Two hours in, finally, we are still. We sit and listen as a breeze blows soft through dry oak leaves around, whispered hush on moving wind.
“What’s that?” my son asks, mesmerized and searching.
“That’s the sound of the wind through the woods,” I answer, smiling and studying as I watch him fixed and taking in.
The sound of God to Elijah, that still speaking when we still ourselves as well, listen and discern magnificence in the subtle, no longer distracted and drawn away by diversions of modern make.
We miss mass, but we are with God still, attentive to the gentle whisper.