The lost art of listening.

I can feel the Lord talking to me.

A lot of times I make myself too busy to hear it.

Dishes and laundry and teaching a nine-year-old and car washes and grocery pick ups and gymnastics classes and homeschool co-ops and field trips and family time and hurt and love and pain and laughter.

And my fingers purposefully jammed in my ears.

I love God. I love what He has to tell me.

And sometimes I love the sound of my own voice better.

He’s gifted me so much.

The way my mother, by all accounts, should have died at least five times by now.

Once when she was younger and skidded under a moving truck on her bike but just dusted herself off and kept on biking (she was the original Ava) and here most recently during her reconstruction surgery after battling (and winning) against breast cancer.

A double mastectomy didn’t get her down.

Crohns doesn’t keep her down.

Having organs plucked from her insides doesn’t keep her down.

And if you ask her what keeps her so alive she’d never say her own will.

She’d say God’s.

So you’d think I’d live ear glued to the golden telephone listening and existing through every word spoken.

I won’t make the mistake of the Israelites. I won’t turn my back on God.

Ha.

Turning, sometimes, is the only move I know how to make.

Fortunately, God’s got that move covered, too.

So He’s always seeking my face.

My soul.

My heart.

He is always on the ready to call me back home.

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