Tell Me All About It

Drew recently started taking a percussion class at a nearby music studio. It's definitely a "drop your kid off" kind of situation, so after his first lesson I was very eager to hear every single detail about the past hour.

As much as I wanted to know everything, however, I also wanted to respect his need for independence and let him have something that was separate from his mother. So I eased in with the general, "How did it go?" and "How many kids are in your class?" and so on -- all questions that could easily be answered with monosyllabic grunts. (And were.)

My mind wandered to my own childhood. I so vividly remembered my mom's eager questions following camps, retreats and missions trips. She wanted to share in the adventure with me, and I wanted to relive the experience, scooping her into the drama. So I eagerly gave every detail. It eventually became a scripted conversation beginning with Mom's predictable interrogation: "Tell me all about it. What you ate. Who you saw. What you did. How you felt."

We leaned forward, eyes sparkling, and the talking began. After describing every last cinnamon roll that I had consumed, every skit costume that I had donned or every Mexican child that I had piggy-backed, we let the conversation lag. Until she thought of another question. And the talking resumed. (More often than not, the trips also involved my sister. The talking among three women was substantial.)

My mind returned to the snare drum, and I wanted to hear more from Drew. So I ventured to ask more detailed questions. I felt like my mother. "Tell me all about it! What kinds of things did you work on? What is your teacher like? What is every single person's name?" The answers, too, became more detailed and (dare I add) even a tad . . . enthusiastic.

As I asked the questions, I mentally acknowledged that I probably could have figured out most of the answers on my own. I took band for years, and had a pretty good guess of what would be covered in the first day of a music class. But I still wanted to know. I wanted to hear it from his own perspective. I wanted to hear it
. . . from his own heart.

I've realized that I'm a tad like my Father that way. He wants to hear from me, even though He already knows the answers. He wants to hear it from my perspective, from my heart. When I remind myself of this truth, I'm more apt to converse regularly with my Savior. And when I do so, I remember another truth: only good can come of resting in the presence of the Almighty. This is what I want. I want His goodness, I want His presence. I want Him to draw me unto Himself, focus His gaze on mine and warmly invite, "Tell me all about it."