REFLECTION
BE STILL
By M and H, mission partners in training, waiting to return to North Africa (words by M, illustration by H)
I
write this five months since the lockdown began, eight months since our family left Africa to retrain with CMS. There are so many uncertainties, so many unknowns and the borders to our country of work are still closed. Yet the enforced pause has been a blessing in many ways. It’s helped me take my eyes off all the things I normally have to do, and to push in to God, the one who always IS. Be still and know that I am God Birds were singing as we bundled the kids into the car, but we barely heard them. We had a four-hour journey ahead, a meeting with a church leader we had never met, and then presentations and talks to finalise and present. Normal life in February was really busy for
22
a family of six. There were unread emails, huge to-do lists and so much to accomplish. We felt busy, exhausted, frazzled, but tried to feel fulfilled. A busy life is a valuable life, whispers the unspoken mantra of Western culture. Be still and know that I AM... We’re trying balance our diaries, seeing old friends, fulfilling more church appointments, attending parents’ evenings, writing assignments and still getting enough exercise to stay healthy. As we run around Aston’s Eyot nature reserve at dusk one evening, we barely notice the muntjac deer silently waiting behind a hawthorn bush, his patient breath on the cool evening air whispering “be still” as we charge by.
Be still and know... It’s March. Rumours start circulating of the virus spreading in Oxford. One of the kids at House 244 where we live has a temperature, so we don’t send our kids into school the next day. We wonder how we’re going to get our final essays done if we have to do childcare all day. As we sit planning next weekend’s church visits, crowds continue to rush past the windows, but now one or two people wear masks. The vibrant cherry blossom lies trampled on the pavement, unnoticed. Be still... The whole country has been told to stay at home. An unearthly silence has descended on Oxford. Birds sing, uninterrupted by traffic noise. There’s no laughter at the restaurant opposite, no one on the streets. The entire world is taking a breath, a pause, a moment of silence. The birdsong goes on, louder than I’ve ever heard. The
