Let me tell you about a personal awkward moment. I think I may have done some harm this week. Deep sigh. I really hope it’s not lasting. But you can imagine my frustration when I learned I had hurt the feelings of someone I care about. My intentions were good, but there were less than desirable side effects that followed my actions.
Reflecting on the last several days brought a second instance to mind. That troubled me. This isn’t the kind of thing I want to become a recurring theme. Then again, perhaps I’m better at creating side effects than I thought.
With the door wide open to my acknowledged faults, I wondered if there were other people I had affected inadvertently. My desire to know seemed to be an open invitation for examples from my memory. The unwelcomed intrusions did more than visit on the porch. They walked in the front door of my mind and brought company.
I sat in thought and began to count. One, two, five, eight…. While some examples were quite small, I recognized that a number of my choices this week had made someone else unhappy. Quickly feeling that the place where I house my thoughts was getting crowded, I closed the door on the line of applicants with comments for my suggestion box. One week’s time seemed like plenty to deal with.
The painful difficulty was that the examples were not anonymous strangers. They were people who are close to me – a brother, a friend, another friend, my wife, my daughter, and the list went on. Each one of them is a person I love very much.
As I considered my circumstance, I thought about a young Jesus who found himself in the middle of a similar predicament. At the age of twelve, he was found by his parents sitting in the temple with men who were listening to him and asking him questions. Mary and Joseph were distraught because they looked for Jesus for three days before finding him. When they asked him why he had dealt with them that way, he responded, “Wist ye not that I must be about my Father’s business?” (Luke 2:45-49) He intended to do good, and yet at the same time hurt those who were closest to him, causing them concern.
Less desirable side effects that follow good choices are not uncommon. While I may perceive a choice to be good, someone else may not. Choosing to have more family time may mean less of a favorite pastime for another family member. A decision to save money for a vacation may mean that some other budget gets cut. While discouraging to admit, I think this is just one of the many dilemmas we face as mortals. It’s hard to live without making a mess.
I don’t like negative side effects that smolder in the glow of hot embers. I would much rather repair the emotional distance and close the gap before it has the chance to experience continental drift. This often requires a change of perspective. While pondering how to mitigate the effects of my intentions this week, I remembered a significant conversation with my wife last summer. The outcome of that memory is what we refer to as the 1700 North principle. That happened to be our location when we made an important discovery.
Liz and I had gone for a morning walk and began to discuss a difference of opinion we shared. We simply didn’t agree. In spite of a beautiful sunrise, it felt like the day might be drawing to a close. I felt frustrated and so did she.
Our conversation more closely resembled a familiar tennis match. While we could see the thin net that divided us, and we anticipated where the ball would fall next, we didn’t quite see each other. The score was tied, but neither of us wanted to win at the defeat of the other. We just wanted to end the game. It was time for a different strategy.
You know, it’s hard to return a volley if both players are on the same side of the net. That’s a move that doesn’t make much sense if you like tennis. We found the strategy helps a lot when you care about a person more than you care about the game.
My next move started by admitting my faults and acknowledging how my choices affected my wife. That wasn’t easy to say out loud, but it felt necessary. With my guard down, it was easier for her to drop hers. Next, I expressed my intent in what I had hoped to accomplish, and I asked for forgiveness. Then I listened. I listened as she did the same thing, and the morning became much more enjoyable.
Each of us took down the fences we had built around our perceptions. For the first time that morning we considered each other’s feelings. That seemed to be the key to ending the game, and it worked. We didn’t change each other’s minds, but we figured out a simple way to navigate less desirable side effects from decisions we each thought were good. We worked through it.
The 1700 North principle has been very helpful to me when I find I’ve hurt someone’s feelings. As hard as it was, and as simple as it sounds, seeing was a matter of choice. I may not always be able to control how my decisions affect another person, but I can choose to reduce the gap by changing my vantage point. If I am going to have a recurring theme at the end of the week, I would rather be consistent in considering the feelings of others from the same side of the net.
http://saltypockets.blogspot.com/
Showing posts with label Behavior. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Behavior. Show all posts
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
Sticks, Balloons, and Hang Man
This morning I compared two different messages presented in sacrament meeting as I sat in church with my family. The first came from the pulpit. A member of the high council had been asked to address the topic of “What would Jesus do?” The second message was being delivered simultaneously by my oldest son and oldest daughter who were sitting just to my right. Together they were irritating each other by drawing stick figures on the back of the folded meeting program. Oddly, the graphic representation looked nothing like the message from the pulpit. Yeah, big surprise, I know. Welcome to parenting.
