Listening

Call to me and I will answer you and  tell you great and unsearchable things you do not know. Jeremiah 1:22

When I first heard the story of Joan of Arc in my childhood, I wondered what God's voice must have sounded like to her. It was frightening to think of hearing something that no one else could hear. It was daunting to think that the voice would tell me things that would be hard for me to accept. I wondered why she was chosen for all this.
 
I have a friend whose daughter was having unusual vision issues when she was little, Because I was familiar with things my own daughter's neurologist examined for, I asked her about what she was seeing while I was visiting her and her mother. She matter-factly described the images of what she saw, and the filters through which she sometimes perceived the world.  There were voices, as well. She seemed unabashedly healthy and comfortable with all this.  Her doctor found nothing wrong with her either.  When I brought this up with other friends, some of them mentioned remembering hearing voices when they were little.  Some of them had known children who could draw auras they saw emitting from people. Like the ability to hear the sleigh bell in the book The Polar Express, this sense disappeared with maturation. 

I don't understand all this, but I know that children are often the ones who see and hear things acutely, and I wonder if it has to do with their openness and being in active learning mode. Selecting and editing that to which they choose to give attention is not yet a habit. 

Listening is a true skill, and we live in an age where communication output is highly encouraged. We are known by the extent of our facebook posts. We have the first President in history who communicates by twitter instead of fireside chats. The tower of babel is an ongoing environment for us. We receive emails daily to which we are expected to respond.  
 
When I truly listen, I am changed inside. Listening requires focus. It needs space and time. Lately I have preferred to have physical meetings in order to listen to the people closest to me. There is much to hear in the tone of voice, the placement of silence, the look on the face. When I am really listening, I am able to help the other person by relating something interesting about what I have heard, or to ask a question that takes the discussion below the surface. It is not about taking on burdens or jumping to solutions, both of which might stall the process. I am simply learning something. I am offering up the best of what I am and what I have to the effort.
 
In a recent move, I had to purge a loveseat that had moved with me every place I had lived with my children. It was difficult to let this piece of outmoded furniture go, because so many moments of their growth had happened while we sat, side by side, trying to get over life's hurdles, whether they were toddler tears or emotional adolescent conundrums. That loveseat was a good listener, and a comforting springboard to the next step. Similarly, every car I have driven has become an ally, not only in road trips and adventure, but also in providing that comforting environment for listening when it is hard for the person talking to have forced eye contact. I had a friend who was frustrated that she was too busy to have her normal daily prayer time, and she said she simply told God "Come on in the car, you're gonna have to go with me today".  There is always something fortifying about the idea of having your friends by your side. It is offering support while looking in the same direction.
 
During the Taize services I used to play and sing for, there was always a central time of meditation, about ten minutes long, during which I would play something to help slow the body into a receptive state, and then sit in silence.  Sometimes I would find that during this time I could have the luxury of a complete thought, and realized how much it was missing from my regimen of interruptions.  At other times, I filled it with unhurried prayer, unlike the frantic tweet-like prayers I often blurt throughout the day. But eventually I simply listened: to God, and in some cases, to the silent prayers of those in the room.  I tried to simply sit with those around me, witnessing their thoughts and inviting God's word to be felt. It was a vital state of being that I hadn't found in a lot of worship experiences.

I am a pianist working with students who are performing songs or musical theatre pieces, I usually try to tell them what I heard and saw from their presentations. In this way, we can work at getting closer to what their intent is.  We work together to make the artistic expression authentic. It helps to make both of us aware of many things, and we both explore and learn together.  

My indelible faith experience from my childhood came when I was 6 or 7, spending a sleepless night because of my active little brain. I was pondering how the world might end, and my fear was eating me up. Finally, I prayed in utter anguish to God about how scared I was. I must have actually listened to God then; I felt a blanket of peace covering me, and I lay back and simply rested in God's cradling for the rest of the night.  

 
Prayer: Listening God, you hear every word I stumble over and every speech I deliver. Beyond that, you hear my heart beating and my soul searching. Among and above the great sounds and music of your creation, let me  hear your voice for all and your words for me alone. Help my inner ears to listen and hear, to learn and to digest, to understand. Amen.

  
Mollie Manner