Line upon Line

“Have ye never read, out of the mouth of babes . . . thou hast perfected praise?” (Matthew 21:16)

On the eve of July 4th, my four-year old grandson, Ryan, exclaimed with excitement that he was going to see the fireworks! Every year on the evening of July 3rd, Swansboro —the town across Bogue Sound from Emerald Isle—puts on amazing fireworks display, a day before the rest of the country celebrates. My son Jake, asked if I’d like to join him and his family at The Point to watch the show. That sounded like a marvelous idea!

As the light of day began to fade, we laid out the blanket across the sand and settled in for the event. I pulled my phone out of my back pocket to capture what was sure to be a fabulous array of lights bursting in mid-air at the twilight’s last gleaming. As we waited we began to see colorful lights in the far distant night, yet, could not hear the sound of fireworks. Suddenly, from just across the Sound, we saw a much closer burst of color light up in the night sky followed by a faint boom! The Swansboro fireworks show had begun.

“Hey,” Ryan said looking behind us, “I saw lightening.” Although we heard nothing, my son turned to look. He then explained to Ryan that it was just the flash of cameras from the people behind us. “No!” exclaimed Ryan, “I saw lightening.”

I laughed to myself, knowing we would have certainly heard thunder’s temper if lightning had streaked across the sky. In North Carolina, violent storms often arrive suddenly with flashes of lightning and loud cracks of thunder splitting the sky just before the downpour. So, the absence of rain wasn’t why I doubted Ryan had seen lightning; it was the silence. Thunder here is rarely subtle—most of the time, it’s deafening.

So, as we, the adults, brushed off Ryan’s insistence about the lightening by saying it was the flashes of people’s cameras, or presumed it was his fascination with storms, especially “the under” as he calls it, we continued to watch the western sky across the Sound.

Again and again Ryan would exclaim he saw lightening. I decided to ask Ryan if he would rather watch the lightening or the fireworks. Without hesitation and with a full-faced grin, he yelled, “The lightening!” I believe at this point Ryan thought he had me convinced and I would join him in watching the very silent lightening. But, it was not meant to be. I had my phone video and attention facing the opposite direction toward the fireworks.

As the fireworks finale glorified the sky and only lingering puffs of smoke remained, I turned around and witnessed an enormous bolt of lightning fill the sky—beautiful, deadly, and as silent as the rising moon. What? This lightning display dwarfed the fireworks a thousandfold. No wonder Ryan’s attention had been captured by nature’s own dazzling performance. As we walked back toward our home, the soundless lightening continued to dramatically burst into view. Searching my phone’s weather app, I found the answer. It displayed an enormous storm out to sea which stretched from the tip of Florida to Greenland! I was glad it was far off the coast and my feet were firmly planted on shore.

Too Preoccupied to Hear
This event of ignoring Ryan’s truthful insistence had me reflecting on how often adults dismiss what children share with sincerity and excitement, brushing it aside with our convincing rationalizations. This led to my mind whirling with memories of lost opportunities as I “would not hear” when my children’s pleadings fell on unresponsive ears.

Two stories in particular come to mind. Both involved my daughter Sam when she was a young child. The first happened when I enrolled her for a semester into a county run morning pre-school; the second when she attended kindergarten.

After moving to a new suburb of Maryland which laid in the shadow of Washington, D.C., I was just becoming acquainted with its surroundings and our new neighbors when I discovered I was pregnant with our third child. Shortly there after, I went into early labor and was restricted in doing many of the usual and necessary activities. During that time, I would have welcomed help and a friend.

Even with this situation, my two children (Sam & Jake) and I would continue to explore new parks and playgrounds. To our delight we discovered some really neat activities near our home such as Wheaton Regional Park’s Brookside Gardens and the adjoining nature center.