I’m not exactly sure of the sequence of events that escalated the family feud on a pew, but from what I am able to reconstruct, it happened like this. My daughter asked my wife for a pen so she could keep herself entertained after the sacrament had been passed. Having received said pen, or weapon as it were, she began to draw. Seeing that my daughter was having a good time, my son thought he would contribute some of his own creativity to her illustration of what I thought was an interesting and well delivered message from the assigned speaker. I suspect that my son may have briefly commandeered both the paper and the pen to make his move.
I observed as one stick figure was added to the other and the two figures began to have a conversation. Remarks were ballooned adjacent to their heads like you would see in a comic strip. A nice volley developed as balloons began to fill the page and I could tell there was a little heat coming from the paper. Well, he said this and she said that, and before you know it, someone had a weapon. I don’t know if the potato gun came first or if it followed another weapon of choice, but shortly after the exchange went from words to weapons, there were a large number of other stick figures who appeared on the scene. The new mob, which appeared to have been drawn by my son, led to cartoonish cannons and shoulder mounted fire arms that resembled bazookas. A few more remarks were ballooned on the page, and then some of the remarks escaped the drawing and came from the author’s mouths. Those balloons weren’t so visible, but their emotions were. “Hmmm,” I thought. This is interesting.
I don’t know that either of my children was necessarily guilty or innocent. They just were. They were my children and they did what siblings do best – they annoyed each other relentlessly. “Nice,” I thought. Here I am being inspired and the two of you are blowing each other up.
The little feud drew to a close as my daughter, bound and determined not to be outsmarted by her older brother, was fired upon by her father. She had just drawn an even larger cannon with two more stick figures. The figure at whom the cannon was pointed at was labeled as my son. The figure adjacent to the lit fuse was labeled so that I knew it was her. I could tell that the look on her face was not deliberately maniacal, but it was the look of, “Now I’ve got you! Take that!!” That’s when I asked if I could see the folded paper and I added a third label. I simply wrote, “Jesus,” off to the side and handed it back to her.
My daughter’s expression of accomplishment deflated like a balloon without any remarks left to hold the air in. She’s pretty bright and she got the message without me having to add another balloon. She sagged a little and then started to repair things. Before the cannon had a chance to fire at said brother and recipient of focused animosity, she intervened and protected his stick figure by building a wall in front of him. She then cut the fuse to the cannon with a pair of newly drawn scissors. In a manner of speaking, she saved the day. Having three people in the picture made all the difference, at least for her.
I don’t know that either she or her brother had listened to much of the talk, but she and the speaker came to the same conclusion – when we keep Jesus in our lives it affects all of our decisions and leads us to greater happiness. If we let Him, He will show us to a better way. Jesus said, “I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me.” (John 14:6)
This little exchange led me to think of another lonely, solitary stick figure of a man. I am thinking specifically of a simple game of hang man. Perhaps I assume too much if I believe that most people reading this post have played this game at some point, likely when a beloved Primary teacher or Sunday School teacher was absent and another poor, unsuspecting soul was asked to substitute at the last minute. How many times have you been in such a position and had to punt for a lesson, hmmm? Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me. All the same, the poor little guy who is the object of the game did nothing more than you by showing up to class, and yet he becomes a victim of a unique type of abuse, namely a lack of communication.
In case you haven’t ever had to punt for a lesson, and you have not yet felt the magic of relating to this nostalgic example, let me briefly sum up the rules of the game. One person has something on their mind. In an attempt to be obvious, they give a clue that “something is up” by drawing a hangman’s noose and by drawing a line. In reality, they draw several lines that represent the letters of a word that they are thinking. That is the signal that they game has begun. Then it is the job for the other person, or persons, to guess what is on the mind of the person who provided the noose. Correct guesses allow appropriate letters to be filled in above the lines, saving our little bystander for another round. Incorrect guesses send our little friend in a sticky situation to the gallows where he his hung because someone couldn’t guess what someone else was thinking. Great game don’t you think?
