Communal Contemplation

A Silent Gift to a Dying Mother

In 1999, my mother was dying at her home in Georgetown, Kentucky from adenocarcinoma of the lung. She had entered hospice. Friends, neighbors, clergy, and family members visited her to express their love and care.

Living out of state, I visited her one weekend a month. Her ex-hus­band, my father came – as did her sister, nieces and nephews, sisters-in-law, and on one notable day, a psychiatrist friend named John.

John had helped each of us through challenging times in decades past. We three sat together, talking. At some point, we all fell silent at the same time - as if a curtain had been drawn cross a window. It felt as though we entered that silence on cue.

The silence that filled the room - and each of us - was no ordinary quiet. It carried qualities of union, stillness and calm. It lasted a couple of minutes. Something not of our conscious creation had mysteriously made itself known. It was a kind of communion, and we were wholly present - to ourselves and each other.

I knew that my mother and John - both lifelong spiritual seekers and seasoned contemplatives - understood the moment we shared. No explanation was needed or offered. We simply acknowledged and consented to the silence, in silence.

Afterward, we resumed our conversation, knowing we had shared something special of a communal nature, and one not of our making - a contemplative dimension of life.