By the end of our conversation, I'm not hearing a thing you are saying... I'm completely absorbed in this question, "Is your name unique, or are you Jessica like everyone else?" Don't be offended if I simply address you as "Hey!" next time we meet. I'm just waiting for context clues. Someone will say your name, eventually.
It's not that I don't like you or think that you aren't the most pleasant person I have ever met. It's just this: my ears are dyslexic. Or they think they are. They are very bad listeners and they blame their squirreliness on my too often absent brain. When listening to a sermon, I usually hear the hook that was carefully crafted to pull me in. But my mind loses interests with points to follow and leads on to various places that connect like the Florida Keys.
It usually begins with an analysis of neighboring shoes - no shoe ever escapes my steady gaze. Which makes me think about my own fleecy shoes that use to graze on greener pastures. Thinking about sheep makes me think about their less friendly cousins, goats.
Soon I'm dreaming about goat gouda pizza and simultaneously lamenting my cow milk allergy. My thoughts escape the grassy hills and cloven hooves as I ponder the number of allergies in the room. I satisfy myself by assuming every one else also has allergies, they just don't know it yet.
Then I feel bad that I have inadvertently wished headaches and stomach cramps upon the assembled congregation. I ask for forgiveness for my malicious thoughts and wandering mind to focus in on the last 10 minutes of the sermon. I take diligent notes to keep myself on track and realize that God loves me in my distracted, lost sheep frame of mind. What a beautiful thing.
He loves me and He loves you. And I love you. And if you want me to remember your name, you should write it down. My ears are such careless creatures, you know.