How often do we draw a line on the ground, taking a position of defense, and then expect the person we are having a disagreement with to discern what we are thinking without any additional information. “Someone is going to hang for this, and it’s not going to be me,” is something that goes unsaid but seems to be implied when we play this game. It is also often followed by mobs and weapons, even if only on the stage in our minds.
A close friend of mine said she prefers not to play these kind of games. “No subtexts, please. If there is something you want to tell me, just say it. I don’t want to guess.” Knowing this type of openness was welcome helped me to be even more honest than I was before. I have tried to apply this principle in every aspect of my life, and I am finding it works.
In light of these examples, another set of stick figures comes to mind. They are everywhere. Perhaps you have seen them most recently traveling on the rear of a vehicle with tinted glass. Usually there are two larger stick figures positioned on the rear window that represent a mom and a dad. Then there are a varying number of smaller figures that follow which often represent children. I have also seen a number of dogs join the procession, and one car that had several bicycles that followed. To each, his or her own, I guess. The point that I would like to make is that the stick figures all seem to be happy. No one is firing cannons or bazookas. No one is getting hung. For some reason, everyone on the rear of the vehicle seems to be onboard with the idea that a family is a pretty great place to be. Life is good.
Within my own stick figure experience, I find that I am happiest when I get one thing right. It’s when I put the sticks down and increase the balloons that I am happiest. Open communication always makes things better for me. It isn’t meant to be a game as much as it is a gift. Open-fire with a bazooka does very little to make me feel good, even if it is as harmless as a few remarks on paper. When I choose to hold back information that could help resolve hurt feelings, I am really setting someone else up for a game of hang man (may he rest in peace) and that’s just not fair. However, when I choose to fill my balloons with honesty and a willingness to work things out, that’s when I remember that Jesus is there on the sidelines, not only as a referee, but as my coach. He is always willing to show me a better way if I am willing to let Him.
So why is it that, like this morning, a sermon can be delivered to me directly, and yet I have to learn the hard way by playing cruel games? Not sure. But I’m starting to figure things out, and I like how it feels. I like the feeling of peace and accomplishment when I face my fears and communicate how I am feeling to resolve my concerns. All I need is the right kind of balloons. No weapons are required – no heat, no noose – just enough faith to overcome my differences.
http://saltypockets.blogspot.com/
I’m not exactly sure of the sequence of events that escalated the family feud on a pew, but from what I am able to reconstruct, it happened like this. My daughter asked my wife for a pen so she could keep herself entertained after the sacrament had been passed. Having received said pen, or weapon as it were, she began to draw. Seeing that my daughter was having a good time, my son thought he would contribute some of his own creativity to her illustration of what I thought was an interesting and well delivered message from the assigned speaker. I suspect that my son may have briefly commandeered both the paper and the pen to make his move.
I observed as one stick figure was added to the other and the two figures began to have a conversation. Remarks were ballooned adjacent to their heads like you would see in a comic strip. A nice volley developed as balloons began to fill the page and I could tell there was a little heat coming from the paper. Well, he said this and she said that, and before you know it, someone had a weapon. I don’t know if the potato gun came first or if it followed another weapon of choice, but shortly after the exchange went from words to weapons, there were a large number of other stick figures who appeared on the scene. The new mob, which appeared to have been drawn by my son, led to cartoonish cannons and shoulder mounted fire arms that resembled bazookas. A few more remarks were ballooned on the page, and then some of the remarks escaped the drawing and came from the author’s mouths. Those balloons weren’t so visible, but their emotions were. “Hmmm,” I thought. This is interesting.
I don’t know that either of my children was necessarily guilty or innocent. They just were. They were my children and they did what siblings do best – they annoyed each other relentlessly. “Nice,” I thought. Here I am being inspired and the two of you are blowing each other up.
The little feud drew to a close as my daughter, bound and determined not to be outsmarted by her older brother, was fired upon by her father. She had just drawn an even larger cannon with two more stick figures. The figure at whom the cannon was pointed at was labeled as my son. The figure adjacent to the lit fuse was labeled so that I knew it was her. I could tell that the look on her face was not deliberately maniacal, but it was the look of, “Now I’ve got you! Take that!!” That’s when I asked if I could see the folded paper and I added a third label. I simply wrote, “Jesus,” off to the side and handed it back to her.
