My sister-in-law leaned forward to turn up the radio. “You have to hear this song. The first time M (my brother) heard it, and Z heard it, at different times, they both thought it said the same thing. Now I can’t hear anything else.” And so, of course, I listened carefully.
The beat was catchy, one of those live animals that writhes its way into veins and pulses warm with each drum beat or electric guitar strum. You find yourself dancing in your seat, bobbing your head as the guy in the car next to you laughs and points. Yeah, one of those.
The refrain was, “We got all night to get lucky,” or something just as inane and offensive. But J says, “Okay, your brother and your nephew thought it said ‘Mexican monkey,’ and now that’s all I hear.”
What????? But you know, after she told me that, ‘Mexican monkey’ was all I could hear, too. It made absolutely no sense; the song had nothing to do with Mexican jungles or monkeys in any way, and still, like Pavlov’s dog, play that music, and for me here come Mexican monkeys.
The next day, we are all in the car: J, M, Z, Auz, K, and me. The music comes on, and heads start bobbing. They all start singing along. At first they were all singing the correct lyrics. (Can’t even begin to describe to you how surreal it was to hear little 5-year-old and 9 year-old voices behind my head singing about having all night to get lucky.) But at some point there was a shift, and Z becomes the lone voice singing “Mexican monkey.”
At first I think I must be hearing incorrectly, but no – no, he really is singing “Mexican monkey.” I let a giggle escape, and K looks at me like I’m a few sandwiches short of a picnic. Obviously, she’s immune to the Mexican monkeys by now. So, I keep my delight to myself by making faces in the window. Mexican monkey, indeed!
But, you know, 5-year olds aren’t the only ones who mishear things. I think of all the times in my life that the Father has directed to do one thing, and I misinterpret it, bend it in some way it wasn’t meant at all, and I’m off hurriedly swinging in the trees in my own direction.
Of course, God’s instructions to us can be so much more difficult to hear because they mostly do not come as lyrics to pop songs – they can, but mostly, not so much. And that’s exactly what is so frustrating: where is He?
I don’t know about you, but I look for signs of Him everywhere: conversations with friends or strangers, sermons on the radio, and, yes, the songs on the radio. Truth is, He is present everywhere and in everything – the very definition of “omnipresent.” If we’re searching for Him, we’re going to find Him. In Isaiah He says if we’re going down the wrong path, whether we turn our head to the right or the left, we will hear His voice redirecting us. But does that mean a literal voice?
Some people do hear His voice, and I envy them. I long for that, but in my heart I wonder if that wouldn’t just freak me out. And I suspect at this point in my spiritual development it really, really would; Abba knows that. Therefore, He wouldn’t communicate with me in that way. Instead, He loves me enough to communicate in ways that I will hear and understand and definitely not freak out over.
Except, I worry that I’m missing these methods of interaction or am misinterpreting them. You see, I’ve accumulated an impressive array of misinterpretations – an impressive array of side-tracked storylines. And they’ve all led to veritable heartaches, some more than others – some absolutely devastating. And while I know that God can and does use everything for my good and the good of others, do I wish that those awful moments had not happened? Mostly I wish that I could have learned those lessons in ways that were much less painful. Had I heard the Father correctly, gone the right way the first time, maybe I would’ve. Instead, sometimes years later I finally find the correct tree to which to swing next.
Do I believe I’m getting better at hearing His voice? At the risk of being prideful (and wrong), I’d have to say yes. And next time I hear the “Mexican Monkey” song, I’m going to let it be a reminder that my Father loves me, wants to gently guide me, and that I am learning to hear Him. And I just might dance in my seat. If you’re in the car next to me, feel free to laugh and point.
The Unexpected Life 