If you, like me, have ever struggled with a stammer or stutter, you know the awkward pause—that moment of silence when a word gets stuck between your mind and your voice. No matter how clearly the sentences flow in your head, they refuse to exit effortlessly into the world.

And if you, like me, have struggled with a stammer or stutter, you also know the experience of someone jumping in to fill in that blank space, to attempt to rescue you—or rescue themselves, really, from the discomfort of the pause.

You also may know the gratitude and regard felt for another kind of listener. One who gives space and attention without expectation. One who allows time for your imperfection, for your pause.  One who isn’t made uncomfortable with the weight of waiting and doesn’t rush to finish your sentences.

In his essay, “Getting the Words Out,” John Updike, another stutterer writes, “Those who stutter win, in the painful pauses of their demonstration that speech isn’t entirely natural, a respectful attention, a tender alertness. Words are, we are reassured, precious.”

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In a recent educator training, we explored the power of pausing. Whether in classrooms, meetings, conversations, or conflicts, participants were encouraged to resist the urge to be the first to speak or to drive our point home. To pause, we were reminded, is a gift.

To illustrate this, we looked to the example of “Mr. Rogers Neighborhood,” which began during an era when other shows for children were becoming increasingly fast, noisy, and stimulating. But Fred Rogers used timing differently. He’d stop to feed his fish, tie his shoe, ask a question. He wasn’t in a rush. He described the pace of his show as having “lots of slow space, but no wasted space.” 

Like almost all of Mr. Rogers’ actions, this was intentional. “I need thinking time when someone asks me a searching question,” Rogers said, “I wonder why it seems to be so uncomfortable for many people to wait through the silence. People of all ages have deep feelings, and if we have the patience to wait through the silence, it’s often astounding what people will tell us.

Interestingly, I’ve learned that many speech therapists have prescribed watching more of Mr. Rogers for their stuttering clients. J Scott Yaruss, a speech pathologist, spent hours researching Mr. Rogers to identify just what it was that made his speech so instructive and healing. It wasn’t only the pace of his speech that set Rogers apart, Yaruss found, but his attention to pauses. 

“By carefully measuring the duration of pauses, both within utterances (e.g., between phrases) and between utterances (e.g., after a speaking turn), we were able to discern that Mister Rogers consistently allowed just a bit of extra time for his audience to process and reflect on what he had said—and to plan what they themselves would say in response—before he continued speaking. This extra pause contributed to the overall unhurried pace of communication that people identify with Mister Rogers. The use of this extra pause ensured that everyone in the conversation knew that they had time to say what they wanted to say—and it helped them know that he would be listening to them when they did said it,” Yaruss wrote.  

In a climate where empathy has been called the fundamental weakness of Western civilization, when people we disagree with are instantly mocked and belittled, when our neighbors are suddenly called our enemies, and when social media posts are more like proclamations littered with words shouted in ALL CAPS, what a gift a pause is. 

When I look at the news, I’m inundated with easy answers, reports of quick firings, hasty decisions, and harmful conclusions. When doubts or questions are raised, there is a doubling down on certainty. No time for listening. No pauses for gathering one’s thoughts. The tendency is to fill the air as quickly as possible. 

I find myself wishing the entire planet could take an enormous deep breath, a pause. 

And yet, pause and breath are not always natural. For a stutterer, finding one’s breath can be a battle. And as a verbal processor, I often don’t want just the first word but a whole bunch of them after that.

During this season, in particular, I find myself rushing past the Lenten call to pause. Falling easily into the trap of self-importance and the illusions of distraction, it’s easy to ignore the invitation to pause, reflect, and simply be present. With so much to be done, can we afford to pause?”

And yet, pausing to breathe isn’t a luxury but a necessity. It’s an invitation that Jesus gave often, one that our souls long for, even as our tongues or human nature might fight the urge. 

Just before she died of cancer last summer, my friend, Elizabeth Felicetti, along with her friend and fellow Episcopal priest, Samantha Vincent-Alexander,  published a book,  Irreverant Prayers: Talking to God When You’re Seriously Sick. One prayer in the book, titled “Holy Spirit and Breath,” was first shared with me in draft form via email. Elizabeth sent it with the message that it was a prayer she had been needing for many months: 

Holy Spirit, whose name is Breath: fill my broken body with your being. Let me breathe in love, strength, patience, awe. Exhale rage, pain, helplessness. While I breathe, make yourself known to me all the way to my fingertips, even when my breath catches on something that hurts; even when I can’t take a full, deep breath. Release me from my fear of breathing. Amen. 

During this Lenten season, when it feels like the whole world is on fire and we may not even know what to worry about first, may we take the time to breathe out the toxins of tightness, shame, and terror. And may we accept the invitation to pause, to turn toward goodness, even—or especially— when “our breath catches on something that hurts.”

Header photo by Kate Macate on Unsplash
Crocus photo by Manuel Boxler on Unsplash
Don’t Walk photo by Kai Pilger on Unsplash