Kindness

photo from lexington.ma.us

My typically sweet Sunday School class full of five and six-year-olds were not being their usual selves today.

It started in the first hour, when we meet with all of the other kids aged 8 and under.

One had to go to the bathroom about every 7 minutes.
One could not keep her hands to herself.
One continuously turned to glare at me.
One would not stop eating her strawberry-flavored chapstick.
One could not refrain from busting out some crazy dance moves every time we sang a song.
Two would not stop kissing each other on the mouth.
The rest were simply restless.

By the time we finally made it to our classroom for our second hour together it was obvious that not much listening would be happening today. I mentally made a change of plans on how to present my lesson - incorporating plenty of role playing, action songs and class participation.

By the time I got the 3 boys from behind the door and the 2 kids who were hiding beneath a chair and table to their seats, my Hubba started kicking the air vent on the door. I nicely asked him to take a seat and he answered my request by kicking the vent again. I sat him in the hallway and again tried to begin class.

The lesson was about being kind. As I began to ask different kids to help me act out the parable of the Good Samaritan I noticed that one of my little six-year-olds was plugging her ears and squeezing her eyes shut. I tried to ignore her antics... until she began softly humming. When she refused to stop I took her to one of the adult leaders over the primary classes and had them take her to her mother. I hate resorting to this tactic but some days it is the only thing I can do to remain sane.

Three girls would not stop chatting. Two others would not stop kicking each others' chairs. My quietest class member looked as if she might start to cry. I was at the end of my rope. Nothing was working!! I had the thought that maybe if I tried to be kind instead of acting frustrated they would get the message. I started to whisper a story which came to mind. The class eventually became silent in order to hear my words.

I told them of a time when I was just older than their age, a time when I was very self-conscious and unsure of myself. There were many reasons for this, but the most obvious was my teeth. I explained to them that my teeth sort of made me look like a beaver and that one particular boy at church would always tease me about my teeth and make me want to cry. Then I asked them, "Was that a kind thing for him to do?" "NO!" they all shouted in unison.

And before I could finish my story, they all took turns defending my past buck-toothed self.

"That kid was NOT NICE to you!"

"What a big meanie boy!"

"If I was a kid way back in time when you were a kid I would've been your friend and told that kid to KNOCK IT OFF, MISTER!!"

I thanked them all for their kindness and just then the girl who was taken to her mom returned. She handed me a note and sat down in her seat. The note read:

Deir techor,

I em sorwee
that I was
anoring you
You are the Best
techor

As I was handing out a coloring page my little Hubba re-joined us as well. Apparently he had gotten bored with sitting in the hallway and made his way to the library where he asked someone to help him write a note for me which simply said:

I Love You!

Hubba

Well, since the lesson was on kindness (and because I am easily manipulated) I let him come sit with the class for the last few minutes.

After the closing prayer was said each class member gave me the customary high-five or hug along with their own added words which varied from thank you to I love you, teach-o to sorry we were kind of bad.

Here was my sweet class. I knew they would show up eventually.

Bring On The Rain

The late Friday afternoon skies held the promise of rain with five shades of dark clouds hovering over the tops of the mountains. It was a good day for a race.

I was giddy with the anticipation of finally attending one of Coolister and ElemenoB's cross-country meets because nothing thrills me more than to see my kids thriving at the things I loved when I was their age.


Coolister's goal was to beat his most recent time on this same course - which he did by almost a full minute. I like to believe this had something to do with the maniacal screaming of his mother racing from place to place to cheer him on at the sidelines. (Humor me.)

ElemenoB's goal was to beat her personal best time by one second. She started strong, running in a tight pack with her teammates in the first stretch. By the time she came back around to where I was waiting, she had pulled ahead some. I screamed encouraging words and she smiled.


The next time I saw her, however, things were different. She was running at a slower pace than usual. I noticed that she was talking with a girl from another team and as they ran past me, she smiled again. I continued to watch her and cheer her on.

