I think it's true that the world -- including my home --
largely consists of average, normal, try-to-get-through-the-
day without-messing-up-too-much type people. We each have
different tools, or use the same tools in different ways,
but undeniably, we're all trying hard to be good.
The bumper sticker reads: Caution: I drive like you.
It's such a clever way of saying, "Look, I may goof, but
doesn't everybody?" That's much better and more accurate
than saying, "My goofs are forgivable. Yours aren't."
No one drives exactly like anyone else. However,
acknowledging what we have in common, on the road and off,
can help us judge one another favorably, and forgive.
I try to remember this by playing a simple game: When I'm on
the bus, for example, I imagine that the lady next to me,
whose wide-rimmed hat is ruffling my sheitel, is
actually my long lost, beloved aunt. We're family, we share
the same blood. How can I not love her? Suddenly, her
invading my space doesn't bother me. In fact, I kind of like
it.
The meany in the post office is my husband's uncle; the
bully who punched my son is my favorite nephew; and the
owner of the dry cleaners that ruined my new dress is my
second cousin, twice removed.
It's just a game, but it helps. It's easier to love the
stranger and judge him favorably when you imagine that he is
not.
Sometimes it happens that the one we are not judging
favorably really is our beloved aunt or cousin...or
our own beloved child.
My two-year-old was telling my husband about her day in
gan. She was speaking softly and it was hard for him
to hear. "I can't hear, sweetie," my husband told her. "Can
you tell me again?"
Strangely, instead of speaking up, she spoke softer. "But I
can't hear you. What are you saying?" Again she spoke, this
time, barely moving her lips at all.
Finally, my husband said, "Okay, if you don't want to tell
me, you don't have to. You can tell me later, if you
want."
Later that night the same thing happened with me. I tried
communicating with her and she responded in whispers. When I
told her I couldn't hear, she whispered even more softly.
This difficult pattern continued over the next few days. The
whole family got in on the action; one tried coaxing, one
tried hollering, one child tried "shaking" some sense into
her. Maybe she needed more attention, we thought. Maybe she
wanted independence and control. Or maybe she was just an
extremely stubborn little girl! Whatever her reason, she
continued in her way, whispering.
One night, my husband was on the phone while the children
were playing nearby. The two-year-old, especially, was
making a lot of noise. My husband cupped the mouthpiece of
the phone and said to her, "Can you please be quiet? I can't
hear!"
My husband and I looked at each other. The light bulb went
"ding." Why didn't we think of it? Didn't he tell her to be
quiet so that he could hear? How many times have we told her
and the others to be quiet so that we can hear? Never mind
the one we're trying to hear is on the other end of an
electric cable. How in the world can she know that?
We tried to explain the difference between talking to her
and talking to someone else; how when we talk to her, she
must speak loudly and when we talk to someone else, such as
someone on the telephone, she must speak softly.
I think she understood what we were saying as well as she
understands Swahili. But she knew we were trying and she
nodded her head to show that she was trying too.
That's what really counts. Whether or not we are successful
in understanding the "driving" style of another family or
stranger -- effort is the main thing.
It takes very much effort, at times, to understand why
people do the things they do. Sometimes I feel the energy we
exert in understanding our children is enough to move the
entire world.
And maybe, in some cosmic way, we have.
