Burning the Fields

As Salvation Army officers, my husband and I held the ranks of lieutenant, captain, and then major. Just as a priest might be called Father, it was common for Larry to be called Lieutenant, One day, our three year old son Greg was trying to tell his father something. “Daddy. Daddy. DAD!” No response. Finally, Greg yelled, “Lieutenant,” and it worked. He got his father’s attention. 

 

In a week chock full of news, some may have missed that the senior counselor to the president, Kellyanne Conway, is leaving her post at the White House at the end of this month, promising for her beloved children, “less drama, more mama.” Her husband, George Conway, is stepping down from his role in the Lincoln Project as well, and vowed to stay off Twitter, at least for the foreseeable future. Why? Family reasons. Their fifteen year old daughter had finally managed to get their attention. Unfortunately for the Conway family, much of the world watched her plea unfold on Instagram, Twitter and Tik-Tok. 

 

I recognize the difficulty of living life in the public eye, exacerbated in today’s culture by the unmerciful nature of cell phones, social media, and screenshots. Short of refusing to allow teens to have cell phones or computer access, contemporary parents, in or out of the fishbowl, may face a similar plea, even if it doesn’t go viral.

 

The Conway family dynamic is not unique to 2020. In fact, the Old Testament paints a vivid picture of a son’s attempt to get his father’s attention. In a narrative replete with rape, murder, and estrangement, King David’s son Absalom resorted to “burning the fields” to force interaction with his father. See II Samuel 13 and 14 for the details of their story.

 

Viewing life with the wisdom garnered over sixty-five years, I know there is something in each of us that longs to be heard. Sometimes we call out in the midst of crisis. We may simply be feeling a bit lonely on a normal day (if we even have those anymore). At other times, the cry to be heard comes from the wilderness of Absalom’s banishment, or from an awareness that we have something to say that matters, even if our family and friends are too busy to listen.

 

A few years after Greg’s cry of “Lieutenant!,” we discovered a book that soon became a family favorite, especially for our second son, Andrew. In Elizabeth Guilfoile’s classic tale, “Nobody Listens to Andrew,” the little brother tries his best to be heard, but the title is accurate – nobody listened to Andrew. Spoiler alert: when Andrew finally got their attention, the family sprang into action because there was a bear in his bed. 

 

Today, there are bears in too many beds, the fields are burning, and our children are calling out to be heard as they march, tweet, grieve, and cry out in the night. And it’s not just the children. How do we find common ground? When the noise around us threatens to drown out the words we need to hear, then what? 

 

Hugh Mackay reminds us of our responsibility: “So the way we listen to each other, the way we respect each other’s passions (even if we don’t share them), the way we respond to each other’s needs, the way we make – or don’t make – time for each other . . . all these things send clear signals about the extent to which we are taking each other seriously.”

 

Years ago, I was privileged to attend a conference session with Jane and Ken Medema. “Teach me to stop and listen,” Ken began to sing, as he invited us to learn through call and response. Medema ended the song with these words: “Then when it’s time for moving, grant it that I may bring to every day and moment peace from a silent spring.” 

 

We are in a confusing and complicated time for our children, our neighbors, and our country, a time calling us to pay attention, to listen deeply and to act. Yet I wonder – if we forsake the silent spring for the call to action, will we still have the capacity to listen? The stakes couldn’t be higher.