Diane Comer captivates the reader as she describes in profound ways her sudden world of silence. Her prose is poetic. In a riveting manner, she tells of her journey from a normal life that heard chirping birds, falling rain, a baby’s coo, and a lover’s whisper to one of silence. She went from hearing laughter among her girl- friends, the singing of her husband, and her child calling “Mom' to a world on mute. Few of us ever think about the reality of absolute deafness, but Diane narrates so powerfully that we enter her soundless world. When she cries, we cry. When she doubts, we doubt. When her faith ignites, our faith ignites. Amazingly, along with her, we hear God in the silence. What did God say? He Speaks in the Silence answers that question. Oh, and find out why, when she regained her hearing through the miracle of science, she daily disconnects to reenter her world of silence.
He Speaks in the Silence: Finding Intimacy with God by Learning to Listen
Narrated by Kristin James
Diane ComerUnabridged — 5 hours, 1 minutes
He Speaks in the Silence: Finding Intimacy with God by Learning to Listen
Narrated by Kristin James
Diane ComerUnabridged — 5 hours, 1 minutes
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Overview
He Speaks in the Silence is the story of Diane Comer's search for the kind of intimacy with God every woman longs for. It is a story of trying to be a good girl, of following the rules, of longing for a satisfaction that eludes us.
Disappointed with all Diane had been told was supposed to fulfill her, she begged God in desperation to give her more.
And He did. But first He took her through a trial so debilitating it almost destroyed what little faith she had.
He let her go deaf.
Like so many Christians, Diane thought she'd signed up for the “wonderful plan for your life” and deafness certainly didn't fit her idea of a wonderful life. Yet in her brokenness, God met her and lifted her out of the pit of despair she was digging for herself. He lifted her onto the solid rock of real faith, and taught her to believe He is good even when life goes bad.
Using vivid parallels between her deafness and every woman's struggle to hear God, this book reveals how Diane learned to listen to God, finding intimacy with her Savior and the soul deep satisfaction she longs for.
Editorial Reviews
I’ve known Diane and her husband Phil for years—since their first date, actually. It was before marriage, before kids, and before her deafness set in. I have had the privilege and joy of watching her story play out and seeing God work in the midst. I have seen her live through the confusion and challenges of her deafness, digging deep into the inevitable questions it brings. She sees it as a story of failure. I see it as a story of triumphant faith. Trusting God in a storm is seldom simple and clean. More often than not, faith is messy, full of bumps and valleys and questions and heartache. And for Diane, her faith and relationship with her Creator has been shrouded in physical silence. I challenge you to read her story and not be moved. I have no doubt that her story will cause you to rethink your own understanding of God.
Diane Comer’s personal journey from disappointed good girl to deeply spiritual woman of God shows the power of the Spirit’s working in the midst of tragic loss when the eyes of faith opened deaf ears to hear the gently powerful voice of the Lord Most High. It will take you deep into intimacy with Him.
He Speaks in the Silence is a beautiful read. Diane's unashamed vulnerability instantly draws you in and find yourself lost in her story—one where she freely admits her own insecurities and struggles with trust, faith, and understanding. Her honesty encourages you to seek and value silence, to make space to com- prehend your own journey deeper, and to truly press into the One who speaks in that silence. It's about seeing beauty where there seems to be none, about believing through doubt, about pursuing a wild hope. I highly recommend this book!
When I think back to my childhood, one memory sticks out over all the noise; every morning I would walk down the stairs and find my mom sitting in her chair, Bible open, pen in hand, eyes focused but distant. She was hearing the one voice that could bypass her deafness. My mom taught me how to listen to God; this book will do the same for you.
If you have ever wondered (as most of us do) ... Does God see me? Does he want to talk to me? Is it possible for me to hear him speak? Diane’s story, compellingly and beautifully told, gets to the nitty gritty reality of what it means to know God deeply and intimately in all the silence and the noise of life’s good days, hard days, and every days.
