When Othel and I brought each of our two infants home from the maternity ward, we got all kinds of advice from family and friends. One piece that I heard more than once was where we should let the newborns sleep. That advice to put them in an adjacent room so I could get a more restful sleep never made it past my “mama bear” gene. 

Those were the days before the hi-tech sound equipment that monitored sound from rooms throughout the home, so that certainly wasn’t an option. Even if it had been, I’m certain I never would have trusted any kind of device to listen for my babies. I wanted them close so I could hear the slightest sound. 

That choice meant some sleep deprivation, but I can’t recall any of those nights or have any regrets that I lost needed sleep. I might not have known the correct angle for burping a new-born or when and how much that infant needed bathing, but I never needed or asked for advice on where they needed to sleep. I wanted them close so I could hear them if they made any sounds.

This week my favorite veteran and I attended a Brandon city recognition of hometown veter-ans. The enormous room was a patriotic overflow of veterans and their families. There were military songs, videos and speakers that kept the attention of the majority of the audience, but I noticed that the door prize drawings won out as the greatest crowd silencer. As the numbers were called, every ticket holder sat in total silence — listening with hope for their number to be called.

In the stillness, I thought about how the potential of winning a prize could capture an entire audience’s attention. Anyone in that room could have agreed with me that there are times we can all “listen well.”

What’s the unique key that unlocks this hearing mystery? It has to be love. For myself, I’ve learned that the key to my motherly hearing is love. Love for my own wanted me to stay as close as possible to hear them. I suppose, if honest, the attentiveness for my listening for my number at the door prize drawing was love — in this case, love of self.

Recently, I was assured by one of my favorite authors that God is always speaking to us — not only through a preacher’s message, or instances like a breathtaking sunset, a surprise bouquet of flowers, or a note from a friend. Our Father is speaking — audibly in whispers that we don’t always hear. I confess that I don’t always listen well, according to that truth of His continual speaking. 

If I’m honest and think back to the times I listen best, I know it’s when love is my greatest motivator. Conviction then presses me to confess that I don’t love Him as I should. How amazing that He loves me — even then.

Letters to Camille Anding may be sent to P.O. Box 551, Brookhaven, MS 39602.