My daughter’s expression of accomplishment deflated like a balloon without any remarks left to hold the air in. She’s pretty bright and she got the message without me having to add another balloon. She sagged a little and then started to repair things. Before the cannon had a chance to fire at said brother and recipient of focused animosity, she intervened and protected his stick figure by building a wall in front of him. She then cut the fuse to the cannon with a pair of newly drawn scissors. In a manner of speaking, she saved the day. Having three people in the picture made all the difference, at least for her.
I don’t know that either she or her brother had listened to much of the talk, but she and the speaker came to the same conclusion – when we keep Jesus in our lives it affects all of our decisions and leads us to greater happiness. If we let Him, He will show us to a better way. Jesus said, “I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me.” (John 14:6)
This little exchange led me to think of another lonely, solitary stick figure of a man. I am thinking specifically of a simple game of hang man. Perhaps I assume too much if I believe that most people reading this post have played this game at some point, likely when a beloved Primary teacher or Sunday School teacher was absent and another poor, unsuspecting soul was asked to substitute at the last minute. How many times have you been in such a position and had to punt for a lesson, hmmm? Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me. All the same, the poor little guy who is the object of the game did nothing more than you by showing up to class, and yet he becomes a victim of a unique type of abuse, namely a lack of communication.
In case you haven’t ever had to punt for a lesson, and you have not yet felt the magic of relating to this nostalgic example, let me briefly sum up the rules of the game. One person has something on their mind. In an attempt to be obvious, they give a clue that “something is up” by drawing a hangman’s noose and by drawing a line. In reality, they draw several lines that represent the letters of a word that they are thinking. That is the signal that they game has begun. Then it is the job for the other person, or persons, to guess what is on the mind of the person who provided the noose. Correct guesses allow appropriate letters to be filled in above the lines, saving our little bystander for another round. Incorrect guesses send our little friend in a sticky situation to the gallows where he his hung because someone couldn’t guess what someone else was thinking. Great game don’t you think?
How often do we draw a line on the ground, taking a position of defense, and then expect the person we are having a disagreement with to discern what we are thinking without any additional information. “Someone is going to hang for this, and it’s not going to be me,” is something that goes unsaid but seems to be implied when we play this game. It is also often followed by mobs and weapons, even if only on the stage in our minds.
A close friend of mine said she prefers not to play these kind of games. “No subtexts, please. If there is something you want to tell me, just say it. I don’t want to guess.” Knowing this type of openness was welcome helped me to be even more honest than I was before. I have tried to apply this principle in every aspect of my life, and I am finding it works.
In light of these examples, another set of stick figures comes to mind. They are everywhere. Perhaps you have seen them most recently traveling on the rear of a vehicle with tinted glass. Usually there are two larger stick figures positioned on the rear window that represent a mom and a dad. Then there are a varying number of smaller figures that follow which often represent children. I have also seen a number of dogs join the procession, and one car that had several bicycles that followed. To each, his or her own, I guess. The point that I would like to make is that the stick figures all seem to be happy. No one is firing cannons or bazookas. No one is getting hung. For some reason, everyone on the rear of the vehicle seems to be onboard with the idea that a family is a pretty great place to be. Life is good.
Within my own stick figure experience, I find that I am happiest when I get one thing right. It’s when I put the sticks down and increase the balloons that I am happiest. Open communication always makes things better for me. It isn’t meant to be a game as much as it is a gift. Open-fire with a bazooka does very little to make me feel good, even if it is as harmless as a few remarks on paper. When I choose to hold back information that could help resolve hurt feelings, I am really setting someone else up for a game of hang man (may he rest in peace) and that’s just not fair. However, when I choose to fill my balloons with honesty and a willingness to work things out, that’s when I remember that Jesus is there on the sidelines, not only as a referee, but as my coach. He is always willing to show me a better way if I am willing to let Him.
So why is it that, like this morning, a sermon can be delivered to me directly, and yet I have to learn the hard way by playing cruel games? Not sure. But I’m starting to figure things out, and I like how it feels. I like the feeling of peace and accomplishment when I face my fears and communicate how I am feeling to resolve my concerns. All I need is the right kind of balloons. No weapons are required – no heat, no noose – just enough faith to overcome my differences.
http://saltypockets.blogspot.com/
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Maybe I’m Still a Toddler
This morning I sat a little more incognito in a church congregation other than my own. The setting was Washington D.C. The sermon was taught by a toddler. In fact he sat in the pew right in front of me. It’s not that the other speakers weren’t uplifting; I just discovered I could learn a lot from a two-year old.
