Learning to Listen

I am not the best listener. Really, I‘m not. Oh, in certain circumstances I’ve been better at it than others. Like when I was a youth leader. I loved listening to teenagers. They have fresh ideas, and even though some are kind-of unfiltered or naive,  they are alive, moving, always exploring. Not like some people my age, who get fixated on one way of thinking and then they are unmovable.

Anyway, I’ve been thinking about my listening skills a lot lately, mostly because I have so much to say. Sentences and thoughts and ideas are constantly swirling around in my brain. Ideaphoria times 10. And this environment of quarantine is bondage for an extrovert like me.  I need to express myself face-to-face, and I need people to listen.

That hardly seems fair since I am not a very good listener myself. It hardly seems fair to ask or expect of others what I’m not willing to give. Yet isn’t that part of the human condition? To expect of others what we aren’t willing to give ourselves? But I digress.

“Wait, hear me out.” That’s a constant refrain to my husband, Wayne. “Just let me finish telling you...” Then there’s this long monologue of thoughts that come pouring out of me, one after another, a spilling of everything that’s been swirling around in my brain. And Wayne (who is a better human than I am) just listens. Because when Wayne has an idea, he doesn’t have to spout it out. He chews on it. Digests it. Chews on it again. And then he just says it. Quietly. Calmly.

One time my son Matt  and I were riding in the car with Wayne to visit my mother-in-law and bring her dinner. It was about 30 minutes away. Wayne drove the car while Matt and I talked about everything under the sun, from six different angles. Apparently (who knew?), during the ride, Wayne suggested five or six times that we stop at Kroger to get stuff  to make black bean burritos. When we were almost to her house, Wayne stopped at a Kroger. Matt and I were still gabbing. We all got out, and both Matt and I asked “So, why are we stopping here?  What are we gonna to have for dinner?” We were both oblivious to Wayne’s suggestions, even though he had repeated himself multiple times. Verification that listening isn’t my strong suit. 

I come by it honestly. This non-listening self. This “wait a minute, let-me-just-get one-more-word-in” Heidi. I’m the youngest of three and I remember sitting at the dinner table when I was six or seven. My schizophrenic mom was invariably telling her delusions in a stream of disjointed thoughts, hoping someone at the table would take them seriously. She talked about the Russian spies she had seen at the grocery store; how she worried that someone had taken me at school and replaced me with an imposter; how burglars had broken into our house and changed our photographs. “You were wearing a blue shirt in this picture, Heidi, and now it’s red. Don’t you remember? Who is doing this?”

Meanwhile, I just wanted to talk about the gross hot dogs at school. The ones that dyed the hot dog buns red. I wanted to tell how Beth Williams had a crush on Ben Walker and how my teacher was the mother of the Channel 2 TV anchor. But I couldn’t, because Mom was talking and Dad was saying, “Now calm down, Helga...”

I learned to interrupt in order to get heard. To break in and try to say something normal. Everyone else was just listening to Mom’s delusions and I wanted it to stop. To share a piece of my day.  Looking back, I think with every interruption, I was saying, “Hey, look at me. I’m here. Sitting with you at this table. I’m a person. Does anyone see me in this chaotic place? Does anyone know that I’m here?”

Listening to me became a love language. You listen to me. You see me. You listen to me. You love me. It was as simple as that. 

You’d think if listening was that important to me, then I’d naturally draw the conclusion that it was also important to others. But for years, and even now sometimes, I catch myself interrupting without even realizing it. Maybe out of pure habit. Maybe somewhere deep down I remember that kitchen table where I had to fight to be heard.  

Sometimes I’m just filling up space with my words. One time after riding in a van with the rest of the family for over 8 hours, my son-in-law, Caryl, said to  me politely, “Heidi,  can I tell you something?” “Sure, Caryl.” He bowed his head slightly as if he was a little nervous.  A long pause then...  “Sometimes you talk just to talk.” 

I burst out laughing, because even though it stung a bit, it was absolutely true. From Bolivia, where political correctness is not yet a thing, Caryl is absolutely honest and straight forward about everything.  I can trust him to speak his mind. (Truth is, I need someone like that in my life; it’s such a joy to know if I ask Caryl to give it to me straight, he will.)

