The Walking Stick Journal

Stepping Stones of Transformation

A Unfolding Manuscript

by 

C.D. Baker

Chapter Three: Learning to Listen

 “Behold, their ears are closed and they cannot listen,” says Jeremiah. “He who has ears, let him hear,” says Jesus. 

But listening is not easy. Life is a blur. Chaotic thoughts hold us captive. Time threatens and so we dare not pause. Listening is often costly; it is inconvenient and distracting and even humbling. The silence it requires can be terrifying. 

In spite of all of that, choosing to listen will bless us, especially when we are wounded or confused or overwhelmed. When we listen with discerning ears, we feel the Spirit nudge us with many kinds of voices poised to bless us from without AND from within. Through them we experience truth and are coaxed toward wisdom. 

***

August – September, 2018

I decided to pray that Dr. Bill will hear what he needs to hear and say what he needs to say; that I will hear what I need to hear and say what I need to say. It’s a prayer that I think I’ll stick with from here on. I have no idea about his spirituality but he’s been respectful of my Christianity. I may tell him about this prayer someday.

These last sessions have been a collection of random feelings and memories just busting to be heard. Bill thinks a lot of this is trauma. Seems like too big a word. He says they’re all connected.

Along the way, Bill posed an interesting question. “Do you know what the antidote to fear is?”

I wait, leaning forward. 

“Comfort.”

I didn’t expect that. 

“We are all born anxious. Watch an infant’s eyes searching for her mother. If she can’t find her mother’s face, she begins to cry, even scream. And what happens when mom picks her up?”

“She stops crying.”

This seems important so I write it down: Comfort is the antidote to fear. I sit with that for a long moment. It strikes me that the Holy Spirit was sent as our Comforter.

Something inside then prompted me to blab something seemingly unrelated. I tell him about my obsession with being sacrificial. “You know, I hired an excavator to work on my Virginia mountain getaway. He always talked about how much he loves his grandmother, Pearl. Anyway, I found out she died. I decided I would have driven those six hours to her funeral just to let him know I cared. 

But if I’m honest that sounds off. He really isn’t a friend, exactly…I just had this impulse to…”

Bill looks at me carefully. “What do you feel inside when you wonder why you would have done that?”

I don’t exactly get what he means about ‘feeling inside.’ “I guess I thought it would be a good thing to do…”

“Yes, it would. But six hours? For someone you don’t really know? Again, tell me what you feel about that sacrifice. Is something inside looking for something?”

Bill holds the silence as I struggle to hear an answer from somewhere. This is not easy.

Mercifully, he then speaks. “Is it possible you wish someone would care enough for you to do something like that?”

I suddenly feel my inside resonate. I know in my head that many would, but his question touched something deeper. I’m uncomfortable.

Bill leans forward. “Sometimes love and sacrifice are connected. Sometimes they seek each other. In the end, however, love is the ultimate comfort we all seek.” 

This love talk is suddenly discomforting. “Well, I think I’m happiest when I’m hanging on a cross.” I chuckle, awkwardly.

Bill doesn’t smile. “You’re not happy there. It just feels familiar to you and that familiarity helps you feel safe.”

I remain still. I don’t say it, but I think maybe I’d rather feel safe than loved. 

“You might ask yourself how familiar love is.” Bill pauses but I don’t respond. He then says, “Remember this: unfamiliarity is the path to growth. Dare to go through it. Hope is on the other side.”

Go through? I was hoping to go around the anxiety and sadness. 

I shift the conversation to a weird dream/vision I had of my old friend Tim (the one who died from the terrible It). “I could see his face close to mine as I was waking up on my birthday just last week. He was smiling and at peace.” I then realized something. “Seeing Tim like that was a… comfort. I loved that guy.”

“A gift from God to you.” Bill smiles. “God loves you.”

I’m surprised he brought God up but being told that God loves me touched nothing. We sit together quietly. 

Another random memory rises like it wants to be heard. “When I was seven or eight, I crossed a field to go to a revival meeting at the church behind our house.” As I’m talking I can smell the musty sanctuary. “The preacher had me so scared of God’s anger and of Hell that I raised my hand three times to beg Jesus into my heart. Still gives me a chill.” 

Bill seems stunned. “You were seven or eight? …And you went alone?”

I nod.

He releases a concerned breath. “This event is an important marker in so many ways…I suspect it has locked some very unhealthy fears into deep places.”

My lips feel dry. My little-boy-self certainly didn’t feel God’s love in that church. A jumble of strong feelings climb through me, none of them comforting but all of them desperate to be heard. I try to speak.

Bill waits, listening.