Learn to Listen
(Author Unknown)
Midnight phone calls stir a mother's heart. We all know what it's like to get that
phone call in the middle of the night. This night was no different. Jerking up to the
ringing summons, I focused on the red, illuminated numbers of my clock.
Midnight. Panicky thoughts filled my sleep-dazed mind as I grabbed the receiver.
"Hello?" My heart pounded, I gripped the phone tighter and eyed my husband, who
was now turning to face my side of the bed.
"Mama?" The voice answered. I could hardly hear the whisper over the static.
But my thoughts immediately went to my daughter. When the desperate sound of a young
crying voice became clear on the line, I grabbed for my husband and squeezed his wrist.
"Mama, I know it's late. But don't . . . don't say anything until I finish. And
before you ask, yes I've been drinking. I nearly ran off the road a few miles back and . .
."
I drew in a sharp, shallow breath, released my husband and pressed my hand against my
forehead. Sleep still fogged my mind, and I attempted to fight back the panic. Something
wasn't right.
"I got so scared. All I could think of was how it would hurt you if a policeman
came to your door and said I'd been killed. I want . . . to come home. I know running away
was wrong. I know you've been worried sick. I should have called you days ago but I was
afraid . . . afraid . . ."
Staying on the line, sobs of deep-felt emotion flowed from the receiver and poured
into my heart. Immediately I pictured my daughter's face in my mind, and my fogged senses
seemed to clear, "I think ---"
"No! Please let me finish! Please!" she pleaded, not so much in anger, but
in desperation. I paused and tried to think what to say. Before I could go on, she
continued. "I'm pregnant, Mama. I know I shouldn't be drinking now, especially now,
but I'm scared, Mama. So scared!" The voice broke again, and I bit into my lip,
feeling my own eyes fill with moisture.
I looked up at my husband, who sat silently mouthing, "Who is it?" I shook
my head and when I didn't answer, he jumped up and left the room, returning seconds later
with a portable phone held to his ear. She must have hear the click in the line because
she asked, "Are you still there? Please don't hang up on me! I need you. I feel so
alone." I clutched the phone and stared at my husband, seeking guidance. "I'm
here, I wouldn't hang up," I said.
"I should have told you, Mama. I know I should have told you. But, when we talk,
you just keep telling me what I should do. You read all those pamphlets on how to talk
about sex and all, but all you do is talk. You don't listen to me. You never let me tell
you how I feel. It is as if my feelings aren't important. Because you're my mother you
think you have all the answers. But sometimes I don't need answers. I just want someone to
listen."
I swallowed the lump in my throat and stared at the how-to-talk-to-your-kids pamphlets
scattered on my night stand. "I'm listening," I whispered.
"You know, back there on the road after I got the car under control, I started
thinking about the baby and taking care of it. Then I saw this phone booth and it was as
if I could hear you preaching to me about how people shouldn't drink and drive. So I
called a taxi. I want to come home."
"That's good honey," I said, relief filling my chest. My husband came
closer, sat down beside me and laced his fingers through mine.
"But you know, I think I can drive now."
"No!" I snapped. My muscles stiffened and I tightened the clasp on my
husbands hand. "Please, wait for the taxi. Don't hang up on me until the taxi gets
there."
"I just want to come home, Mama."
"I know. But do this for your Mama. Wait for the taxi, please." Learning to
listen: I listened to the silence . . . fearing. When I didn't hear her answer, I bit into
my lip and closed my eyes. Somehow I had to stop her from driving.
"There's the taxi, now." Only when I heard someone in the background asking
about a Yellow Cab did I feel my tension easing. "I'm coming home, Mama." There
was a click, and the phone went silent.
Moving from the bed, tears forming in my eyes, I walked out into the hall and went to
stand in my 16-year-old daughter's room. My husband came from behind, wrapped his arms
around me and rested his chin on the top of my head. I wiped the tears from my cheeks.
"We have to learn to listen," I said to him.
He studied me for a second, then asked, "Do you think she'll ever know she dialed
the wrong number?" I looked at our sleeping daughter, then back at him. "Maybe
it wasn't such a wrong number."
"Mom, Dad, what are you doing?" The muffled voice came from under the
covers. I walked over to my daughter, who now sat up staring into the darkness.
"We're practicing," I answered.
"Practicing what?" she mumbled and laid back on the mattress, but her eyes
already closed in slumber.
"Listening," I whispered and brushed a hand over her cheek.
"Jesus said, 'Let the little children
come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as
these.'" Matthew 19:14 (NIV)
"But God demonstrates his own love for us in
this:
While we were still sinners, Christ died for
us."
Romans 5:8 (NIV)
Sin breaks God's laws as well as His heart.
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