The Cry That Meant Something All Along

When Marcus Chen brought his newborn daughter home from the hospital in Portland, every cry sounded identical — a piercing, urgent alarm that sent him scrambling. Hungry? Wet? Tired? He couldn't tell. He tried everything in rotation, exhausted and guessing.

His mother flew in from Sacramento the second week. She sat in the rocking chair one evening, head tilted, and said, "That's her hungry cry — hear how it's short and rhythmic? The tired one is longer, more of a whine." Marcus stared at her. It all sounded the same to him. But his mother had raised four children. She had spent decades listening.

So Marcus started paying attention differently. Not just reacting to the volume, but listening for the shape of the sound. By the third week, something shifted. He could hear it — the quick, staccato burst that meant hunger, the low moan that meant sleep, the sharp wail that meant discomfort. The cries hadn't changed. His ears had.

In 1 Samuel 3, young Samuel hears a voice in the night and runs to Eli three times, certain the old priest is calling him. Samuel isn't deaf to God — he simply doesn't recognize the voice yet. It takes Eli, who has spent a lifetime in the temple, to say, "It is the Lord. Go back and listen." The voice of the Almighty had been speaking all along. Samuel just needed someone to teach him what he was hearing. Sometimes the most important step in our faith isn't learning to pray louder — it's learning to listen differently.