The First Night Home

When Marcus and Alicia brought their daughter home from Mercy Hospital in Baltimore, the apartment felt impossibly quiet — until 2 a.m. The baby cried, and Marcus bolted upright. He checked the diaper. Dry. He offered a bottle. She turned away. He rocked her, bounced her, paced the hallway. Nothing worked.

His mother arrived the next morning and heard the cry from the doorway. "That's her hungry cry," she said matter-of-factly. "Listen — it's short and rhythmic, with a little catch at the end. The tired cry is longer, more of a wail." Marcus stared at her. It all sounded the same to him. But over the next week, with his mother gently coaching — "There, hear that? She's telling you she's cold" — he began to hear the differences. By the second week, he could decode his daughter's voice before his mother said a word.

Young Samuel heard a voice three times in the dark of the Shiloh temple and did what made sense — he ran to Eli. It took the old priest to say, in essence, "That's not me calling. That's God. Here's how you answer." Samuel needed someone further along in faith to name what he was hearing.

Most of us don't lack God's voice. We lack an Eli — someone seasoned enough to say, "That stirring you keep feeling? That's the Almighty. Stop running to the wrong room. Be still, and say, 'Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.'"