Listen

What’s your best move?

This was the question I posed to my crew of three-year-olds in Sunday school a few weeks ago.  We were introducing a lesson on the best news ever—Christmas—and to get their attention, the curriculum suggested we have the preschoolers act out their “best move” in front of their peers.  Best dance move, best ninja move, whatever.

 “Mooooo!”  An impish student quickly responded.

“What?”

“Mooooo!”  He answered, and I quickly understood.  He was a cow.  He thought I’d said “best mooo.”  Oh.

“No, not moo.”  I replied.  “Your best move.  Move.  Like your best dance move, or, like, in soccer, or basketball, you know, your best move.”

But by then it was too late.  They’d been spooked.

“My grandpa has cows at his house.”

“I rode a horse once.”

“Moooo!’

“Can I do my best ‘Mooo?’”

“We eat cows!”

“MOOOO!”

“Chocolate milk comes from cows.”

I’d been trained to teach adolescents, not three-year-olds, so we skipped that part of the curriculum.  We moved on.  No more moves.  Time to color angels.

Now, fast forward to this past week, when many area students took their final exams.  The following is a paraphrased example of a conversation between me and a room full of freshmen taking these high stakes tests for the first time.

“OK, so go ahead and put your name on the top of these tests, followed by the class period, followed by today’s date, which is Dec. 19^th.”

“Do you want us to put the date on it, too?”
“Yeah, if you would.  Go ahead and put today’s date on the top next to your name.”

“What’s today’s date?”

“Today’s date is December 19^th, 2014.”

“But I thought it was the 20^th.”

“Nope.  The 20^th is tomorrow.”

“Isn’t tomorrow the first day of winter?”

“That would be Monday.”

Pause.  “Do you want us to put our class period on it, too?”

“That would be cool.  Next to your name, maybe?”

“Where at?”

“Right there at the top of the paper, where it says ‘Class Period.’”

“What’s today date?”

And so forth.  Also, just so it doesn’t seem like I’m picking on people younger than me for not listening, keep in mind you are reading a column written by a guy who once accidently deleted an entire semester’s worth of college work because I honestly didn’t understand the concept of trashcan icons, mostly because I honestly did not pay attention in a class entitled “Introduction to University.”  Don’t judge.  It was 1997 and I was working in a crowded sweat-house of a room called a “computer lab.”

But I digress.  Continuing, I often refer to these breakdowns in communication as “disconnects.”   As a former student myself who spent years studying the nuances of the English language, I often use the word “disconnect” because it’s so neutral.  It’s so inoffensive and beige.  For example, if I make the following statement to a parent or a colleague, “Hey, there seems to be a real disconnect between my instructional goals and young Jojo’s performance in class,” what I often really mean is, “Jojo isn’t listening.”

            It seems our world is full of “disconnect.”  Despite the plethora of gadgets available to help us communicate, one wonders how much authentic communication is really taking place.  We often spend so much effort trying to be understood, we hardly have the energy left to understand.

Which is unfortunate, too, because listening is a pretty big part of communicating.  Based on my experience, I would argue it’s the most important part, because occasionally people will ask, “Where do you get your ideas?”

And the simplest answer is, “From life.”  From listening.  Those of you who know me know I am not a big talker.  I’m not noisy.  In fact, I once had a rather astute supervisor who planned on releasing me to purse alternative professional options because he assumed, because I was so quiet, that I must also be fairly stupid. 

A few months later he himself was released.  I stayed put.

Regardless, the few positive marks I’ve left in this world—as a parent, an educator, a writer, a husband—are primarily by the grace of God, and secondly due to my willingness to listen.  I can write an occasionally readable column because I’ve simply been willing to just shut up and take notes.

 In contrast, the numerous times I’ve stumbled can generally be traced back to not paying enough attention to the details in front of me.  Such as most of the 1990s.

In closing, many of us will actually celebrate listening this holiday season.  We will celebrate a God who listened to a dying world in desperate need.   We will celebrate a God who listened to a crying people, and who sent into this world a wonderful counselor to save us from ourselves. 

Good things often happen when we listen.

Perhaps we should make it our “best move” this New Year to pause awhile and hardly make a move at all.  Just be.  Just listen.

If nothing else, it might help minimize our funny cow noises.