Story contributed by Kristen
Samuel the Lamanite, or what to do when the message comes from someone you can’t stand
Brace yourself. Sink your heels deep into the ground. Take a deep breath. Listen.
Do you know how to listen? I don’t. I mean really, really listen. The kind of listening where you forget how to answer. The kind where you lose yourself in the listening, like a fish puckering at the surface of the pond before slipping silently into the deep. Listening like you’re eating, like you will starve if you don’t hear, like your whole body curves to the sound of what you recieve.
The only way to hear is to listen like that. Who can teach me how to listen like that?
Who can teach me how to look in the face of the Lamanite (the guy whose people killed my brother, the guy whose people never heard me, the guy who spurts conspiracy theories, who evangelizes vegan bbq, who voted for the other candidate, who sends their kids to private school, who homeschools, who went to college, who didn’t go to college, who tells you what to think, who spills your secrets all over the web, who broke your heart, who refuses to see you, who, who, who) to look in his face and listen like I mean it?
Does the teacher really appear when the student is ready? I’ve heard that one at the worst times. I was not ready for the teacher of sleepless nights. Postpartum depression? Thank you, next. Passed over for my dream job because of my faith? Wasn’t ready. International move? Maybe next year.
So, okay, the teacher isn’t always dressed in slacks, standing at the white board. When my books were at the ready, it was the spiderwebs that spoke to me. When I went to the pews for comfort, I found it in the hills instead. When the zucchini wouldn’t grow, I found that my appetite did. I was hungry, hungry, hungry for something new, made with my own hands, strong and sweet and true.
It’s not that hunger is the goal. It’s that it takes annihilation (thank you Marguerite Porete) to realize where the rumble comes from. Wisdom peeps and whistles from within the oddest crevices. She moans and groans like a grandma’s creaky hips, settling into her chair where you least expect her.
In the end, it’s what you can’t stand. It’s the message from the place you roll your eyes at. If I could learn to sink into it, to bow to the tides like the sand on the beach, I could be like the women who sent their sons to war on a prayer. I could be like the spider who builds her web every day of her tiny life. I could be like the sand, and the sea, and the tide.
So when Samuel speaks, I want to learn how to listen. I want to learn to put down my arrows of self defense and open my palms. I want to learn to put aside my valid judgments and reach into the dark crevice of wisdom’s shell. I want to learn to look into his face, the face I can’t stand, and bear it. Bear him. Bear him being what he is, and me being what I am. I want to do it. I want to listen.
Ideas for Play
Contributed by Kristen
- Read the Book of Mormon storybook
- Watch the Book of Mormon video on Samuel the Lamanite
- Act the story out!
- Read some books about listening
- The rabbit listened
- Listen by Holli McGhee
- Listen by Gabi Snyder
- Samuel the Lamanite coloring page
- Play a listening game. How do I listen if someone says something I disagree with? How do I listen if someone is being mean? What does it mean to listen and stand up for myself? What does it mean to be respectful and disagree? Practice with some scripts
Artwork
Compiled by Caroline
Poetry
Compiled by Caroline
Listen,
By Mary Oliver
Listen
Everyday
I see or hear
something
that more or less
kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle
in the haystack
of light.
It was what I was born for —
to look, to listen,
to lose myself
inside this soft world —
to instruct myself
over and over
in joy,
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional,
the fearful, the dreadful,
the very extravagant —
but of the ordinary,
the common, the very drab,
the daily presentations.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
how can you help
but grow wise
with such teachings
as these —
the untrimmable light
of the world,
the ocean’s shine,
the prayers that are made
out of grass?
Generous Listening
Written by Marilyn Nelson
On Being Gathering, 2018
A conversation can be a contest,
or a game of catch with invisible balloons.
They bounce between us, growing and shrinking,
sometimes floating like cloud medicine balls,
and sometimes bowling at us like round anvils.
You toss a phrase and understanding blooms
like an anemone of colored lights.
My mind fireworks with unasked questions.
Who is this miracle speaking to me?
And who is this miracle listening?
What amazingness are we creating?
Out of gray matter a star spark of thought
leaps between synapses into the air,
and pours through gray matter, into my heart:
how can I not listen generously?
Poetry:
Listen,
By Mary Oliver
Listen
Everyday
I see or hear
something
that more or less
kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle
in the haystack
of light.
It was what I was born for —
to look, to listen,
to lose myself
inside this soft world —
to instruct myself
over and over
in joy,
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional,
the fearful, the dreadful,
the very extravagant —
but of the ordinary,
the common, the very drab,
the daily presentations.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
how can you help
but grow wise
with such teachings
as these —
the untrimmable light
of the world,
the ocean’s shine,
the prayers that are made
out of grass?
Generous Listening
Written by Marilyn Nelson
On Being Gathering, 2018
A conversation can be a contest,
or a game of catch with invisible balloons.
They bounce between us, growing and shrinking,
sometimes floating like cloud medicine balls,
and sometimes bowling at us like round anvils.
You toss a phrase and understanding blooms
like an anemone of colored lights.
My mind fireworks with unasked questions.
Who is this miracle speaking to me?
And who is this miracle listening?
What amazingness are we creating?
Out of gray matter a star spark of thought
leaps between synapses into the air,
and pours through gray matter, into my heart:
how can I not listen generously?
Music
Compiled by Caroline
milk & honey mamas 
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