Friday, February 22, 2013

Listening

Recently, I can't remember exactly where, I read that what most of us want is to be heard.  We desire someone to take in what we say, store it in their heart, and respond back in a way that confirms, affirms and assures us that we have been heard, listened too ...understood.  Somewhere else I read, and again I don't remember where, that we might strive to cultivate as great a passion within ourselves to listen, really listen to others, that is as great, or better yet, greater than our passion to be heard.
The circumstances of mothering force us to be listeners, naturally.  We listen for grumbling tummies, crabby dispositions from too little sleep, uniforms in need of laundering for a game in 47 minutes, deadlines for applications.  We hear so much, respond so often and so well.  We feed them, tuck them in, wash their clothes, drive them to the game and cheer them on, stamp and lick envelopes.  We do so many things right, over and over.We hear, we respond.
For me though I wonder how often I fall short of real, true, passionate listening.  This theme keeps popping up, calling my attention, posing interior questions and reflections about where I am in the listening spectrum.  Dynamics in my own past and present demand my attention to hone in on my listening skills. Conversations with friends, mothers too, echo this desire to let go of the obstacles that prevent listening rooted in the heart, anchored in love and respect.  For me those obstacles are many ...exhaustion, hunger, time, anger, boredom, fear, panic ...grief.  But too, I wonder how afraid I am of not being heard ...not being listened too.  Many of us carry that sense of not being heard.  My own fear hinders me from listening in ways I am capable of, only if I let go of the hold it has on me.
I could go in lots of directions with this theme, but the one that replays itself over and over is how well we listen, or don't listen, to our children.  Real listening matters, it affects our kids, shapes them for life in ways beginning to unfold now.  We live in a prescriptive culture.  Do this, check.  Do this, check, Do this, check, Do this, check.  "Oh look at all the check marks, they are doing fine!"  There are some universal check marks for parents.  Is my child eating, check.  Is my child sleeping, check.  Is homework done, check. And then there are the more personalized ones.  Conversation, no matter how loud, challenging, disturbing, upsetting is one of mine.  I feel better if we are talking. Check. I don't care so much if the conversation is pleasant. I don't care so much if what I'm getting back is what I want to hear ....I just want to be engaged, actively communicating. Check. I want my kids to ask hard questions (ok, honestly, I really don't like it when they ask them at eleven pm on a school/work night). I want my kids to challenge what they've been told or taught, so they ultimately claim the Truth for themselves.  I've seen kids who yes their parents, appear to be in alignment with expectations and beliefs, only to be doing so just to satisfy the parents, while living a different construct right under their nose.  I don't want that.  I want a real, active, dynamic life that isn't afraid to ask and face hard questions.  And I thought that's what I had with Phoebe, and I think did in many ways.  But her death pushes me to examine my own authenticity, my own ability to extend both ears along with my heart and listen to the tangled, confusing lives of my children.  Some children are sneaky, but I wonder if they become that way because they are not really heard, they are just satisfying, or acting as if they are, what adults put on them.  It's a hard job being a parent. We want them to do well, thrive. Culturally there exist benchmarks universally accepted as indicators of moving through childhood and adolescence appropriately.  Too often though these benchmarks don't come from ourselves and are not determined with our own children in mind.  Creating benchmarks appropriate for our own kids takes great confidence and risk ....and real, whole listening, the way God listens to us.  In small ways I might be there, but in big ways I think I lack a real ability for that.  In a moment, Phoebe wasn't heard, she may have thought she'd failed to meet our expectations or those of our culture.  Being unheard is a big deal, and more,  being accused and condemned of something without the opportunity of our own voice expressed, is an even bigger deal.  Our kids need us to listen.  My kids need me to listen to them ...better, fuller, in wholesome way.  My desire for my kids to hear me must be less than my desire to hear them.
God listens to us, He hears our prayers, knows the interior desires of our hearts.  He is patient, encouraging, compassionate and kind.  Gently He guides us.  So often during my day I say to Him "could you please just say something, let me know you're there?"  I say it in exasperation, frustration.  He is patiently listening, actively engaged in my struggle to make sense of this world, my life, my heart.  I wish I reflected His way more.