"Diane Comer captivates the reader as she describes in profound ways her sudden world of silence. Her prose is poetic. In a riveting manner, she tells of her journey from a normal life that heard chirping birds, falling rain, a baby's coo, and a lover's whisper to one of silence. She went from hearing laughter among her girl- friends, the singing of her husband, and her child calling "Mom' to a world on mute. Few of us ever think about the reality of absolute deafness, but Diane narrates so powerfully that we enter her soundless world. When she cries, we cry. When she doubts, we doubt. When her faith ignites, our faith ignites. Amazingly, along with her, we hear God in the silence. What did God say? He Speaks in the Silence answers that question. Oh, and find out why, when she regained her hearing through the miracle of science, she daily disconnects to reenter her world of silence."---Emerson and Sarah Eggerichs of Love and Respect Ministries, author of Love and Respect
"Diane Comer's personal journey from disappointed good girl to deeply spiritual woman of God shows the power of the Spirit's working in the midst of tragic loss when the eyes of faith opened deaf ears to hear the gently powerful voice of the Lord Most High. It will take you deep into intimacy with Him."---Gerry Breshears, Ph.D., Professor of Theology, Western Seminary, Portland, Oregon
"He Speaks in the Silence is a beautiful read. Diane's unashamed vulnerability instantly draws you in and find yourself lost in her story---one where she freely admits her own insecurities and struggles with trust, faith, and understanding. Her honesty encourages you to seek and value silence, to make space to com- prehend your own journey deeper, and to truly press into the One who speaks in that silence. It's about seeing beauty where there seems to be none, about believing through doubt, about pursuing a wild hope. I highly recommend this book!"---Sarah A. Dubbeldam, Co-Founder, Editor-in-Chief and Creative Director, Darling Magazine
"I've known Diane and her husband Phil for years---since their first date, actually. It was before marriage, before kids, and before her deafness set in. I have had the privilege and joy of watching her story play out and seeing God work in the midst. I have seen her live through the confusion and challenges of her deafness, digging deep into the inevitable questions it brings. She sees it as a story of failure. I see it as a story of triumphant faith. Trusting God in a storm is seldom simple and clean. More often than not, faith is messy, full of bumps and valleys and questions and heartache. And for Diane, her faith and relationship with her Creator has been shrouded in physical silence. I challenge you to read her story and not be moved. I have no doubt that her story will cause you to rethink your own understanding of God."---Luis Palau, world evangelist and author
"When I think back to my childhood, one memory sticks out over all the noise; every morning I would walk down the stairs and find my mom sitting in her chair, Bible open, pen in hand, eyes focused but distant. She was hearing the one voice that could bypass her deafness. My mom taught me how to listen to God; this book will do the same for you."---John Mark Comer, pastor for teaching and vision at Bridgetown: A Jesus Church in Portland, Oregon and author of Loveology and Garden City
If you have ever wondered (as most of us do) ... Does God see me? Does he want to talk to me? Is it possible for me to hear him speak? Diane's story, compellingly and beautifully told, gets to the nitty gritty reality of what it means to know God deeply and intimately in all the silence and the noise of life's good days, hard days, and every days.---Dan and Becky Kimball, author of several books, pastor of Vintage Faith Church, and speaker
Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940171751180 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Zondervan |
| Publication date: | 01/05/2016 |
| Edition description: | Unabridged |
| Sales rank: | 926,684 |
Read an Excerpt
He Speaks in the Silence
Finding Intimacy with God by Learning to Listen
By Diane Comer
ZONDERVAN
Copyright © 2015 Diane ComerAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-310-34179-6
CHAPTER 1
In the Beginning ...
a story I didn't want
* * *
At first it was the little things.
I remember standing outside one warm afternoon, saying goodbye to my friends with their babies and toddlers. We'd spent the morning talking, as women do, about our hopes for our children and what their futures might hold. All the way out to their minivans, we were chatting away animatedly while our children ran in circles, loth to go home to quiet and naps.
Suddenly all my friends were silent, looking at me with question marks where their eyebrows rose.
"What? What's the matter?" I hurriedly inventoried my kids. Had something happened?
"Aren't you going to get that?"
Still confused, I just stared back at my friends, at all those worried eyes.
"The phone! Aren't you going to get the phone?" The incredulous look on their faces brought me up short.
These were the days before cell phones or texting or email or even answering machines. To not answer that phone hanging on the kitchen wall was rude, even risky. It could be important. It might be an emergency. No one ignored that insistent bell tone. Ever.
Suddenly, in the shocked silence of my friends, I heard the barest whisper of a ring. Again. "Oh my!" I dashed off to get it, heart thumping, breathless — not from the run across my suburban lawn, but from the terrible realization that what I'd been hiding could no longer be ignored.
