In the quiet of Lititz, Pennsylvania students’ voices roar through the hallways and classes of Warwick High School. Countless times the raised voice of a teacher cuts through to voice, “are you paying attention” or “pay attention class” and sometimes “pay attention LeVasseur.” Those two words are things I’ve heard for years, but never actually listened to or understood. Pay attention. Pay attention.
If there is anything I’ve learned on this journey it’s that each person is the same in this desire. Everyone desires to be heard and listened too. In each country the Lord has placed women in my life and told me to listen. For the protection of these women I’ve changed their names but I feel I should name them by what they gave me and what I believe Jesus sees in them.
My journey of listening started with Hope on a November night in Puyo, Ecuador. The first Friday I met Hope, I didn’t know the lessons she would imprint upon my heart. I remember the first time we met like it was yesterday. Hope was standing on a busy street wearing painted on jean shorts and a highlighter pink V-neck. She was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, her right foot bearing her weight. Her smooth ponytail and heavy eyeliner demanded your attention. The first time we met, Hope shared little. She understood more English than she spoke, something I regret taking advantage of. We would meet every Friday for two months and the first couple Fridays consisted of me speaking more than listening. But one day Friday, things shifted. It was the 25th of November when I asked her age. The first Friday Hope said she was eighteen, but this time her answer indicated something much deeper than her age. She trusted me. She told me she was fifteen. Throughout the next month, Hope would enclose more and more details to me that would make me fall in love with her. Hope’s father was arrested a few years ago, leaving her mother, brother, sister and Hope left to fend for themselves. Her mother had a lot of work to do at home and the only predictable source of income for the family was Hope becoming a prostitute. So at the age of thirteen, Hope dropped out of school so she could stay out later and earn more money. Over the two months, Hope and I shared many things. We laughed together as we ate chocolate popsicles to celebrate her sixteenth birthday. We hugged when she told me about her burning desire to follow Jesus. We cried as she looked at me and said, “Alex I want out.” Hope told me about her dreams of finishing school and becoming an architect. Hope felt trapped by her job and by her family but she still saw the beauty in tomorrows. I may never fully understand why Hope sacrificed two hours and $14 every Friday night to talk to me but I think it has something to do with listening. Hope’s job involves her sharing her body, but I am eternally grateful that with me she shared her heart.
On a sunny January morning in India I was sitting on the front porch reading a book. Between turning pages, I watched an older woman sift rice. I walked over to her and started asking questions. Eventually I found out about her daughter Grace who had come to visit for the month. Grace has short black hair with bangs that swooped, perfectly framing her face. Her round black glasses made her instantly trustworthy. Grace is a twenty-seven-year-old successful dentist residing in the southern tip of India. Grace is a woman of few words and showed me the importance of listening to the silence. Every day for two weeks, I walked down the little hill to Grace’s humble house, her tea and her company. Sometimes we went on walks together where she shared the desires of her heart. Grace is shy yet spunky and I enjoyed getting into mischief with her. The first long walk we ever took together, we finagled our way into getting two wedding invitations, we invited ourselves into neighbors’ homes and drank their tea and ate their food. Amongst her trust and love, Grace also gave me typhoid which means somewhere in these two months I consumed particles of Grace’s poop. A friendship that started as me listening to her college years, her dreams, and her love for her nonexistent husband turned into me listening to her encouragement for the day I got better. Grace had this way of seeing the bigger picture when no one else can. The third week of knowing Grace the tables turned and she was coming to see me. She sat by me during the day when my team was at ministry and I was forced to stay home. She held my hand during doctor’s appointments as we anxiously awaited results. She wiped my tears the day the doctor told me I should be admitted to the doctor for approximately fourteen days. When I pulled away from the house and towards the hospital on January 20th I thought Grace waving would be the last time I saw her. For the first two days in the hospital I held onto Grace’s words of encouragement. On the third day, Grace walked through the door. This meant Grace had driven three hours to sit with me. I may never fully understand why Grace made the sacrifices necessary to see me, but she looked at me through eyes of Grace at a time where I felt most vulnerable and violated.
A few weeks ago, I was sitting outside a friend’s house holding her sweet baby boy when Truth walked up and sat next to me. I instantly felt drawn to her. The first encounter I ever had with Truth I asked her to tell me her story and she responded with, “you mean you really want to know?” Within the first hour of talking with Truth I realized the lack of people in her life who ever offered to listen. She gave to me so freely and was quick to invite me in. Truth is a fifty-six-year-old widow who carries wisdom wherever she goes. She has this way of looking at my soul and making me feel as if I’ve known her for years. Truth is a mother of five but only gets to live alongside three of her children. Her oldest daughter passed away unexpectedly when she was twelve and her forty-two-year-old son commit suicide two years ago. She told me how the pain is still unbearable but she holds close that the next time they meet will be in heaven. In a conversation we recently had over washing laundry, Truth told me about her relatives. She doesn’t have any family living in the area and she thanked me for welcoming her into mine. Truth has told me the most valuable lesson she has ever learned is acceptance. Accepting God’s control and our lack thereof. She tells me of God’s purpose and how He gives each of us our very own. The first time I met Truth she wrote her name and number on an old piece of calendar dated September 22nd, my birthday. Truth doesn’t know that about me but what I get to learn from her is that she is truly my gift. A gift I look forward to receiving whenever I find myself sitting in her home talking over laundry where I ask questions and she gives Truth.
The most valuable lesson I’ve learned on the World Race is the purpose of paying attention and the beauty practicing it holds. We live in a culture of speaking. A culture where when someone else is speaking, we find ourselves contemplating what to say next. We are so consumed by our own lives; we neglect the importance of other people’s. We are a generation of money- hungry fast paced humans. What if instead of thinking over our next move or tomorrow’s plans, we listened to the people talking to us? What if we actually did pay attention to our teachers in and outside the classroom? What would happen if we actually slowed down long enough to listen and saw beyond the green paper taking control of our lives.
When there is no money left to give, we should pay each other in our attention.
