The Sacred Sound of Nothing
Reflections from the Back Pew
In the stillness of quiet, if we listen, we can hear the whisper of the heart giving strength to weakness, courage to fear, hope to despair. - Howard Thurman
Every Tuesday morning, 93-year-old Nora buttons up her soft mauve cardigan and puts on her sensible black shoes. She insists on wearing lipstick, this muted, natural blush shade that she’s sworn by for decades. “Even God appreciates a little cullah, Aw-lee.” she says with a wink. I’ve been her caretaker for about a year now, and even after all this time, I’m still not entirely sure if she’s joking.
Nora was born and raised on Long Island, and she’ll tell you that proudly any chance she gets. It’s stitched into the way she talks, the stories she tells, the no-nonsense way she approaches life. There’s still a bit of that old-school Long Island fire in her, softened by age but never dulled. She’s smart, opinionated, loyal and loving to her people, and unshakably Catholic.
Her home is like stepping into another era but in the most graceful, intentional way. It’s a charming stone mid-century modern nestled on a quiet street, with sprawling windows that pour light into every room. The open floor plan makes the space feel even larger than it is, and the clean lines of the architecture contrast beautifully with the warmth inside. Everywhere you look, there are antique pieces she’s collected over the years, family heirlooms, vintage velvet armchairs, glass-doored built in bookshelves full of weathered novels and hymnals, delicate lace runners, brass floor lamps that hum with history. Potted plants thrive near sun-soaked corners, their leaves brushing up against bulky, gold frames that display cross-stitched prayers and intricate crucifixes that hang reverently on the walls. Her faith lives not just in her heart but in the space itself. It’s in the worn rosary draped over a ceramic dish next to a photo of her late husband, in the small porcelain statue of Mary on the hallway shelf, and in the faint scent of frankincense that somehow lingers in the air.
Nora is a witty, astute, and insightful conversationalist. She keeps up with the news daily and she’s not shy about her opinions. She’s a liberal through and through, and we’ve had long, lively talks about everything from elections to climate change to healthcare reform, all while she sips at her morning coffee. She’ll nod thoughtfully, then toss in a one-liner about Trump that makes me laugh out loud. She has this way of cutting straight through to the truth without ever raising her voice.
What makes Nora remarkable, though, isn’t just her intelligence and competency, it’s her genuine warmth and engagement. She always, always, asks me about my life. She doesn’t just make small talk and she doesn’t dominate the conversation talking only about her self. She asks me personal questions and I dish out long winded stories and she remembers. She tracks my chaotic life with a kind of tenderness that feels so rare and grounding.
“So, what’s on the menu tonight?” she’ll ask.
“Is your husband home writing today?”
“Did you kick on the heat in your home this morning?”
“Did that school email ever get straightened out?” she asked last week, catching me completely off guard. I’d almost forgotten it myself.
“How’s Henry doing with the football?”
Or, “Did your daughter’s field trip happen yet?” And I’ll blink, because sometimes I forget she knows all those little details.
She always does.
When I walk through the door a bit disheveled from a hustled morning, when I’m juggling too much and trying to keep it from showing, she notices without making a fuss. She’ll reach over, gently, and pat my hand like she’s done it a thousand times, and say something quiet and unexpected, like, “You’re doing just fine, you know. Better than fine.”
And in that moment, I believe her.
Most afternoons, she’ll ask her Alexa to play Barbara Streisand or Celine Dion. Occasionally, my favorite of the bunch, Patsy Cline. While the music fills the house, she does her exercises, slow and steady, walking purposeful laps around her open home, lifting her knees, swinging her arms just slightly. I usually perch at the dining table with a book, or scroll through school updates, Etsy orders, or whatever else needs doing in that pocket of time. It’s a rhythm we’ve grown into together, both of us moving through our own little tasks with the comfort of shared silence and good music.