Ever since a bout with pneumonia a few months before, I'd been having trouble hearing. Nothing drastic, just some subtle hints that perhaps my ears were plugged. Yes, I'd missed hearing the phone ring a few times, gotten impatient with everyone's mumbling, failed to wake up when my alarm buzzed. But with all the delightful chaos of my busy household, who could blame me? Babies and toddlers and sleep deprivation could easily explain my fumbles, couldn't they? Surely I was making a big deal out of nothing. The eyebrows covertly raised behind my back by my husband only irked me more, and I lashed out at him in annoyance, a thin veil over my fear.
That ringing phone would become my nemesis, underscoring what I was trying to deny. When I did happen to hear it ring, I couldn't tell who was on the line. All voices began blending into sameness. I couldn't tell the difference between Lynn and Kim and the gym. Once, I carried on a confusing conversation for ten minutes with Stacey, only to discover I was talking to Lucy.
Alarm clocks were becoming useless. Cookies burned in the oven while the buzzer droned silently. The frogs along the creek bed lost their voices. Birds failed to sing. What was happening?
One worn-out Monday morning, I gathered my rambunctious little ones, swaddled the baby, and drove the few miles to my parents' house. There on the back porch, in that familiar place where I'd once talked to her about boys and love and breakups and all the angst of teenage life, I poured out my fears to my mom. Over coffee and thick toast smeared lavishly with her homemade jam, the tears overflowed.
Before now, I'd told her nothing of my worries, pretending that everything was fine. In our family, when I was growing up, complaining was met most often with a stern rebuke. My parents' zero tolerance policy on whining kept us careful to edit our troubles and temper our grievances. Mom's practical, can-do attitude just didn't sit well on the shoulders of negativity. But that day, she listened with all the compassion of a mother who hears and knows. She entered into my angst, holding out her arms to embrace me when the sobs came bursting from where I'd tucked them deep inside.
"You have to do something," she insisted. "Get this checked out, and the sooner the better."
My ever sensible mother couldn't fathom her twenty-six-year-old daughter's reluctance to admit she was having trouble hearing.
"Why in the world haven't you made an appointment with a hearing specialist?" She set down her coffee, as if to get up and do it herself. "Make that phone call by the end of the day, or I will!"
A few months earlier, I'd taken my son to a specialist to have his ears checked after a series of ear infections. With my mother's words propelling me to action, I now made another call to the ear doctor, this time for myself. The receptionist spoke with the over-enunciated diction hearing professionals use on every patient, yet I shuddered at her assumption that I was calling because I was one of those.
I made an appointment for the following week and immediately regretted it. I was fine. I could hear. Did I really need a babysitter for my infant and two toddlers for half a day while I drove across town through traffic, just so they could tell me I was tired and needed to listen better?
But between my mother's pushing and my husband's insinuating — those eyebrows that repeatedly told me I'd missed yet another verbal clue — I knew it was time to capitulate. I'd go. Hopefully the doctor would give me a pill, and I'd hurry home to life as it was supposed to be.
* * *
The low-slung building with its outdoor corridors shadowed by deep redwood eaves was typical of California medical offices. A fountain trickled cheerily, raining drops of mist on my arm as I searched for the suite that housed the offices of nearly a dozen ear, nose, and throat specialists. Finding the carved door with Otology Services on a plaque above it, I hesitated. Could this be it? Otology was a term foreign to me, and it sounded enough like oncology to make me leery. But spotting the specialist's name carved into a brass plaque, I pushed open the door with a shudder of dread.
A bell tinkled as I entered, one more confirmation that I was most certainly wasting my time by coming here. See, I could hear! When the receptionist handed me a half dozen pages of questions to answer, I sat down with a sigh. Like it or not, I was here, waiting for what I was certain would be a simple prescription to clear up the muffled sensation in my ears.
The bland beige of the waiting room complemented the stoic expressions on the faces of the people waiting silently for their turns. Tan industrial carpeting, grass cloth-covered walls, seats stained by too many people sitting too long to hear what they couldn't hear. My insides churned.
Every other person in the waiting room looked old to me. A noiseless cloud seemed to hang over everyone who came through the door. A man with a cane hobbled in, sat down with a sigh, and shouted at his poor wife, who was trying to fill out forms. From across the room, I sensed her frustration and was embarrassed for both of them. Huge flesh-toned hearing aids hung on his ears, doing little to alleviate his confusion. My grandpa had worn those hideous things.
