by Heather Watkins

In the old story, God was not in the fierce wind, nor the crushing earthquake, nor the fire. God was the gentle whisper, the still, small voice.

Life, lately, has felt like a tornado. America’s support for global health efforts, which I care about deeply, has stopped. Soup kitchens in war-torn, famine-ravaged Sudan are shuttered. The data collection backbone of global health which was provided by USAID is dismantled. At home, some local nonprofits are not receiving payment on government contracts. The words diversity, equity and inclusion are rapidly disappearing from the professional settings of institutions with federal contracts. These are just the news items that have touched my work. On a personal level, I’ve heard from immigrant friends on green cards and family members of transgender people who are living in fear.

An earthquake appears to have split this country into two completely separate, unrecognizable halves. This split runs right through my family.

I have been cycling between anger and overwhelm. I look back longingly to the time between the election and the inauguration when I simply turned off the news and lived life. I cannot ignore the times we are in. I know I need to act, but instead I find myself tracking one piece of debris blowing in the cyclone after another, all the while trying to sidestep the growing chasm. When I look inside myself, I find a puddle of anger raising impotent hands at the storm.

In the midst of all this noise, it is hard to hear the gentle whisper of God.

In Quaker prayer, we sit silently and try to quiet the noise of the storm. Thoughts come and are acknowledged. We turn and focus on God again and again. I find myself sinking down into a state of grounded calm. I feel connected to my environment, to nature, to people both near and far. I begin to breathe in spirit and breathe out love.

Quakers refer to this state as expectant waiting — sitting in the presence of God and waiting to hear the still, small voice.

As I sit, I sometimes feel an upwelling of focus; I hold that issue or person in the light. The word begins as wordless. For me, it is more like a feeling. It is slow, and may change form as the light illuminates deeper dimensions, calling me to understand. And then, surprisingly, I do; I hear. I comprehend, either afresh or again, with conviction, deeply rooted in my core. Sometimes I hear a calling to a path I need to travel.

The prayer is not yet finished. I need to work my way back from that wordless state to the world on the surface. I may need to put my revelation into everyday words which, though they can never convey the fullness of God, are the tools we have. In Quaker worship, friends share their experiences of God in verbal ministry as called. In part, this sharing is an opportunity for testing whether the voice we heard was indeed the voice of God. Do the understanding and conviction remain after having spoken it out loud? In a truly gathered meeting, Quakers find further conviction of their word as they hear it echoed in the ministry of their friends.

So I find myself on a Sunday morning ready to try again, intent on calming the storm, ready to listen. I know I need to be rooted in love, in God, before I can act. The spiritual oasis both guides and refreshes.

An old Quaker saying is that “There is that of God in everyone.” Surely the challenges of our time call people of all faiths to use their light to work together. Perhaps you too have a vision of a better world. I see a time when we stop trying to take America back from the other side, instead, we listen to each other deeply and with respect. We do the hard work of family, of community, of democracy, of love. On every level, we find ways to empower the disenfranchised, to protect the vulnerable, and to alleviate suffering. We speak with one multifaceted but gentle voice.

Heather Watkins has attended the Claremont Friends Meeting (Quakers) for the past three years.