The beautiful young mother who claimed the boy was doing a marvelous job of keeping his sermon under control. She was patient. Knowing the capability of her boy, it may have been that she didn’t want to take the spotlight away from the other sacrament meeting speakers. In any event, I couldn’t help but notice the dialogue between the two after the boy started with an object lesson. He leaned forward, cocked the trigger, and released his body movement backward where he hit his head on the top edge of the pew.
“Don’t bump your head on the bench,” she whispered calmly, “It will hurt.”
“No,” was his reply.
“Yes,” was hers.
“No.”
“Yes. It will.” Her voice remained loving and patient.
“No.” I could tell that he wasn’t trying to be defiant; it just came natural without any thought. He liked the “power word” he had discovered not long ago.
“See this wood right here?” his mother said, pointing to the back of the bench.
The boy looked at the bench, and having done what she said, replied, “No.” Then he repeated the backward movement again and hit his head on the bench. It is possible that it really didn’t hurt, and that is why he said no. I have a suspicion, however, that he was having more fun refuting his mother than he was trying to hit his head.
Sometimes I hit my head on the bench repeatedly, convinced it wont hurt that much. Even if it doesn’t – even if pain is not the issue – Father has prepared specific lessons for me, and if I miss what He is trying to teach me, I just keep banging my head on the wall. It’s more frustrating when, after the fact, I realize what I have been doing, especially if I have refused to look behind me at the pew.
Next it was time for the sacrament, but the boy didn’t pause his sermon at all. He proceeded to hold up his toy, and said, “Helihopter.” He then made raspberry sounds with his tongue trying to simulate the sound of a propeller on a helicopter. Looking at his mother, he asked, “Sacament?” The mother nodded her head. His retort was swift as though he had been preparing his talk for months. “I’na go home!” Perhaps he was convinced that she didn’t understand, or maybe he understood that good preachers will sometimes repeat an idea for effect as he himself continued to repeat, “I’na go home,” over and over, using every possible intonation variation he could think of. I think he was more interested in experimenting to see how many different ways he could say the same thing than he was in trying to get his point across. Eventually he was distracted by the bread and water being passed, at least temporarily.
The boy figured out a new way to make noise when the mother informed him, “don’t do that or you’ll have to go out.” It was amazing to see the thought process parade across his face in a matter of seconds before he looked at her and said, “I’na go out.” Remember, two-year-olds understand emphasis more than we give them credit when they can slow down the pronunciation of a key word by two to three times. The word, “out,” was said in just such a way, with his slightly-whining-tone dropping as he lengthened the word.
I couldn’t help but chuckle, mostly because I could relate. There are a lot of things I “wanna” do sometimes, but I can’t – at least not at the moment. Sometimes I whine, too. It isn’t hard to think, “I would rather be anyplace than here,” when things aren’t going the way I want them to. If I could take an easier way out of a difficult situation, I just might. Most of the time, it isn’t even offered to me.
Whether it is my home on earth, or my home in heaven, I know what it feels like to want to go home, too. That may be my most important goal, but I can often be distracted by what I want. If I am distracted too much, I may want to give up and get out. Seldom does that really get me where I need to go. It is simply another distraction that seems to offer relief.
Once the boy found a quiet activity book with familiar colors and shapes, he left his sermon for a time. I don’t think this had the same effect on me as an intermediate rest hymn (which gives us rest from what, I don’t know), but it too came to an end, as did his attention for the book. Next came another object lesson.
The boy walked over to his little baby sister and apparently wanted to hit her, so he did. This, like everything else in his lesson, came in a pattern that he repeated over and over. Whap, whap, whap. Again, similar to his other messages, I don’t think he was as concerned about hurting his sister as he was in wanting to hit her. Why is it that we have a natural tendency to hurt those we love most, usually without meaning to? His mother saw what was happening and placed her hand in front of her daughter, offering her hand as an alternative target. The boy caught on to the game quick and diverted his fire and brimstone toward a more eager participant.