When my name was called, I couldn't seem to help rambling apologetically to the nurse. "Nothing's wrong, just a little muffling. I need to get this cleared up, just fluid in my ears, I'm sure." She nodded and led me to a sterile exam room to wait for the doctor.
For what seemed like forever, I waited in the silence of that room, so unlike the pediatricians' offices where a mama of three little ones spends so much time. Here there were no outcries, no laughter ringing. I swung my foot and tapped my fingers impatiently, wishing I hadn't come.
The doctor knocked once and entered, then shook my hand without looking at my face and stood with his back to me while mumbling something about a busy day. I immediately disliked him.
My first impression was that he was all one color. His blondish hair was fading into the same dull gray as his eyes and skin. Everything about him was precise. Every hair combed carefully in place, fingernails trimmed square, lab coat pressed to perfection. I tensed in his presence, feeling messy and mistaken, the haphazardness of my young-mother uniform of yoga pants and Reeboks highlighting my imperfections.
Staring at a folder in his lap, he asked a few questions.
"Your father has some hearing loss?"
"Yes, but just a little. His isn't too bad, really."
What did this have to do with my father? I was half his age, for heaven's sake.
"I wrote there that it started in the army while he was doing weapons testing. Too much exposure to loud noise, that's what his doctors said."
He let my comment thud like a rock in the middle of the room, never lifting his head from my file. Not so much as a nod or a hint that he had heard me. His fingers drummed the desk noiselessly.
I felt like I needed to defend myself from this cold man's insinuations. As if it was my fault I had a father with trouble hearing. As if maybe my own recent struggles might somehow be related.
"And your grandfather? He wore hearing aids."
"He was old. In his eighties. And then he only wore them when he felt like it. He never did think he needed them."
"Mmh."
This man's wordless expression made me want to prove him wrong. I was not hard of hearing. I was young, in the thick of raising a family. I wasn't "disabled," for Pete's sake!
He pulled out a set of brushed metal instruments with handles and prongs, like strangely elongated forks. He proceeded to tap each one on the table, asking if I could hear the sound. He was impatient when I didn't respond quickly. The dull tap on the table was clear enough, but what sort of sound was this strange instrument supposed to make?
Tap, tap, tap ... then nothing.
He wouldn't look at me. Just tapped and frowned and wrote in his file. He moved the fork-shaped metal closer to my ear. Ah, there was something! I could feel the faintest vibration. Now everything would be okay.
I stared at him, willing him to look me in the face, wishing he would speak, wanting to fill the silence in that stark room, needing to see some hint of reassurance in his dull gray eyes.
Nothing.
Finally, he stood up, closed his file, carefully slipped the metal instruments into their felt-lined case, mumbled something I missed, and left the room. I stared at the door, subdued by his rudeness.
My ordeal wasn't over.
The nurse came back and led me through a labyrinth of offices, past closed doors and through the waiting area into the strangest room I'd ever seen. Pulling open the thick steel door guarding the entrance, she escorted me into a soundproof booth the size of a closet and gestured for me to sit in the chair in the center. The room reminded me of the nuclear bunkers I'd seen advertised in magazines while I was growing up in the midst of the Cold War era. The carpet muffled all sound, and the walls and ceiling were covered in perforated metal the color of putty. Stark, bland nothingness. On the floor were scattered a few children's toys, which she picked up with some grumbling.
I had no idea what was going on since no one seemed in the least inclined to communicate.
Then another lab coat shrouded professional walked in, this one with her hand extended. Like a fresh breeze in that stale tomb, Dr. Janna Smith-Lange shook my hand, smiled, and started to explain the process she was there to take me through. While she talked, I stared at her in wonder. Bright blond hair cut in a blunt bob, red lipstick, sparkling blue eyes — she exuded glam- our. I sensed her warm caring as she looked me in the eye and squeezed my hand, as if to say, "We're going to be friends, you and I."
Later I learned that Dr. Smith-Lange, who eventually became simply "Janna" to me, had a PhD in audiology and spent her days testing all levels of hearing. Her clients were, for the most part, older people with years of decline already behind them and a few bouncing-off-the-walls toddlers with fluid-filled ears. Every once in a while, someone like me walked into her sound booth. Someone who shouldn't be there.
