That’s the word that I finally heard as I sat in quiet this evening. Listen.
Some days, I’m a chicken with my head cut off, dashing, darting, furiously trying to stay ahead. Most days, I’m more like a bulldozer: not especially fast, but not especially interested in doing anything other than moving ahead, so step aside. Hardly any days do I resemble a listening follower, much less a listening mother.
I sit in silence, a flickering candle, Beatrice nursing, then falling into deep sleep. I reflect. There is a Voice speaking to me, trying to get my attention, willing to give wisdom and guidance. I hear that Voice, quiet, politely trying to interject. Do I listen? Not always.
I quench the Spirit.
Quench the Spirit.
And oh, that makes me sad. Really, really sad. God Himself wants to speak eternal perspective and the power of grace! He does! Will I listen??
Speak, Lord, for Your servant is listening. Listening.
And these precious little ones, so in tune with the little details of their little lives — they need me to listen, too. Their eyes are wide, their ears aware, their hearts absorbing. I glance towards the back of the van and see Jameson looking out the window — eyes practically pulsing with the speed at which he’s absorbing this world around him. What does he see? What is he thinking? What does he want to say? Listen.
See that boy, being amazed by the simple miracle of eggs + high heat? Be like him. Slow down. Listen.
And say yes.