A Listening Problem…

I scrambled out of my seatbelt and slid down the upholstered seats on my stomach until my feet hit the familiar safety of the running boards. Then I was free.

The sight before me was more than my ingenuous eyes could behold. Every inch of space before me was filled with blossoms and blooms each in a hue so rich and deep it was if the palette that painted the earth was drawn from the colored flowers before me. Tulips, daffodils, hydrangea, and roses were clustered together in pots of deep purple and royal red. Lilies the color of rich, sweet honey grew next to towering sunflowers. Tubs of larkspur, gladiola, and daisies littered the ground at my feet along with vines of ivy that crept up forest-green plastic stakes. Trees soared overhead; they were not as tall as the trees in my backyard, but they still towered above me, lending a chill to the shady spots where their foliage and leaves eclipsed the sun and the cement was still puddled from a recent watering.

“Stay close to me and don’t touch anything.”

My mom’s voice came to me as if in a dream, a voice singing in my slumber. She sounded far away. Of course, I did not really hear her—though there were no other noises to compete with her voice, my head buzzed excitedly with the perfumed scent of each flower and the felt-like touch of each petal. I wanted to peer at every plant, to drag my fingers along each bud, to experience this new world on my own terms.

“Be careful of the bird bath. Don’t touch it, it looks unstable.”

Whaaaaat? A bird bath? Now that was worth exploring! I stole a glance at my mom, who was busy selecting flowers for her garden. When she looked back at me, I smiled my best “I’m not up to anything” grin and waited until she went back to her list. Then I was off.

I didn’t even know birds had bathtubs. I had never seen a bird take a bath…this I had to see!My insatiable curiosity ignited like a match to a dry bunch of kindling.

I circled the nursery grounds and couldn’t find anything that looked like a bird’s bathtub. I walked through again, looking for a small porcelain basin, perhaps with claw feet, the size of a shoebox. I found nothing. Then, I came to a big stone pedestal with what looked like a big bowl balanced on top of it. The top of the bowl was a bit higher than eye level. The bird bath was up there, I knew it. I had to look.

“Be careful, Celeste. Don’t touch that.”

I am quite sure I never heard the second warning and if I did, I could not have possibly been expected to listen. What would the other Kindergartners think when I told them about my discovery? A bird's bath! I was Robinson Crusoe! I stood tall on my tiptoes and grasped the ledge of the heavy stone basin. And then I pulled myself up to get a peek.

WHAM!

A pain seared my toe like a hot iron. The stone basin was no longer balanced on the pedestal, but laying squarely on my right sandal-clad foot.

“Oh, Celeste! Oh, Celeste! I told you not to touch that bird bath.” My mom rushed over and summoning the strength of the Incredible Hulk, lifted the basin off my pancaked foot. She scooped me up, a five-year-old explosion of tears and snot, rushed me to the backseat of the Suburban, and tended to my throbbing foot. The entire toenail had been sheared from my not-so-big-yet big right toe.

“I am so sorry,” my mom said. “Oh, if only you would have listened.”

If only I would have listened.

More than thirty years later that phrase rings true time and again. I can think of myriad times when I could have been spared pain (and lots of trouble) if I would only have listened…to my parents, to my husband, and to my God.

The pull to do my own thing is still very strong—sometimes it is too strong for my own good. And so I usually push on with my own agenda, eventually limping back, wounded, regretting my transgressions.

For me, listening takes time. It takes quiet. And it takes discipline to yield. From experience, I know when I slow down and quiet my mind, I can more clearly hear God’s whispers. I hear His warnings, encouragements— and His truth.

My life is much easier when I take time to listen and obey…

But like the five-year-old int he nursery, I am still learning to do so.

I am getting better about my quiet time with the Lord. Praying He’ll teach me to listen, use me to reach others, and make me into all of the person He created me to be.

(And I have to admit: I occasionally pray that He’ll help my daughters to listen to me…because sometimes they have their own agenda, too…)

I wonder where they get THAT from?