Back in 1959 when I was about to enter high school, the academic pressure was intense. Over 4000 students were enrolled at New Trier that year, and the school had been voted #1 in the nation for academic excellence. Many of the students went out East to Ivy League universities after graduating, and 98% of all New Trier students went to college somewhere. Facing my freshman year, I knew the going might get rough.

My parents decided to send me to summer school before I began the regular school year, in an attempt to give me a leg up. “At least you’ll learn your way around the building,” they said. And since it was a really big school, that was enough motivation for me.

I took 3 classes that summer: ceramics, speech, and trampoline. Two of them went well, but speech? It was agony.

Getting up in front of the class was bad enough, but I also sensed the teacher didn’t like me. I remember him well, because he had an unusual name: Mr. Pink. After my first speech, I knew for sure he didn’t like me.

I was still standing in front of the class when he gave me his critique. “Margaret,” he said, “some of us were born with voices that are pleasant to listen to, and others not. Yours is not.” And then he told me to sit down.

Maybe his mind had wandered during my speech and he couldn’t think of anything else to say, but I was embarrassed by his comment and shocked to realize I had a bad voice. If I hadn’t been required to deliver several more speeches that summer, I wouldn’t have uttered another word.

What a difference between talking in front of Mr. Pink and talking in front of God. When I talk to God, he doesn’t stop with just hearing my voice but listens to my heart as well. I can even converse with him without using my vocal cords. He and I can talk heart-to-heart about absolutely anything, and he hears me perfectly. His only concern is that I just say something to him, whether I use my vocal cords or silent thoughts. When I do, he promises to hear it all.

Later that summer I turned 14, and my parents’ birthday gift was a reel-to-reel tape recorder. I’d wanted one for a long time so I could record songs off the radio and also send taped messages to several faraway friends who had recorders.

But on the day I first listened to my own recorded voice, I discovered Mr. Pink had been right after all. I did have an unpleasant voice, and I didn’t like listening to it.

After that, I stopped worrying about his comment in speech class. And it certainly didn’t leave any scars, because I’ve been talking way too much ever since.

“The Lord does not listen to the wicked, but he hears the prayers of those who do right.” (Proverbs 15:29)