive to silence. For this reason, Diana and I have our weekly oasis; that hour fills our cups. We return refreshed and ready to tackle the chaos. As much as I have grown to love silence, I love my children and the joyful noises they sometimes make. Even though there are times when I get overwhelmed, their laughter and singing are a balm for my soul.

During the fall of 2023, I felt a stronger pull toward silence. I started craving it and looked forward to my weekly meeting with Jesus. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been on retreat, and I knew I could benefit from some time away. I knew the priests from Miles Christi would come to Phoenix a couple of times a year and lead silent retreats for men and women in the tradition of the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius of Loyola. I looked up the dates for their next retreat in Phoenix, and they had one scheduled for the first weekend of December.

I sheepishly told Diana I had considered attending one of these silent retreats. I knew it was a big ask to be away from home for a weekend, but she immediately said I should do it. So I booked it.

Diana dropped me off at the retreat center on Friday afternoon. I said goodbye to her and the kids and approached the entrance. I was greeted by the retreat assistant, the person in charge of logistics, who gave me the key to my room. I had time to drop off my bags and go to the chapel to pray the rosary. Mass followed right after, and I thought, “For a silent retreat, there had been a lot of vocal prayer,” but as Mass ended, we were told the silent part of the retreat would commence. We wouldn’t speak unless we were praying, at Mass, in confession, or spiritual direction.

We ate all of our meals in silence. The cafeteria had enough tables for each one of us to sit alone. The retreat assistant played an audiobook on the life of St. Teresa of Avila during meals. I felt as if I was a monk for the weekend. I remember being grateful for this experience and pondering the benefits of not speaking for 48 hours. However, I used my phone between breaks to check in with Diana and see how she and the kids were doing. I couldn’t help myself.

Still, the guided meditations yielded much fruit. In silence, I could hear God calling me to grow in mercy, magnanimity, and joy. These were the themes that kept coming up in prayer throughout the retreat. I reflected on my littleness while my sister St. Therese winked at me from heaven, and I became teary-eyed when I thought of doing small things with great love. A clear sign that I should practice this. St. Augustine reminded me that love makes the lover into what he loves. God has allowed me to find him, cling to him, and, in the process, be transformed into love. And if we love someone, we ought to know their family; I sought Mary, my mother, and St. Joseph, my patriarch, throughout the weekend.

I was able to make a general confession, which consists of confessing all the sins you can remember from the time you reach the age of reason until the present day. I spent most of our free time between guided meditations in the chapel. I was surprised at how comfortable I got with silence, just being in His presence. It reminded me of the St. John Maria Vianney story where he asked an old farmer what he did in the church looking at the tabernacle, and the man responded: “Nothing, I look at Him, and He looks at me.”

Even though God’s plan for my salvation doesn’t include being a contemplative monk, I’m sure he wants me to be a contemplative in action. Silence is the medicine, and I’m happy with the prescription. I realized that opportunities for silence will increase in future stages of my life. Now is the time to enjoy the sounds of my kids’ childhood, as they won’t last forever. One day, they’ll be teenagers *shudders*, and eventually, they’ll leave, and it’ll be Diana and I.

Even though my encounters with him right now are veiled under the appearance of bread and wine, I hope that when the time comes, and I stand in his presence, he may recognize me from all the hours we’ve spent together. I’m thankful for his reckless love and tireless pursuit of us. I want to respond to that excessive and extravagant love with love. Love for my wife and children, friends and family, and neighbor, letting God’s love be my strength and the incentive for generosity.

I hope my mouth speaks of what my heart is full. And like the Finns, now I’m okay with silence if I don’t have anything essential to say.