Ears to Hear

By Brooke Benton

It was determined the minute I awoke to sunshine; I would take the dog and the little one on a long run. All efforts of the morning pointed to that hope, that mission in need of undertaking, those miles my feet ached to cover, the vitamin D my body wanted, the oxygen I craved, the exertion for all of us, housebound in the winter.

I took the first four streets out of my neighborhood with ease, settling into a rhythm, the dog attached to the stroller. I curved onto the path east and said hello to a white-haired woman pushing a wheel chair in slow motion. We exchanged pleasantries, her pealing gratitude to see the mountain revealed from the inversion once again, and a quick “Yep, there it is,” from me, as I ran past. I rounded another curve, and I thought of the woman, so eager to say something to me. I kept running and I thought of the deep folds in her wide face, the easy smile, her hair neat in a loose knot curved along her head, like a wisp-less Gibson girl. “I bet she was pretty once upon a time,” the thought came from nowhere, and then I stopped thinking that thought as soon as it started because with it came another thought, sister to it: “I bet she was a lot of things once upon a time.”

I didn’t want to do it, but I knew I was supposed to. I spent at least two minutes trying to talk myself out of it, but I know this to be true: if I want Heavenly Father to ask me for help, if I want him to know that I’m someone down here who cares, then I need to listen.

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