Almost ten years ago, I was in a motorcycle accident. Some of you may remember that day, and some of you may have even been with my husband when he received the news. While I am now fully recovered, that time still sits heavy on me whenever I think about difficult change.
The brain injury I suffered changed me. My language became a stutter. I couldn’t process or remember things. Light and sound hurt in ways they never had before. When I think about Zechariah being made silent, I feel that.
In that silence, I sat upset about what I had lost, frustrated with God, asking, “Why me?” There was no answer, but I searched for one anyway. My friends and family surrounded me and Steven with love and care. I was frustrated by it then, angry that I even needed it, but over time I learned something sacred about community: that accepting help is also an act of love.
My silence, my suffering, and my healing were all carried by my loved ones around me. Eventually, the words came back. Sound no longer hurt. And a new David was born, one who now revels in the sheer volume of the pipe organ on Sunday mornings and sings “Defying Gravity” at the top of his lungs at the local gay bar with friends.
Joy, it turns out, isn’t the absence of pain. It is the sound that follows silence. It is the song that rises when healing begins. When has love spoken for you when you couldn’t find the words?
Prayer:
God of restoration,
Teach us to listen when life grows quiet.
When words fail, let love speak.
When we feel broken, remind us that joy can still be born in us.
And when our voices return, may they sing of your goodness with gratitude and grace.
Amen.
Fun fact: David and his husband, Steven, were the first gay couple to get married at Highland Baptist Church ten years ago in May (right before that motorcycle accident in fact). They live in Old Louisville with their two pitbulls, Mercy and Kiley.