Listen

I have this conversation with myself all the time. Somebody starts telling me something, and before they're even finished, my mind is already working on what I'm going to say. I have an answer, a suggestion, an opinion, or some experience that I think might help. Sometimes I even catch myself getting impatient because I want to get my thought out before I lose it. And somewhere in there, there's this other voice in my head telling me to just be quiet and listen.

I do this with my kids. They'll come to me with something that happened at school, and I'm already trying to figure out what they should have done, what they could do differently, or what lesson I can teach them from it. I do it with my wife, too. She'll tell me about something frustrating, and somehow I've turned what could have been a simple conversation into a problem-solving session. I can convince myself that I'm helping, and I probably even have some good advice. But I've been thinking about how often I miss the chance to really hear what they're telling me. Sometimes I think they just want me there. They want to know I'm interested enough to give them my full attention.

And I've had to admit that there's some pride mixed up in all of this. I like learning. I like figuring things out. I like being able to understand something and explain it. And if I'm being fair with myself, I like being right. There's a certain satisfaction in making a point and having someone agree with you. I've wondered how often that desire to be heard has gotten in the way of my ability to hear somebody else. I can be so occupied with what I know that I forget how much I might learn by keeping my mouth shut for a minute.

President Oaks recently gave counsel about never allowing our secular learning to limit our spiritual horizons. That really struck me. I started thinking about how much of our lives we spend trying to become knowledgeable, capable, and confident in our own understanding. Those are good things. But I can see how easily I begin to trust my own reasoning so much that I have a hard time allowing the Lord to teach me something I haven't considered.

I've realized I do this in my prayers, too. I come to Heavenly Father with a list of things I'm worried about, things I want to change, and usually a pretty good idea of how I think they should work out. I explain my concerns, make my requests, say amen, and get back to whatever I was doing. And sometimes I wonder how many answers I've missed because I never really gave Him a chance to speak to me. I've asked Him to guide me while spending most of the conversation explaining where I want to go.

I believe the Lord knows me better than I know myself. I believe He knows my family and what they need far better than I do. And I believe the Holy Ghost can teach me things that all my studying and reasoning could never uncover on their own. I want to become better at receiving that instruction. That takes humility, and I think humility sometimes looks as simple as being quiet long enough to admit that I might have something to learn.

That's really where this song came from. It's that ongoing argument I have with myself about the need to have an answer, to get my point across, or to prove that I understand. I want to be a better listener. I want my wife and kids to feel like what they have to say matters to me, even when I have absolutely nothing useful to offer in return. I want to be the kind of father and husband who can sit with someone in the middle of something difficult and be completely present.

And I want to approach the Lord that same way.

I love the Savior, and I'm grateful for His patience with me. I believe He's been trying to teach me this for a long time. I still catch myself doing it, sometimes halfway through a conversation, and I have to remind myself to stop rehearsing my next sentence and actually listen.

I guess that's my hope with this song. That I'll remember to give the people I love, and the God I trust, a little more room to speak.

I've said my piece. I've made my case.

Now I need to leave a little space.