I stand in the dark of a house lulled to sleep, just standing there on quiet floor planks, before a stretch of black glass, the only glow that of the yard light at the corner of the barn spilling its milky pool of white.
Last light’s out. I’m ready for a pillow, to call it a day. All’s, finally, almost, still. Somewhere far over our heads and this roof and these fields, and further than this spinning orb’s atmosphere, a night-drenched canvas drips stars. But what rivets me to this place under the heavens is the call of her breathing. Yes, the call.
With every inhaling breath, she whistles, faintly, softly. I stand motionless, waiting, listening, just to be sure: yes, she breathes and whistles. A beckoning siren to come. She lies on her sleigh bed, stitched patches of powder blue, dusty yellow, stretching over her lengthening frame, willowy and strong, and from deep in slumber her every filling of lungs is a summons.
I want to answer, come, but I realize: the call is not for me. This whistled sleep-breathing is not of this earth. It is like deep calling unto deep.
In the shadows of farm kitchen I hear her breath calling to Him whence every breath comes.
And then, after a moment, I hear it too: heavy exhale. Breath returned to Him who comes. Circle complete. “For from Him and to Him and through Him are all things.” (Ro. 11:36)
I read it once, and think of it often, and the thought revisits on a still country night, standing here in a lightless house:
“The letters of the name of God in Hebrew are yod, hay, vav, and hay. They are infrequently pronounced Yahweh. But in truth they are inutterable….
“This word is the sound of breathing. The holiest name in the world, the Name of Creator, is the sound of your own breathing. That these letters are unpronounceable is no accident. Just as it is no accident that they are also the root letters of the Hebrew verb ‘to be’… God’s name is name of Being itself.”
She inhales, soft whistle breath calling Him, her very existence an unceasing invitation for Him to come. She exhales, breath returned to Him, a circular ventilation of the soul. Tonight in a soundless house surrounded by soundless fields, she simply is, breath after breath. And in this state of breathing, being, she utters the name of her Maker, YHWH.
Inhale: YWHW.
Exhale: YWHW.
We breathe…. And call His name.
In the soul-quiet of a tranquil farm night, I listen to the sound of breathing and feel how close He comes.
He’s as close as the sound of your every breath.
Lord, every breath is Your name. Come.
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