“I read an interesting article today. It was about how our society now has an average attention span smaller than a goldfish’s.”
“Interesting…?”
“Hello? You didn’t hear me, did you? You’re still not hearing me. Mm-kay, I’m going to go switch out the laundry.”
I’ve had such conversations out loud or in my head repeatedly since having children. Different words, different stories, same format. The empty spaces aren’t actually void. They’re full of baby laughs and “peek-a-boo” and singsong voices that are echoed by tiny coos. They’re priceless and important—ones I’m happy to make room for. There’s a joy in watching our children that is unlike any other experience we will have in life.
The challenge comes when those seemingly empty spaces add up over time. The moments when I’m asked a question and while answering I realize there’s minuscule focus from the recipient whose quick “Uh-huh…” or “Oh wow!” responses quietly speak to their lack of attention. They aren’t careless, because I know that the person asking truly loves me and has a desire to know about my world. However, I’m fully aware that the focal point is my sweet babe who is babbling nonstop while sticking his tongue out and pointing up at our visitor.
These are the moments that creep up and whisper to my heart that I am no longer heard. When I’m standing there and speaking (and speaking again,louder in case it was a volume issue) but my words turn to oxygen the minute they leave my mouth. They’re taken in by the recipient but quickly released before processing. I’m like the wind—present, but invisible.
When this happens, my first inclination is to turn inward and make it about myself. It’s hard to not make it personal. I feel like I’m a store window that allows people to look in on a new product display. I’m useful and necessary in the space but otherwise see-through. If left to its own, this feeling grows and convinces me I’m isolated and alone. Some days after all the diaper changes, block-stacking, tear-wiping, lullaby renditions, and repeating myself for the thousandth time to my own children, I crave intentional time with adults. I love my boys and love how others adore them too, but some days I feel immeasurably unheard.
As easy as it is to believe that we are alone in those moments, the hope and truth that the Lord promises is that we are never alone. We are told over and over again in the Old Testament that God will never leave us or forsake us (Deut. 31:6, 31:8; Josh. 1:5; 1 Kgs. 8:57; Is. 41:17, 42:16). It’s no coincidence that God repeated these words so many times to his people. As often as we forget his presence in our lives, he reminds us that we are not forgotten. Moreover, that we are heard. The Father cares for the entirety of his creation down to the tiniest of sparrows (Matt. 6:26), and his love for us goes so much further than tiny birds. David reflected on this intimate care in Psalm 139 where he declared, “O Lord, you have searched me and known me! You know when I sit down and when I rise up.”
He sees us. He hears us.
In the late hours when we are rocking babies, in the early morning when we are praying for energy, in the rooms of our home echoing with the fourth-time-repeated instruction to please put on your shoes, in the moments we long for human connection beyond giving details of the events of our little people’s days, he hears us and is with us.
The story of Christmas, the incarnation, is a cosmic demonstration of God’s seeing and hearing. God saw his people’s need for a Savior, he heard their cries for help, and he provided a Redeemer at great cost to himself. He sent his only Son as a baby to grow up to be a man who would die for the sins of the world. Your Savior knows by experience what it is to be ignored, disregarded, misunderstood, and lonely. He is near in your moments of feeling the same. Not only can you draw assurance from Christ’s life and death that you are seen, but you can have every confidence that you are heard because of his resurrection. Hebrews tells us that he is seated at the right hand of the Father interceding for us (4:14–16, 7:25). And when Christ ascended into heaven, he left his followers with the gift of the Holy Spirit, by whom we are able to cry, “Abba Father,” praying in the same way Jesus prayed because he has given us the right to become sons of God (Rom. 8:15–17). His death and resurrection won you the right to have fellowship with the Father.
In the moments when you’re in some sort of sound-proof invisible bubble, remember. Remember the hope you have in Christ that you are seen and heard. Let your loneliness be a catalyst to embrace the gift Christ has given you in prayer and fellowship with God. Lord, you see. Lord, you know. Lord, you hear. Lord, you’re listening. Merry Christmas, mama. Enjoy the certain hope of being seen and heard by the Divine Listener this season.
QUESTIONS FOR REFLECTION/ APPLICATION:
In what circumstances do you feel unheard or unseen? How do you typically respond to those feelings?
How does the Gospel assure you that you are seen and heard by God? How does communion with God in Christ by his Spirit offer you hope, comfort, and fulfillment?
How can you cry out to God in prayer today, knowing he hears you?
Kriste Janczyk has a passion for finding unique ways to glorify God by imaging his role as Creator. While she enjoys her freelance work as a photographer, writer and illustrator, her favorite job titles are Mama to Gray and Indiana and wife to David. Kriste’s creative work has been featured in The Knot, Deeply Rooted Magazine, Cottages and Bungalows, Madewell, Trouve Magazine, Artful Blogging and HGTV.com. Kriste believes that God can be glorified in every moment of life including how you decorate your home and how you clothe yourself. You can follow her creative journey at www.rosemary-and-thyme.comand on Instagram@rosemary.and.thyme.