Just Listen

I wear headphones often in Galway.

Between my four-mile round trip walk to school, running, and any other errand that might present itself, I generally spend almost two hours a day with buds in my ear. Thanks to Spotify Premium, those are normally happy minutes where the soundtrack to my life sounds like James Vincent McMorrow, Sleeping At Last or Matt Maher. Its easy, though, to get sucked into my own little world and forget to notice what's going on around me.

My house might be farther from school than I wanted, but the best part of its location is its proximity to the ocean. I can walk out my door, and exactly half a mile away is the Salthill Promenade, Galway's equivalent of the Wenatchee loop trail. It's beautiful, well-maintained, and, since it's such a popular venue and very well lit, it's the perfect place to run if it's starting to get dark outside.

Not pictured: The many, many 70-year-old men that insist on swimming in Speedos, regardless of the weather. 

And so the other night I laced up my shoes, threw on the neon-blue, waterproof jacket that I bought after trying to run in a Galway downpour, turned on Spotify, and headed down to the Prom.

My stylish jacket that I got for a mere €13 at Aldi. Please note that I didn't even remember to take my headphones out for the photo.

It was just like any other day: My headphones were blaring something motivational as I dodged my way around the elderly couples walking their small dogs and middle aged men walking their small children. Something, however, prompted me to appreciate the moment a little bit more, and I ripped out an earbud.

That night, a storm was rolling in, and the waves were crashing so high up the rock wall that I was careful to run in the middle of the path for fear that the water would go right past the barrier and scoop me up into the ocean. The waves were loud enough that I didn't really need pause my music to hear them. They were thunderous, rhythmic, and melodic. In an instant I understood why people fall asleep to ocean sound machines.

Use your imagination: The waves were hitting the top of that rock wall on the left.

During the summer of 2007, I was a camper out in Nelson, B.C. The whole camp got sent out on our own to spend 15 minutes in silence with God. After, we met back at the campfire to share what we had heard. Unbeknown to the rest of the camp, I had become a Christian in those moments; my crippling shyness wouldn't let me speak, though. Instead, after some silence the camp director started sharing. He had apparently been sitting on the beach, listening to the water. Every time it lapped up onto the shore, he said, he heard God saying, "I love you. I love you." Over and over the words repeated themselves, never ceasing.

I've remembered that story throughout the years as I've stood looking out over various bodies of water. That night, as it started lightly raining and the running app on my phone told me I had hit my turn around point, I watched the ocean go in and out, in and out, and I remembered that God loved me.

The next run I went on, I tried to recreate that sense of God's presence. As I crossed from Threadneedle Road onto the Prom, I eagerly pulled out my earbud, prepared to be overwhelmed by the sound of the water. The storm had passed, however, and despite the rain, the water was gentle. I could barely hear it from the path. While it might have been more picturesque (and it was definitely easier to run in), I found myself disappointed. I had to strain to hear the ocean.

Listening is hard -- with people, with the environment, but especially with God.

It's a lot easier for me to voice my Very Important and Highly Interesting list of complaints and requests to God. It's easier for me to talk to Him about my plans, without really leaving room for His. It's easier for me to get angry and spend the whole walk home in the rain and 40mph winds literally shouting some not-very-polite language at Him about why in the world He brought me to this strange country when, between Maine and Bozeman and now Ireland I would really just like to spend time somewhere warm, thank you very much.

It's selfishly gratifying to shout all those things and stay angry, rather than listen to answers I don't want to hear.

In the InterVarsity prayer track, one thing we were taught is that "God is far more willing to speak to us than we are willing to listen." Oh, how I have been realizing that while here. Even now, I'm typing this out and thinking about time I should set aside for listening, and I'm coming up with every excuse to not do it. It's so much easier to put in my headphones of life and get distracted by school and relationships and that ever present idol of busyness, and never take the time to listen.

Listening is hard. Sometimes God responds in those outstandingly obvious ways, in a voice so loud it's like the sound of the Atlantic crashing up against the Salthill Promenade. Sometimes God's voice is so powerful you simply must hear it, regardless of how you may try to drown it out. My experience, though, and what I'm guessing is yours as well, is that most of the time that voice isn't loud. It's a whisper. It's a nudging in your soul. It's the waves lapping up against the shore, slipping in and out so serenely it's like they're trying to be as unassuming as possible.

Whisper waves.

So often I don't listen to God because I'm afraid of what I'll hear. My runs on the Prom, though, have been reminding me that no matter what I do or how loudly I turn up the volume on my phone, God's voice is always there, like the waves on the beach, saying to me time and time again that He loves me, He loves me, He loves me.

And that? That's a message I should listen to.