SomeOne's listening... it ain't me.

Are you a poor or lazy listener like me?  

I'm easily distracted which likely contributes to my poor listening skills.   I don't think I'm intentionally a lazy listener, I try to pay attention and concentrate when spoken to.  I'm pretty sure I  have some sort of attention-deficit in conversations, especially when there are others talking, noises or activities going on in the background.

This deficiency affects me most noticeably when I listen to songs.  I'm terrible at picking up the lyrics or for that matter remembering them.  It's a multi-tasking thing to listen to the music AND the words.  I gravitate to the music rather than the words...but not both at the same time.

I can recognize tunes but generally don't know the lyrics to them.  I'm always amazed at how everyone else in my family can rattle off lyrics to songs... not me.  I can't even remember the classic hymns/songs for church service...not even traditional Christmas carols. !!! -  without the aid of a song sheet/hymnal or powerpoint slide

So recently, I really paid attention to lyrics from a song.  I've heard this song many, many times....but never really heard the lyrics until the other day.   There were few distractions as  I was in my car pulling out of the garage on my way to the gym.  No traffic, no pedestrians, no glaring sun, no rain,  no passengers, just me.... the radio was on - I listened.

This was the song that was playing... 

Better Than a Hallelujah ~Amy Grant

At the end of the day, I know I need to work harder at listening.

God listens.

God loves a lullaby
In a mothers tears in the dead of night
Better than a Hallelujah sometimes.
God loves a drunkards cry,
The soldiers plea not to let him die
Better than a Hallelujah sometimes.

We pour out our miseries
God just hears a melody
Beautiful the mess we are
The honest cries of breaking hearts
Are better than a Hallelujah

The woman holding on for life,
The dying man giving up the fight
Are better than a Hallelujah sometimes
The tears of shame for what's been done,
The silence when the words won't come
Are better than a Hallelujah sometimes.

We pour out our miseries
God just hears a melody
Beautiful the mess we are
The honest cries of breaking hearts
Are better than a Hallelujah

Better than a church bell ringing,
Better than a choir singing out,singing out.

We pour out our miseries
God just hears a melody
Beautiful the mess we are
The honest cries of breaking hearts
Are better than a Hallelujah

it's good to be home

Where is home? I was born and raised in a beautiful city bordered by water to the west, mountains to the north and dotted with green belts, bikeways and trees throughout. Vancouver is home and I can't think of anywhere else on earth I'd rather live.

I went on a trip recently with my wife to her country of birth. The Dominican Republic. Her home was in Boca de Nigua until she was about 11. She hadn't been back in 18 years. The last time she was there, she didn't have the opportunity to connect with neighbours, friends, or classmates from her childhood. She made it a point this time to meet with as many people as possible from her first home.

We traveled to the DR in July - it was probably the hottest time of the year to go visit. Hot. Humid. We were hosted by friends in Santo Domingo. Our excursion into the little town of Boca de Nigua took about 40 minutes. Though I couldn't understand what she was saying, I could hear the delight, eagerness and happiness in Joan's voice as we got near her childhood home. I couldn't understand her because she was rambling off in Spanish to her friend from Nigua-days, Carmen, who was also on this excursion with us. Joan was on the edge of her seat- the backseat- straining to get a better look through the front windshield at the approaching town and homes, that weren't so familiar anymore. The day brought good memories for Joan but there was some disappointment as she could only see two families from her past. 

On the last weekend before we left the DR, another trek into Boca de Nigua was planned. I grudgingly went on the second trip. I was not a happy camper. We would be travelling those 40 minutes again in Nicio's car that had A/C comparable to a battery-operated fan pushing air behind an ice cube.

We first met with Rafaelito. Friendly, warm, inviting, and gregarious. He made you feel welcome. No wonder he is a leader in the community. He knows so many people. My displeasure in going on this long drive and potential wild-goose chase soon dissipated as I witnessed the overwhelming joy and disbelief on the faces of these friends when they realized it was Joan walking towards them. There were long and tight embraces, tears, photo ops/ video ops, distribution of family photos from Joan, prayer and then the good-byes.

In the 2 to 3 hours that it took to shuttle from one to house to another house and another house and another..., we were able to see 5 beautiful, joyful and precious people and their families. Never in their dreams did they ever expect to see Joan again when she left the island 27 years ago.  I'm glad I went along and got to experience what it looks like from the outside, the joy of a homecoming.

Homecomings can be special.  I wonder if I'll get to experience homecoming.   I believe that I will someday.    It 'll  be that Place that many of us have heard about -  a Place where you will know the answers to a lifetime of questions, a Place of familiar voices and faces, a Place of comfort, refuge, peace, love and unimaginable  joy.

At the end of the day...it's going to be good to be HOME.