In this case, the boy’s intent wasn’t wrong; it just needed to be redirected. He was chastened and he hardly noticed. More and more I try to look at what I am doing and ask, “What effect is this having on those around me? Am I hurting them without meaning to? How can I redirect my intent to avoid causing pain?” I really take no pleasure in hurting others, especially those I love most. In order to avoid doing this, I have to look through their eyes, which is not always an easy thing.
As the boy’s sermon drew to a close, he gave one more glance at his mother, paused until she was looking directly at him, and then he repeated his head-banging-on-bench statement to sum up his topic. Was he right? Maybe. Was his mother right? Yes. Did the two see eye to eye by the end of the sermon? No, I don’t think so. That may take a few years, or fifty.
The boy obviously hasn’t been introduced to the concept of a dénouement, or he would have recognized that he had the perfect conclusion to his message. Instead, he sat there smiling for a moment (as if to say, “wait for it…”), then suddenly he ruptured into tears. Kablowey! Instant meltdown. The fact of the matter was that HE WAS HUNGRY, and he just barely noticed. Sadly for him, he didn’t have anything to eat. After the closing prayer, the sobbing boy exited the chapel holding his mother’s hand, still missing the lesson. Or did he?
If I find that I have a greater understanding than a toddler and still exhibit the same behavior, can I rightly say that he understands any less than I do. Sometimes I cry when I don’t get what I want. I make up reasons of why my needs are greater than a toddler. And then, when I look through his eyes, I start to understand that we are not that different.
Each time the boy delivered part of his message, I could see that his intent could be taken wrong. He did one thing, but it usually didn’t match his intent. The truth of the matter is that he was just trying to do his best, staying where he should be, right where his mother and his Father wanted him to be. That was part of the lesson intended for him.
When life gets hard, I remember that my Savior has no intention of hurting me. In fact, in His case, he paid a price that I could not pay at all, just so I wouldn’t have to. He offers His hand to me, regardless of whether I take it or divert my fire and brimstone towards Him. I hope I never do that again. His hand gives me great comfort. His intent is to save me. Fortunately for me, He communicated that clearly without confusion when He offered not only His hand, but His life. I am so grateful for the lessons He has taught me. I am grateful for His gift.
Too many times, the lessons I was meant to learn are so obvious. They have been right in front of my nose the entire time. Sometimes, they are seated on a pew rather than a pulpit.
http://saltypockets.blogspot.com/
The beautiful young mother who claimed the boy was doing a marvelous job of keeping his sermon under control. She was patient. Knowing the capability of her boy, it may have been that she didn’t want to take the spotlight away from the other sacrament meeting speakers. In any event, I couldn’t help but notice the dialogue between the two after the boy started with an object lesson. He leaned forward, cocked the trigger, and released his body movement backward where he hit his head on the top edge of the pew.
“Don’t bump your head on the bench,” she whispered calmly, “It will hurt.”
“No,” was his reply.
“Yes,” was hers.
“No.”
“Yes. It will.” Her voice remained loving and patient.
“No.” I could tell that he wasn’t trying to be defiant; it just came natural without any thought. He liked the “power word” he had discovered not long ago.
“See this wood right here?” his mother said, pointing to the back of the bench.
The boy looked at the bench, and having done what she said, replied, “No.” Then he repeated the backward movement again and hit his head on the bench. It is possible that it really didn’t hurt, and that is why he said no. I have a suspicion, however, that he was having more fun refuting his mother than he was trying to hit his head.
Sometimes I hit my head on the bench repeatedly, convinced it wont hurt that much. Even if it doesn’t – even if pain is not the issue – Father has prepared specific lessons for me, and if I miss what He is trying to teach me, I just keep banging my head on the wall. It’s more frustrating when, after the fact, I realize what I have been doing, especially if I have refused to look behind me at the pew.
Next it was time for the sacrament, but the boy didn’t pause his sermon at all. He proceeded to hold up his toy, and said, “Helihopter.” He then made raspberry sounds with his tongue trying to simulate the sound of a propeller on a helicopter. Looking at his mother, he asked, “Sacament?” The mother nodded her head. His retort was swift as though he had been preparing his talk for months. “I’na go home!” Perhaps he was convinced that she didn’t understand, or maybe he understood that good preachers will sometimes repeat an idea for effect as he himself continued to repeat, “I’na go home,” over and over, using every possible intonation variation he could think of. I think he was more interested in experimenting to see how many different ways he could say the same thing than he was in trying to get his point across. Eventually he was distracted by the bread and water being passed, at least temporarily.
