Listening for that still, small voice

Donna Marmorstein

And their eyes were opened, and they knew him; and he vanished out of their sight

- Luke 24:31

The last three months have been full of noise. Mostly good noise, but still noise. A family crisis. Three weeks with my son and his family visiting home. Christmas. Two weeks with my daughter and her family visiting home. More school activities than I can even keep straight.

Between piano lessons, show choir, debate practice, jazz band, worship team practice, science projects, museum presentations, cheerleading practice, basketball games, concerts and debate tournaments – and all the driving involved with it all – I’ve hardly had time to catch a breath, let alone catch the breath of heaven.

The contrast between the house when ten people are in it and the house when I’m alone can be measured in decibel levels. When everyone is home I hear running, squealing grandkids; piano music; movie soundtracks; guitars and mandolins; computer game noises; singing; talking; laughing; political debate and card games -- all at the same time.

It’s hard to make out any one voice among the many. The voices are good. The noises are full of life. But coming all at once, they obstruct single voices, especially quiet ones.

But even when I’m alone, it’s hard to make out the one voice I want to hear - His voice.

I can hear His voice in nature: The heavens declare the glory of God - Psalm 19:1. Whenever sun rays stream down through mottled clouds in big, bright lines, I know He is speaking to me of his majesty. Early morning clearness, silver water reflections, powerful storms, bird chatter in the yard – He speaks of Himself through it all.

I can hear His voice in the Word. When I read old passages in new ways and discover unexplored facets of familiar passages, I know He is speaking to me, guiding me and showing me what I need to know.

Still, I crave a more direct communication, a more personal and familiar conversation with the One behind the torn veil. To speak with the Creator of all things isn’t something to take lightly. Who am I to seek to speak to the mightiest being in the universe? How do I dare even presume to do that?

Ask. Seek. Knock. He tells me to seek Him and tells me to persist, so at His urging, I do this, despite gross inadequacies.

He cleans me, makes me ready, but still I feel like Esther, unsure about that scepter, unsure if I should be allowed in the palace, uneasy about the consequences of being face-to-face with Something so pure and undefiled that it would burn me to powder in an instant if my own dirty righteousness, and not the righteousness of Christ, stood in Its presence.

So I uncertainly ask; I hesitantly seek; I lightly knock. And every once in a while, I hear that small voice. Every once in a while, I am certain it is His voice speaking directly to my heart and circumstance.

To explain it to someone else, though, is fruitless. He speaks in the punctuation marks of sentences, not the grand verbs and lusty nouns. He speaks in the margins. No one else would understand the odd, personal ways He answers doubts and questions particular to my circumstance – any more than I would understand if you tried to explain to me the way He speaks to you.

Because His voice is small and because it is still, it tends to fade from memory over time unless I specifically write down or mark in some way what He has said and how He has said it. But even then, it won’t make the same impression on me years later when I am in different circumstances and facing different sets of questions.

Blessed are they who seek him with the whole heart, says Psalm 119:2. It’s when I stop seeking Him that there’s a problem. When I think I hear Him enough and no longer need to seek, that’s trouble. I’ve been there. I don’t want to be there again.