Eavesdropping for the Stories
My eavesdropping landed me in an angry position the other day. And yes, I listen in on conversations. Is it rude? I suppose it could be.
The way I see it, though, if you’re in a public place, talking with a normal voice, then what you say is fair game. My husband refers to this as voyeurism, but that seems to have a negative connotation to it that I refuse to own.
My listening is for educational reasons. I can’t help it if I’m interested in what others have to say. And I promise I don’t judge. I do sometimes use those conversations in my writing so I guess it’s actually a work-related activity.
Take the conversation I overheard while out for a romantic dinner with my hubby. We sat at a cozy table-for-two that backed right up to a booth where two couples sat, laughing and having a grand time. It was really impossible not to hear what they were saying. This was especially true when I heard my name said several times.
Dwelling on the Poor Mary Beth
I don’t know many Mary Beth’s. Maybe just a handful, so to hear people talking about Mary Beth made me lean a little closer to the backs of their heads.
Of course, it might have been better if I hadn’t listened. Evidently, they didn’t really like their Mary Beth. Poor thing. From what I could gather she annoyed them. A lot
By the time I finished my flounder in a bag—very grateful for the waitress who had the sweet insight to tell me not to eat the bag—they were still dropping a Mary Beth reference here and there. I almost introduced myself, but decided to tune them out and start paying attention to my date.
The Faith Frontier
However, it did strike me odd how much they talked about someone they didn’t like. If she’s such a bother, why keep bringing her up during your expensive meal?
Of course, I do that all the time. (Not talk about other Mary Beth’s)—dwell on the things that bother me.
It makes no sense, but I’ll go over and over something. Think about it. Talk about it. Pray about it. (Yeah, usually in that order.) And come to the same conclusion. There’s nothing I can do. And then I start over because there’s got to be an answer, right?
I have noticed that the more I trust God the less I go over my worry script. And I mean TRUST HIM, not say that I trust him while I’m still trying to figure it out on my own.
That kind of trust is a frontier. The Faith Frontier. There’s not a formula for it. It probably looks different on each of us, but it comes down to the same thing. Moving the conversation from the problem into the hands of the solution—moving forward with simple faith. Believing Him. Trusting. Knowing.