When my children are upset, self-inflicted or otherwise, I usually tilt their face up to me and say, "Tell me when you can hear me." I know I can fix the problem, but not until the self-centered hysterics die down. After a few hiccups and back-handed wiping of tears they'll eventually nod and say they can. At least that's how it works when it runs smoothly.
When it doesn't run smoothly, their mad and I've been scared into a fury, I don't tilt their face towards me. I grab hold of their chins between my pointer finger and thumb in such a way that I could probably move their entire bodies with just this grip. And say in my deepest vocal register, "Tell. Me. When. You. Can. Hear. Me."
Which they usually respond to with a "I Can't Hear You Yet!" yell that echos off Red Lady. Even in those cases though, eventually their ears open and the muscles surrounding my voice box relax enough to let oxygen get back through and we move ahead. Together.
I don't know which tone of voice you're using with me right now Father. But I can't hear you yet. I want to. I wish the disconnect wasn't there. I believe that eventually my ears will open and your perfect voice, saying just the right words, will come through. I believe that.
But I can't hear you yet.
Amen.
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