Louder Than The Cicadas

 I hear the voices. Jabbering louder than the Cicadas do, a thousand little men shaking baby rattles. So much messaging, so many messengers. I’m more aware of them in my life. Stories as pervasive as the cicada in summer.

I hope and wait for the caffeine to flush the sludge of melatonin out from my veins and my brain. I read a couple chapters to remind myself who God is; and try to remember who I am. My coffee mug and I move to my desktop turning on the computer. Sit down to scan today’s news feed; chaos, murder, memes, Hitler, Trump.

 Other voices unbidden whisper negative comparisons; not good enough, not productive enough, not gifted enough. Critical of self, critical of others. It’s an effort to not put others down sometimes. Put ourselves down. Hard to let joy bubble up. Be okay with the losses. They must be a normal thing; cause that’s what every singer sings.

The blanket of summer heat presses down and the Cicadas screech. In the right frame of mind they settle into the background; a symphony of white noise. A strong wind, a passing semi, jars them into a discordant chattering.

There’s a place I go where water cascades over grey sandstone, dripping and bubbling in summer, falling and crashing in spring. Ducks and water drown out the cicada to a low buzz. If I’m intentional, the waterfall speaks to me in its’ own voice, reminding me of who created the stars, and calls them all by name. The voice that knows me by name and called me from the beginning. And the one who, I’m guessing, has a name for each Cicada.

A Time For Listening

“You reached out to touch me, I said oh no, it's too true,You and me, we know too much…” Mark Heard

A time for silence, a time for listening. A bunch of deciding between. Quiet when we should be loud. Turning up the wrong voices. Turning off the quiet ones. Some sounds are overwhelming. Shattering glass and gunfire throw off two-stepping at the Borderline. Sirens in the Sierra and Santa Monicas. Coming on the heels of mid-term elections and time change. Many voices; devastating.

Mine should be a loud voice; singing a song of thanksgiving. Hugging those close. Serving the ones with devastating stories to tell—we all have a story to tell. Whispering life to those with ears to hear. Turning backs to dark, hurtful (“hurt people hurt people”) voices; like heroes covering others in that country bar. We cover our ears.

We whoosh through life. Flesh says shut self into soundproof shell. Keep it out, keep them out. Humanity says fling open the windows. Swoosh; wind blows in, life in, air in, breathe in. The wind blows too strong some days.

The listening is important. The cross calls me to hear the cries of the world I live in. To help lift burdens; by listening or carrying. The cacophony is likely to burden. High pitched tension the norm. I must listen to my soul. Rest as I must. Too often I want escape and insulation. Jesus’ example fleshes out this tension. Daily serving, teaching, living. To calibrate he climbed mountains---to hear from his Father. May I know when to lean in, when to lean out, and how to listen throughout.