My children don’t whisper. Not ever. My son has two settings, loud and off. This makes events like church services quite a struggle. (thank the Lord we belong to a charismatic, child friendly church where there are plenty of loud points in the service to mask his outbursts). My daughter doesn’t really whisper either but she will put her mouth to my ear and produce this hissing noise that making my skin crawl and sends dribbles of spittle down my neck. More like a talking snake with too much saliva than a whisper.
I try to whisper to them rather than yell, but they don’t seem to hear my lower tones. When they are close to me, I really try to look in their eyes and lower my voice, making sure I really have their attention. But when I’m cleaning the upstairs bathroom or in the kitchen making dinner and I hear the scuffles and screams coming from the living room nothing can replace that holler of
“What is going on down there? Whatever you are doing, stop it!”
Into this world of noise and chaos I try to remember to listen for my Father’s voice. He tends to whisper which I appreciate but sometimes I want to tell him to speak up. I strain my soul to hear his heart. Somehow I must connect with him. In the early hours, just before bed or during the in-betweens of the day I try to set aside my own agenda and just listen. My own thoughts crowd in and before I know it I’m off on another project or called into the fray of triage parenting. But I can’t stop trying. I may feel like I’m fighting a losing battle, but I will wage on because I know the quest is half the point. To wrestle like Jacob, argue like Moses and eventually hear the still small voice like Elijah.
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