For the next hour, I listened for beeps and dings with long, silent stretches in between. I was instructed to click a handheld button whenever I heard a sound. Any sound. And there I sat, knowing I was missing tones, holding still, then leaning forward, trying harder to hear what I knew must be there. I'd hear something and click the button as fast as I could. More silence. Then a series of beeps I could actually hear. I pounded the button triumphantly! Then more silence. Long silence.
Deafening silence.
We proceeded to sentences. The cowboy went into town. The airplane flew overhead. And single words like toothpaste, side walk, ice cream. Janna had me repeat words while she covered her mouth with her manicured hand and made check marks in her file. I really didn't like that part. I knew I was guessing, confused by words that sounded the same, missing too many. I began to get the distinct impression that something was terribly wrong, that no one was going to just give me a pill and send me home.
My chest tightened with growing dread.
When we were finally finished, it seemed to take all of Janna's professionalism to keep herself from wrapping her arms around me and holding me close. Her compassionate gaze nearly undid me. I blinked back the tears gathering in my eyes. With tender care, she led me into the doctor's book-lined office and left me there.
Alone.
I'd never sat in a physician's personal office before. Until that day, my encounters with doctors were always in exam rooms. The nurse ushers you in, bids you to sit on the too-high table and wait. After a while, the doctor comes in and asks questions, sometimes pausing to poke and prod to see what the trouble is. Fluorescent lights hide nothing, and that's the point. The patient is there to be fixed, seeking a solution to whatever it is that troubles her.
But this room was dark, richly decorated with mahogany furniture, hunter green walls, and crackled leather chairs. I itched to open the blinds. My heart beat too hard.
After I waited for what seemed like an interminable time, the gray doctor walked in and sat behind his desk, placing my file precisely in the middle, and glanced at me. His eyes registered nothing. I don't think he saw me at all. He didn't see the young mother I was. He didn't know I had a family and a husband and babies — people I needed to hear. He didn't care about my hopes and dreams for the future. He looked right through me. I was just another patient with a file full of loss.
I sat trembling before him. By now I could sense the gravity of my diagnosis. I braced myself for what he had to say, pulling myself in tight lest I lose my tentative grip on control.
"Young lady, you have a severe hearing loss. It's caused by nerve damage, I'm certain. There is no excess fluid, no infection. Your pattern is typical of this kind of loss. I'm not sure what caused it, but it is almost certainly progressive ... would expect deafness ... hearing aids might help ..."
Wait!
He lost me there. Hearing aids? Me? What is he saying? I can hear! I'm twenty-six years old. I don't need hearing aids. He doesn't know what he's talking about. Hearing aids are for old men and handicapped people, not for me. I choked back the tears threatening to erupt into a howl of denial.
"Can't you give me something for this? It's got to be connected with when I had pneumonia a few months ago." My interruption only seemed to intensify his coldness.
Pointing to my chart, he tapped the file to the staccato beat of his words, "I said no. No infection, no fluid. Your ears look normal."
"How can I have — what did you call it —' a significant hearing loss'? and my ears look normal? Something's not normal here!" I think my insistence shocked him out of his blandly clinical report just enough for him to really look at me.
"We'll do tests, of course. But because the loss is significant and similar in both ears, I suspect a genetic cause. Still, I'll order an MRI just in case."
I didn't dare ask, in case of what? I could tell he wanted me out of his office as much as I wanted to leave. My mind was too packed with protests to think clearly, so I plastered a polite smile on my face and thanked him for his time. Shaking, I nearly stumbled on my way out the door of his oppressive office, making my way to the receptionist to schedule a plethora of tests in the weeks ahead. As she loaded me up with a thick stack of papers, the pit in my stomach started to swallow me. Filled with a near-panicked need to flee, I fumbled to close the door behind me, acutely aware of the sounds I should be hearing but wasn't. The metallic clink of the latch was distinctly absent.
Outside, the clear blue California sky seemed to mock me. How could the sun shine cheerfully on such a day as this? How dare the people bustling past me smile and laugh? How cruel a joke that life just went on when I felt mine stop with the doctor's conclusive words.
Severe hearing loss ... progressive.
I walked to my car, parked on the curb of the busy street, attuned to every sound. Where was the click of my heels on the pavement? Shouldn't my keys jingle? Why did the rush of cars going by sound so far away?
(Continues...)
Excerpted from He Speaks in the Silence by Diane Comer. Copyright © 2015 Diane Comer. Excerpted by permission of ZONDERVAN.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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