that stretch of quiet

There’s always a moment on Thanksgiving Day when suddenly, it’s absolutely quiet. It’s my favorite part of the holiday, and the moment, I think, when my heart grows three sizes at once.

In our family, Thanksgiving tends to be a pretty noisy day. For the last 22 years, there’s been a constant stream of little voices yelling and little feet running around. As each kid has moved up to the big table, little ones have come along to fill the spots. Dogs bark. Music is played. And if you know anything about Cuban families, the conversations get louder, and more animated, until everyone is speaking at once.

And then. Randomly. Silence.

You have to pay attention to see it coming because it doesn’t strike at a particular moment — it strikes on its own.

This year our Thanksgiving was simple, but lovely. Vicky stayed in California, opting to come for Christmas. We stayed at home, had some friends over for an early meal, and then settled into the rest of the day. It’s just the four of us, but there was plenty of noise. The dog barked. Music was played. Everyone spoke at once.

And then. Randomly. Silence.

It struck as I was washing dishes. The music playlist played out, and in the quiet that followed I could pick out the sounds from across the house. My husband snoring softly on the recliner, my son watching a movie, my daughter playing the guitar in another room. When I finished and turned off the water, I realized that in those brief moments Christy put away the guitar and Jonathan must have muted the movie to take a nap, too. Even the dog was asleep, and all I heard was the steady breathing of my family around me.

In that silence I found contentment.

And I am grateful, so grateful.