Children Will Listen

The year between summer of 1981 and summer of 1982 was packed with exciting events. I turned 7, I joined Boy's Brigade (a program aiming to train boys physically and spiritually), I began soloing more in public (with success), I excelled in academics (completed both second and third grades in one year), and I grew more resolute in my decision to follow God's lead.

Upon returning from our annual summer trip to La Pointe in 1982, I remember dreading the long days of summer and wishing for something to fill my days.

"Careful the things you say,

Children will listen."

It was then that I turned to an "activity" that kept me occupied for a long time -- it was listening. I do not mean the mere act of hearing words, overhearing comments, or even the despised act of eavesdropping. No, I mean, I truly listened. I wanted to listen. Listening became my hobby.


I listened to what people said.
I filed their words into my brain.
I listened to what their faces conveyed.
I read between the lines and made the subtext plain.
I listened intently and endeavored to remember what I heard.

My siblings, growing aware of that skill, began asking me to replay conversations or events that were interesting to them. On many occasions, after a church service, one of my siblings would pretend that I was a tape player and would jokingly press an index finger on me, prompting me to repeat the service blow by blow.

Fine and humorous though it was, that listening skill sometimes felt like a curse. It became so important to me to "listen and remember" that I often forgot to simply be a child. I had to be "on" all the time because I never quite knew when I would need to "perform" or "display" my uncanny ability.

There were also words and events that I did not care to remember. I tried to tune out the unwanted noise of bitter arguments, forget the sobbing of abused children, mute the cries of the battered women in my neighborhood, muffle the insults hurled at kids and women by the adult men in their lives, erase the cussing of teenaged boys, ignore the rumblings of empty stomachs, and pretend not hearing the footsteps of robbers in the night running at top speed for their lives.

Most of all, I did not care to remember the hurtful remarks that were uttered about me.

"I hate the way he talks."
"Look at the way he walks."
"He is such a Mama's boy!"
"I can't stand to look at him."

It was one thing to be bullied by children.
It was one thing to be ridiculed by youthful lips.
It was one thing to be mistreated by immature youths who knew no better.
But, it was quite another to listen to adults and truly absorb their patronizing or derisive comments.

"Careful the things you do,

Children will see and learn."

I remember that day like it was yesterday. It was towards the end of summer of 1982 that an adult male I admired decided to put together some soccer games for the boys in my neighborhood. At 7, I was still very much afraid of what other little boys thought of me. In general, I craved male approval and acceptance more than anything that I could imagine. So, naturally, I wanted to be a part of those games.

Well, soccer tryouts were a disaster as far as I was concerned. It turns out soccer wasn't as easy as I thought it was going to be. It was like someone forgot to hand me the manual on how to be a boy. It felt as though all those other boys had something I did not have. They seemed to have a corner on the truth of soccer playing and I was left hanging to dry. To be fair, the man who was organizing the event allowed much time for me to prove myself worthy. Unfortunately, I felt so inadequate in the company of those natural athletes that my embarrassing attempts went from bad to worse.

The organizer finally stopped me and said,

"I don't think you'll ever play soccer, little boy. Thanks for trying. Why don't you stick to singing, or poetry reading, or something along those lines? Soccer is for tough boys and you, well, you're so soft and gentle . . . you'd only get in the way or get hurt. You can hang around the field and cheer if you want but don't waste your time dreaming of ever being able to really play."

I swallowed hard.
I felt so humiliated, awkward, and dejected.
I promised myself that I would never play soccer again.
I did not know how to even leave the soccer field with such a massive failure weighing me down.


I wish I had not truly listened to the words I heard that day. I wish I had not accepted the blow of those remarks as though I had received the gospel. I wish I had not taken the time to memorize the patronizing tone, the belittling expressions on that man's face, and the pitiful looks from the other boys. I wish I had not believed those lies.

Unfortunately, I heard and listened.
I listened and I saw and I cared.
I cared and I learned.

I learned to believe the lies fed me by the world around me. I was like Eve who chose to trust the lies of the serpent in Eden. Though I cursed those lies in my heart, nursed them in my gut, and rehearsed them in my head, I did not choose to submit those lies to Christ who, alone, could reverse them.  I simply wished to die.

"Careful the wish you make,

Wishes are children.

Careful the path they take

Wishes come true."

What a foolish wish I had!

It actually happened.

I died.

I died emotionally.

I no longer cared to listen any more. 

I died because I listened to the cacophonous noise of inadequacy, worthlessness, and pity. I died because I stopped listening to truth. I died because I stopped seeing the beauty and perfection of God's creation. I died because I tuned out the voice of reason and redemption. 

I died because I stopped following but chose instead to err and wander aimlessly . . .

. . . until I went to VBS (Vacation Bible School) towards the end of that summer. It was there that I was jolted back into reality. It was there that Truth came and talked sense into me. It was there that I learned a little verse from what has since become one of my favorite scripture passages:

"Your Word is a lamp to my feet

and a light to my path."

Psalm 119:105, NIV

The VBS teacher helped me understand the importance of tuning out the naysayers of life and focusing first and foremost on being attuned to the Word of God. I was thankfully made aware of the invitation Jesus extends to His sheep, beckoning them to listen to His voice (John 10:27). I was reminded of Eli in the Old Testament teaching little Samuel to say,

"Speak, Lord, for Your servant is listening."

1 Samuel 3:9, NIV

I was revived.

I was strengthened by the truth.

I was made to hear and listen again; I resumed my listening to the voice of truth.

"He who has an ear,

let him hear what the Spirit says . . ."

Revelation 2:7, NIV

O Holy Spirit, take rest in me and dwell in my heart. Fill my ears with Your melodious truth at every turn on the road. Grant that I continually see the light of Your Word shining on my path so that I may follow You securely and serenely into eternity! Amen.