How often is my own chatter clanging over the voices of my children, my husband?  How often do I think what I have to say is more important?  How often do I believe, with all of me, that this lesson must be imparted NOW!?  How often do I wait for a pause so I might jump in and weave my own fear and panic through the gift words shared, the exposed heart that just took a risk in revealing a vulnerable, treasured thought?  How often do I fail to take delight in the launching of this young life for fear they might lose their way?
In lots of ways my situation is unique.  I lost a daughter.  I wish I heard her that morning.  I wish so many things.  And because of that morning, because Phoebe died, and because she was a teenage girl, and because she was my daughter, my daughter in my house, under my care, I live in fear, often panic, that I might miss something in my other children. And I'm becoming increasingly convinced that fear and panic will be what causes me to miss something.  It certainly stops me from listening with a whole heart ...fully engaged and awed at the marvel of teenage girls spreading their wings and taking a shot at flight ...under my watchful gaze.
It is a crazy world, there is plenty to frighten us, lots to be aware and on top of.  The prescriptive path might appear to work on the surface, but it's really a band-aid, and doesn't cultivate a richly lived life, an authentic life that bears the individual gifts given by God.  And the fear/panic path hinders real growth and cultivates or exacerbates the exact things we fear, far too often.  In my close circle there are a few mothers so stunned by the loss of  Phoebe, their own level of fear and panic as a result of her death, nearly equals mine.  We are afraid.  Afraid of what the passionate teenager might do at times. So what's the answer?
The answer is to listen and love them.  Listen without expecting a certain answer.  Listen without the clipboard of check marks.  Just listen without fear, panic.  Listen with wonder and delight in the vibrant nature of who they are, designed by God to be exactly as they are!
I'm not advocating no limits, no curfew, high fiving them when they take a dangerous risk.  I'm not suggesting we don't lead them, I'm not suggesting we let them riddle us with backtalk and disobedience and tell them they are a marvel. I don't dismiss the seriousness of teaching them about morals, about sin and its consequences. These are critical obligations of parenting.
For me, I'm striving to listen with a great expansive heart that will let me see and sense where their own heart is and the yearning that tugs at them.  When my hearing and my heart work together, guided by the Holy Spirit. ...then I will be listening.  I will be wholly present and engaged, on the journey with them, as a guide, rather than working the toll booth they must pass through, making sure they stay on the prescribed road paying the predetermined dues.  I once believed I was united, heart and ear, to my kids.  I know I have been at times, but I want it to be 'my way' always.  Before Phoebe died, I would have said my rudder was prudence, but it was fear.  I would have said my sail was faith, but it was prescriptives.  Let my rudder be compassion, and let my sail fill with the witness of their adventure, their climb, a difficult, treacherous one, into adulthood.  I want my kids to know they can come to me when they've taken a wrong turn, found themselves in trouble. Too many kids live in response to the check mark seeing no wiggle room for mistakes, setbacks, wrong turns  "Oh, I would never tell my mother that, she'd disown me."  Really.  How do any of us get there?  In some way Phoebe believed I'd disown her because she was found with pot in her backpack.  Never would I have thought I'd conveyed that to her. that she would be rejected by that poor, but all too common, choice.  But I look back and see I'd lost my way too.  For years I'd communicated with sternness, fear for my children's souls, fear they'd displease God.  I'd listened to  wrong voices.  I emulated faulty reasoning rooted in fear, not love and trust in God.
I pray to give thanks for the front row seating I have as my children navigate and explore their way to adulthood, sometimes using the map they've been given, and sometimes not.  I pray they don't look like the cookie cutter kids our prescriptive culture adores, but rather people with real interests, real desires, real curiosity and a high sense of adventure not limited by a neatly etched template we expect them to abide. I pray I may take in the gift of their robust lives with both ears, a full, grateful heart and the assurance that God sees them, loves them and protects them with all His angels and saints.
Let my passion to listen be greater than my passion to be heard.  Let my children know they have a voice, a beautiful melody that sings their own genuine song.  And let them know their mother hears them with a full heart and great joy in the gift of who they are.

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