A Life of Listening Well (How to Hear God)
One of my worst fears is getting trapped in an elevator. I’m not sure when I developed this fear, but it has only gotten worse and more irrational the older I’ve gotten. I disliked elevators so much when I stayed at a hotel a couple of months ago; I took the stairs every time I went up and down for breakfast, lunch, and dinner despite being on the seventh floor.
It’s not only elevators; any kind of confined space makes me anxious. Like the moment when I’m seated in the back of a plane, and everyone stands up to exit. Once, I was painting our basement when the door closed and wouldn’t open. I was a damsel in distress, and Brent wasn’t home, so I hoisted myself up to the window and decided I would pop out the screen and shimmy my way through. However, I couldn’t pop the screen off, so instead, I tore a hole through it.
The other night I was in the kid’s bathroom, which I sometimes use because they are less likely to find me than if I use my own. I went to open the door when some kind of mechanism in the doorknob suddenly stopped working. I. Freaked. Out. I realized my worst fear was coming true, regardless of being at home and far away from any elevators. While I did find some comfort in the fact Brent was home to save me it didn’t stop me from frantically shouting. I got down on the floor and buried my head in my knees, closed my eyes, and tried to calm myself down.
Brent began to talk to me as he scrambled around the house, up and down the stairs to the garage collecting the tools he needed. With each tool he tried he continued to talk to me, letting me know he was still there. When one tool wouldn’t work (which happened a couple of times) and he had to run back to the garage I could still hear him through the air vent trying to reassure me.
Practically in a fetal position, on the floor, I became aware of something. Every time I heard his voice I calmed down a little more, however, it was quite muffled. So I stood up and sat on the side of the tub, allowing me to hear him better. He continued to talk to me, assuring me everything was okay and that it wouldn’t be much longer. It was at this moment I thought to myself, “How many times have I stayed on the floor amid difficult times instead of getting up and listening for God’s voice?”
To listen I have to stand up, be still, get quiet. And to be honest, some days I don’t want to shut out the distractions, I invite them. Out of fear. The fear I won’t hear right, the fear I won’t like what I hear, or worse, fear I won’t hear Him at all.
Yet, I can neither hear right nor wrong without stopping to listen at all.
It made me think, what does it mean to live a life of listening well, to hear God.
I think it looks like remembering listening well is a muscle that needs to be worked.
I think it looks like not second-guessing ourselves or discounting what we thought we heard.
I think it looks like continuing to get quiet and still even when it feels as if we are hearing crickets.
I think it looks like not comparing ourselves to how someone else hears, He speaks to us all differently.
Even though I felt as if I was in the bathroom for half an hour, it was probably more like 10 minutes. When I finally emerged, besides a deep amount of relief I walked out of the bathroom with a desire to start listening better. To listen for the voice who calms, who reassures, who lets me know I’m not alone. And a reminder of the importance of stepping up and talking to others who may have found themselves on the floor in fear, and letting them know they too aren’t alone.