The boy figured out a new way to make noise when the mother informed him, “don’t do that or you’ll have to go out.” It was amazing to see the thought process parade across his face in a matter of seconds before he looked at her and said, “I’na go out.” Remember, two-year-olds understand emphasis more than we give them credit when they can slow down the pronunciation of a key word by two to three times. The word, “out,” was said in just such a way, with his slightly-whining-tone dropping as he lengthened the word.
I couldn’t help but chuckle, mostly because I could relate. There are a lot of things I “wanna” do sometimes, but I can’t – at least not at the moment. Sometimes I whine, too. It isn’t hard to think, “I would rather be anyplace than here,” when things aren’t going the way I want them to. If I could take an easier way out of a difficult situation, I just might. Most of the time, it isn’t even offered to me.
Whether it is my home on earth, or my home in heaven, I know what it feels like to want to go home, too. That may be my most important goal, but I can often be distracted by what I want. If I am distracted too much, I may want to give up and get out. Seldom does that really get me where I need to go. It is simply another distraction that seems to offer relief.
Once the boy found a quiet activity book with familiar colors and shapes, he left his sermon for a time. I don’t think this had the same effect on me as an intermediate rest hymn (which gives us rest from what, I don’t know), but it too came to an end, as did his attention for the book. Next came another object lesson.
The boy walked over to his little baby sister and apparently wanted to hit her, so he did. This, like everything else in his lesson, came in a pattern that he repeated over and over. Whap, whap, whap. Again, similar to his other messages, I don’t think he was as concerned about hurting his sister as he was in wanting to hit her. Why is it that we have a natural tendency to hurt those we love most, usually without meaning to? His mother saw what was happening and placed her hand in front of her daughter, offering her hand as an alternative target. The boy caught on to the game quick and diverted his fire and brimstone toward a more eager participant.
In this case, the boy’s intent wasn’t wrong; it just needed to be redirected. He was chastened and he hardly noticed. More and more I try to look at what I am doing and ask, “What effect is this having on those around me? Am I hurting them without meaning to? How can I redirect my intent to avoid causing pain?” I really take no pleasure in hurting others, especially those I love most. In order to avoid doing this, I have to look through their eyes, which is not always an easy thing.
As the boy’s sermon drew to a close, he gave one more glance at his mother, paused until she was looking directly at him, and then he repeated his head-banging-on-bench statement to sum up his topic. Was he right? Maybe. Was his mother right? Yes. Did the two see eye to eye by the end of the sermon? No, I don’t think so. That may take a few years, or fifty.
The boy obviously hasn’t been introduced to the concept of a dénouement, or he would have recognized that he had the perfect conclusion to his message. Instead, he sat there smiling for a moment (as if to say, “wait for it…”), then suddenly he ruptured into tears. Kablowey! Instant meltdown. The fact of the matter was that HE WAS HUNGRY, and he just barely noticed. Sadly for him, he didn’t have anything to eat. After the closing prayer, the sobbing boy exited the chapel holding his mother’s hand, still missing the lesson. Or did he?
If I find that I have a greater understanding than a toddler and still exhibit the same behavior, can I rightly say that he understands any less than I do. Sometimes I cry when I don’t get what I want. I make up reasons of why my needs are greater than a toddler. And then, when I look through his eyes, I start to understand that we are not that different.
Each time the boy delivered part of his message, I could see that his intent could be taken wrong. He did one thing, but it usually didn’t match his intent. The truth of the matter is that he was just trying to do his best, staying where he should be, right where his mother and his Father wanted him to be. That was part of the lesson intended for him.
When life gets hard, I remember that my Savior has no intention of hurting me. In fact, in His case, he paid a price that I could not pay at all, just so I wouldn’t have to. He offers His hand to me, regardless of whether I take it or divert my fire and brimstone towards Him. I hope I never do that again. His hand gives me great comfort. His intent is to save me. Fortunately for me, He communicated that clearly without confusion when He offered not only His hand, but His life. I am so grateful for the lessons He has taught me. I am grateful for His gift.
Too many times, the lessons I was meant to learn are so obvious. They have been right in front of my nose the entire time. Sometimes, they are seated on a pew rather than a pulpit.
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