“Our adversary the devil majors in three things: noise, hurry, and crowds.”—Richard Foster, Celebration of Discipline
When we travel, we usually talk about what we see—breathtaking sights and views that linger in our minds like photographs.
We recently traveled to Canada to visit friends. In Canada, there was plenty to take in: the thundering beauty of Niagara Falls, the skyline of Toronto, and the serenity of Lake Joseph nestled in the lake country north of the city.
What we saw was undeniably beautiful.
But what I’ll remember just as deeply… are the sounds.
Toronto is a city that hums with life. It’s a beautiful, multicultural city, welcoming people from all over the world. And it’s loud in the best way—alive with busy highways and thriving communities.
Then we visited Niagara Falls.
There, the sound doesn’t just fill your ears—it fills your chest. It’s the sound of water roaring with abandon over the bluffs of Niagara. You don’t talk at the Falls. You listen. And in the listening, you feel the grandeur of nature’s wonders.
But it was in the lake country—on the quiet edge of Lake Joseph—that something entirely different happened.
One morning, just after sunrise, I stood beside the lake. The surface was smooth as glass, trees lining the far shore in the early morning sun. A canoe paddle dipped gently into the water. A couple of Muskoka chairs at the lake’s edge invited me to stop. The world hushed.
And in that silence, I heard the memory of a verse-
“He leads me beside still waters… He restores my soul.” (Psalm 23:2–3)
It’s easy to forget those words in the noise.
But in that stillness, I didn’t just remember them—I felt them.
There was something sacred about the silence.
Not empty—but full.
Not absence—but presence.
Stillness is not a luxury. It’s not the reward for having earned your rest. It’s the way we return to ourselves.
We live in a culture that thrives on noise, hurry, and crowds—the very things Richard Foster warned us about. We’re conditioned to think value comes from speed and productivity. But our souls were never built for that pace.
Silence invites healing.
Stillness makes space for the sacred.
In the hush of the lake, I felt something relax within me.
I remembered that I am not my calendar.
That God’s voice doesn’t shout—but whispers.
That I don’t have to prove anything to belong.
Renewal isn’t loud or flashy. It comes quietly, like morning light on water. Like a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
Maybe this is why we travel.
Yes, to see new places.
But also to hear what we’ve forgotten.
To listen to waterfalls, to city rhythms, to the stillness of a northern lake.
To carve out silence in our noisy lives.
As Canada welcomed us with wide skies and quiet waters, I felt renewed—not just by the beauty of the place, but by the space it gave me to listen again.
To stop.
To breathe.
To pay attention.
To let the silence speak.
And maybe, just maybe, to carry it home.
EnSpirit 