With all that was going on, what I didn’t strive to discover was the name of our new ward. Our new home laid on the outer boundary of our previous ward and a completely different stake. I wasn’t sure the name of the new ward or where it was; so I continued to go to my former ward. I knew I would eventually take the time to track it down, but life was a bit overwhelming at the time.

Several months later with a new baby in tow, I enrolled Samantha in the pre-school group a few mornings a week. Being an outgoing child, Sam easily made new friends. So, within the first week of attending, she excitedly told me about her new friends. Sam would become animated when she spoke of one girl in particular. She then asked me if, Jenna, could come to our house to play. I figured I’d run into Jenna’s parents at some point, but never did. I recall asking about Jenna’s parents once or twice, but in the end let it go.

Having three young children, I’ll admit my thoughts were not always coherent, nor was my memory completely intact due to lack of sleep; but I am certain if I had heeded Sam’s pleadings to have a friend over my other burdens would have been lighter. Why? About a year or so later when we began attending our new ward, I found out that Jenna and her family were members of the Church and in our Ward. I also discovered a family with six children and a stay-at-home mom, lived in my neighborhood. Later, the mother and I became fast friends. Truly, how different my situation could have been.

Listening to my Children’s Pleadings

Later, when Sam moved on to kindergarten, once again she made new friends at school. A few months into the first semester, Sam began telling me about Ayeisha. I was only partially paying attention to what she said, but I could tell Sam wanted me to know about her school friend and wanted to go to Ayeisha’s house. I don’t ever recall Sam asking to have Ayeisha to our house.

Sometime after the fall and winter holidays as I was picking up Sam early, I briefly spoke to her teacher and decided to ask her about Sam’s new friend. In hushed whispers, the teacher told me the news—Ayeisha had cancer. Apparently, Ayeisha’s mom was a new, single mother of two young daughters due to her husband leaving the family. For a time Ayeisha’s mother was in desperate need of help. She was searching for someone who would babysit Ayeisha’s younger sister at no charge while she took Ayeisha to radiation treatments.

This was something I knew I could do and offered to help. The teacher explained that arrangements had been made and all seemed in order at the moment. I then remembered Sam’s pleadings more clearly and realized she had said Ayeisha was sick. I just didn’t understand it was cancer. If I listened more attentively, more spirit to spirit, I would have sensed Sam’s insistence was more than just wanting to play.

I could probably add numerous accounts to this short list; the times when I did not hear my children’s pleadings when they really had something to say. This thought brought back a memory of a book I use to love to read, Nobody Listens to Andrew.

Searching the internet as I sought out the book, I finally found a short summary. The caption read: “When his family and neighbor finally get around to listening to Andrew, they find he really does have something important to say.” The funny thing is, the roles have reversed since the last time I read the story. Through a child’s eyes, I identified with Andrew. Now, I am the one who does not listen to the important things a child has to say!

Perhaps there is hope for me yet. On the glorious days I am with my grandchildren, I marvel at how much they desire to learn. The array of questions fills the hours as we play games, explore new things, and search for shells along the shore.

This very month my granddaughter Lily will be baptized. We have spent time making up stories, reading scriptures, and talking about what baptism means. She asks sincere, thoughtful questions and listens with a heart open to understanding. In turn, I find myself listening more—truly listening—to her words, her insights, and her wonder.

Children have a gift for seeing what we so often overlook: a flash of lightning in the distance, a classmate in need, or a spiritual truth spoken plainly. Their words may come with excitement, simplicity, or even insistence, but always with sincerity.

Looking back, I recognize the missed opportunities when I failed to hear. But I also see that God is patient—and He gives us more chances to listen, to learn, and to love more deeply. As a grandmother now, with each child’s voice I hear, I find a new glimpse of heaven.

The Savior Himself taught us to become as little children—not because of their innocence or inexperience, but because of their humility, their openness, and their clear connection to the divine. May I never again be too distracted, too rational, or too sure to hear the Spirit’s whisper through a child’s voice.

For indeed, “out of the mouth of babes . . . thou hast perfected praise.”