Go Mommy Blogger and The Better Mom Devotional, day 2; Loving By Listening

Refuge.
To our children, we as mothers are often their refuge.
Their safe place. 

As mothers, we need to go somewhere to be safe as well.
Somewhere to fill up.
Be seen and heard.
To rest.

Psalm 31:2 reminds us that God is our refuge.
He is our safe place, our rescuer, savior, and ...listener?

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Loving By Listening

In her devotional, The Better Mom; Shaping Our Hearts As We Shape Our Homes,
Ruth Schwenk writes,
"Hearing is something we can't help. Hearing just happens.
But listening is different.
We have to choose to listen. 
We choose to stop what we are doing.
We choose to put away anything that might be a distraction.
We choose to look into our child's eyes.
We choose to sit down and ask more questions, choose to truly understand our children's hearts."
(emphasis mine)

To this, Ruth encourages us stating,
"This is, after all, how God is with us. He not only hears us, 
but He listens to us."

How Well Are You Listening To Your Children?, source

Psalm 31:3 reads: Turn your ear to me, come quickly to my rescue; be my rock of refuge, a strong fortress to save me. (emphasis mine)

There it is: God, our listener. 

Sometimes I tune out the constant cries of "mom".
I simply don't even hear it.

When my mother-in-love visits, or Big Strong Man is home for a longer period of time, they notice it- like fingers on a chalkboard.
"Do you not hear the incessant number of times the boys call out to you?", they ask me, with part confusion and part unbelief.
And sometimes the truth is, "No, I don't."

But other times I am mindful of it.
Like when I am trying to talk on the phone or read a book; when I am washing dishes or using the bathroom. When I am trying to get them out the door before their school bus comes or insisting that they lie down in bed as I finish their prayer and tuck-in time.
There they are, my sons, with things to say to me Right.That.Instant.

And when I am on my A-game, I stop.
I listen.
I walk the distance of three rooms, from sink to black couch, and I see Thatcher's latest creation: a scribble of something on a paper. And he beams with delight as he shows this to me, be it his first or 21st scribble of the day.

Likewise with Demitri telling and retelling, naming and renaming, arranging and rearranging all of his stuffed animals. He will be such a loving father with all the attention and personalized love he lavishes over them and to bear witness of this cost me only the need to put down my book and go to him.

And My firstborn, Zeplin. He can make any 2-minute story into a lengthy mini-documentary. If we are lucky, he will tell and retell the same parts over and over again, each time with a little more exaggeration and pizzazz! There are times he is still telling his story and I am the one in his bed, eyes closed for the sheer weight of them both.

But is is hard to want to stop, see, and listen over and over again.
To give undivided attention or even some form of attention, when I am distracted, tired, or just wanting to finish something.

And hear this, there are plenty of times when I let my love-bugs know that they simply will have to wait. They must wait until the sink is clean, until I have finished using the restroom with the door closed, or until I get to the end of my chapter.

But when I can, I try to be present and listen.

It is hard to truly listen.
To hear them out before turning back to whatever project fights for my attention.

Ruth ends with this: [A prayer] Help me love them by bending my ear toward them.

So that our listening ears can be a refuge for our most beloved. 
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