Lila has gone home to her parents, and all of sudden the house seems eerily quiet. Silence fills the void left by her presence. We attend last night’s choir concert, and since it is being recorded for Public radio they ask all for 30 seconds of “no talking” before the programming is to begin. An entire filled church is quiet, not even a stray cough. I wake in the middle of the night, the silence in the room is no deeper than the silence in myself. All thought is stilled. Out of silence of the night, I know where I am, and who I am. In the silence, in the mist of half awake sleep, there is a suggestion of life trying to take me somewhere. During Lent we retreat into silence and embrace its comfort. In it we find the suggestion of plot, purpose, and direction. Then as we emerge, we hear the whistle of a far away train, the rain falling gently on the roof, and first bird of the morning singing. Just for a moment a hint of melody.