The book of James says “My dear brothers and sisters, take note of this: Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry, because human anger does not produce the righteousness that God desires.”(1:19-20 NIV) 

 Quick to listen?  But James, my brother, nothing about listening is quick. To really listen is to pay attention to the words of a person, to the heart behind their words, to every word spoken as if each has the same weight. To really listen is to pay attention in such a way that I could repeat the ideas back to the person to make sure I understood  them correctly. To reassure them that they’ve been heard. To really listen is to hear the person and their opinions without critiquing their ideas in my mind  (sometimes even while they are still speaking). To really listen is to silence the impulse to correct or add my own two cents so immediately. 

But it’s easier not to listen. Because sometimes I think my own words are smarter, funnier, more interesting, or more valid. Because I think, for some reason, that I am the carrier of truth, or knowledge, or inspiration. How absurd is that?

Does listening well mean I can never have an opinion myself? That I’m a milk-toasty empty shell that is just led by the opinions of others? No, James is saying be slow to speak. He is saying I should not love my own thoughts and ideas so much that I forget to love people. I need to learn to be silent and listen. And when I do express my opinion, I need to do so humbly, knowing I could be wrong and respecting someone else’s right to hold a completely different view.  

In his book Reaching Out, Henri Noewen writes about what it means to be a host and create a home-like environment where people have true freedom to be themselves. He says a host, full of hospitality, creates “a free space” where people can discover the kindness and compassion of the Lord because they are free to just be. Because as a host, you’ve set aside your own agenda. You’ve made your agenda one thing - to love like Jesus loves. 

Nouwen says “Someone who is filled with ideas, concepts, opinions and convictions cannot be a good host.” That line was a punch in my gut. Ouch. 

When I think back to one of the hardest challenges of my life, it was listening to others that saved me from despair. When I lost my vision, I went to rehab to learn how to use software which blows up my screen so I can still read and write.   I met Maggie, Derrick, Julie, Keith and Casey. I met so many other blind and visually-impaired people who, like me, were feeling useless and working through their grief over losing sight.  Many also had the additional challenge of providing basic needs for themselves, their rent and groceries. They had the challenge of getting a job without sight in a world that doesn’t value people who aren’t “whole.”

As I told my vision loss story, I cried and they listened.

Then I heard their stories. How Maggie had been blind since 3 and was bullied at school. How Casey had a genetic disease which was taking not only his sight, but also his hearing. How Keith thought he had no purpose or value without vision. Now Maggie taught Braille, made beautiful pottery, and laughed the most beautiful contagious laugh. Keith learned self-confidence, sat with me for long conversations and laughs. All of us learned from each other. We found a home in listening to each other.  We became friends - real friends.

And because of their listening to me, several things happened: 

I realized that my grief was valid.  Casey, a fellow believer, told me how he had struggled with what healing meant to God. This was a great gift to me. To have  someone who let me love God and question him at the same time. 

I realized I was not alone. So many people were suffering with my same eye disease and some were suffering with much worse.  

I  realized my life wasn’t over.

But most importantly,  I got tired of hearing my own voice.  Because the stories of others were changing me. They were planting truths deep in my heart and soul that I had only known in my head. The truth that God sits with the suffering and so should we. The truth that sometimes the image of God is revealed most profoundly in “the least of these.”

Every day when I meet someone, I could be meeting someone who has a suffering story to tell. I might be meeting someone who has a deep need to be heard. A deep need for the noise of the world to be stilled just long enough for someone to pay attention and listen.

And if I don’t pay attention, a beautiful chance to be changed by the stories of others might pass me by. What a loss. A loss much bigger than the loss of my vision.

Think of it. I might be meeting someone who was once a seven-year-old at the dining room table, saying “Hey, look at me. I’m here. Sitting right next to you at the table. Standing in line beside you at Kroger.  Walking in front of you at the park.  I’m a person. Does anyone see me in this chaotic world ? Does anyone know that I’m here?”

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