I’m sitting out on the small porch of the cabin we have rented at Pine Mountain in Kentucky, drinking the last of my coffee and writing in my journal.  It’s peaceful and quiet but yet it’s not.  There’s a chipmunk making a racket around the corner and then it scurries along the edge of the porch out into the yard.  Nuts are falling out of a tree nearby and if I listen closely I can even hear the leaves coming down too.  The wind is soft but it’s helping them add to the layer already accumulating on the forest floor.  Autumn is well on its way in Appalachia and the birds are singing their last hurrah before their southward journey. Ah, the beauty of sound.

I envy those who know the bird calls and can call back in return.  It’s like learning another language and I’ve never been good at that.  Once I was on a bird hike at Pokagon State Park with an expert, Bud Starling, who at the time wrote for the Indianapolis Star. He pointed out a group of crows who were being noisy and commented that they were probably harassing a sleeping owl that had preyed on one of their young.  As I’m thinking, “How could you know this,” as if on cue, the owl appeared in broad daylight with the crows pursuing it.  What a sight!  I could not deny, the man knew the bird’s language.

Listening and really hearing is a lost art. I miss so much most of the time by hurrying too fast or filling up my days with too much.  I don’t pause to notice the beauty of sounds.  Not just music but the roar of the ocean, the gentle patter of rain on the roof at night, or the purr of a cat.  I dreamed last night that I needed to communicate with someone who could not hear but I didn’t know sign language.  I remember feeling like I should know this but didn’t.  During the Women of Faith event this summer, the women doing sign language were standing just below where our group was seated.  They were so expressive as they signed for the hearing impaired women there.  I found myself captivated watching them.  There was beauty in each motion as they poured themselves into their task.  Their grace-filled signs were no substitute however for the magnificent sounds the rest of us were able to hear that day.

That experience reinforced in me the need to appreciate the gift of hearing and to learn patience with those who are impaired in this way.  Both of my parents are having more and more trouble with their hearing as they get older and I find myself becoming frustrated with them.  In reality, I am sure they are more frustrated than I am. They miss so many of the sounds out of their range, it is difficult for them to communicate sometimes.  Given my family history, I very well may be in the same situation they are in a few years.    I need to put myself in their shoes to appreciate their need for my understanding.

Yes, I am thankful that my physical capability to hear is not impaired presently. But I find that I still miss many important sounds because I simply don’t listen.  Perhaps there is just too much background noise in my world so I am not tuned into the sounds I really need to hear.  I have external ears to hear the things of the outer world but I also have internal ears to hear the things of the spiritual world.  I find myself not fully using either. Perception and intuition are the ears of the heart. It’s often not what a person says but how they say it that tells their whole story. These are the heart sounds that are often overlooked, the true meaning behind the words hidden to most.  I pray that God will open my ears so I can hear all that He has for me to hear but especially these sounds of the heart.  I must take the time to truly listen for them.