Each time ElemenoB looped past me on the course I caught snatches of her conversations with this same stranger from another school: Keep it up, you can do it. Just keep running. Don't stop now. The two of them stuck together throughout the race and as they came in for the finish the girl passed ElemenoB up and placed just ahead of her.


We checked ElemenoB's time... almost a full minute more than her personal best. "That's a lot better than I thought I did," she told me. I asked who the girl was and why ElemenoB had run with her instead of at her usual speed. She responded that the girl had begun to walk and seemed to need some encouragement. So encouragement was offered throughout the remainder of the race - even at the end when the girl passed her up.

Why? Because ElemenoB tells me that she gets more satisfaction at the end of a race from knowing she helped someone else finish than from improving her own time.

There are so many lessons to be learned from that.

A few tears escaped from the overflowing reservoir beneath my eyes, thankfully sheltered behind my sunglasses.

And so the rain did come, but not in the way I had expected. And it was beautiful.

Recall

Hubba in his truest form.

Today I inadvertently published an entry written for my personal blog here on this blog. For those of you who are wondering, it was a detailed description of my less-than-perfect day at church relating to the challenges I am facing with my 4-year-old, Hubba.

And here's the thing.

Initially, I was mortified when I realized my mistake - 3 hours after the fact. It was when I received notice that I had comments on the post that I realized what I had done. I immediately moved the post to the place it was meant to be and then read the comments that were left for me.

All I really wanted to say was thank you. Thank you to those who left me words of encouragement and kindness and advice. Every comment that was left was exactly what I needed to hear and greatly appreciated.

You are some amazing people out there. Whether or not we have ever met, I am thankful to have you as friends.

Really...thank you.

Not My Scene

We decided a late-night meal was in order.

The kids were all in bed, Allen was burning the midnight oil at work and I was hungry. The only challenge was finding a place that was open after 10:00 p.m. on a weeknight which did not have Mc or King in its name. I called a few of our favorites, however, they had all closed already. We live in a college town for Pete's sake! Didn't anyone cater to the late-night crowd? I pulled out the phone book and searched the restaurant listings in the yellow pages.

Applebee's! Open until midnight! Visions of Oriental Chicken Salads danced in my head!

The parking lot was packed - especially for 10:30 on a Wednesday night. The interior was just as crowded.

As I walked in I was greeted by the strumming of an acoustic guitar as a live performer sang the final strains of a Dave Matthews song. "Just one?" the friendly 20-something host asked. "I'm just ordering for take-out," I informed him. "Have a seat at the bar," he instructed, "and someone will be there to help you in just a moment."

Have a seat at the bar. I assessed the situation as I approached the bar and quickly determined that it was not exactly in my comfort zone. But I could play it calm, cool and collected. I uncomfortably slid into a seat that was somewhat isolated from the rest of the crowd and waited. The bartender asked if he could get me something to drink. "I'm just here for take-out," I told him as I placed my order. And then I waited.

The 2 guys to my right impeded my view of the guitar player so I pretended to be interested in the play-by-play of today's sporting events (without sound, mind you) that was on the television.
"Here's to jail!" one guy yelled (a bit too loud) as he and his pal laughed and raised their glasses of beer for a toast. (I am not making this up!) I became even more engrossed in the sports statistics on the big screen.

The guy to my left knocked his drink over and a concoction of brown liquid and ice cubes came cascading down the bar and stopped within 2 feet of where I sat. "Sorry!" the man yelled to me over the resonating sound of the guitar. "It's okay," I assured him with a wan smile as I rested my chin on my left hand, blatantly exposing my wedding ring. I tried to appear completely absorbed in the scandalous story of some well-known sports figure on the T.V.

"So, you're really into sports?" the bartender asked me with a knowing smile.

"Not really," I confessed anxiously, "This just really isn't my scene."

"I'm sorry the food is taking so long. It should be out in a few minutes," he assured me. And then, instead of chatting it up with his customers at the bar, which I'm sure would have increased the amount of tips they would leave, he stayed and talked to me. He asked where I was from and how I ended up in Utah. He asked about my family and marveled over the fact that I had 9 kids. And then I began to realize... he was trying to make me feel less nervous. And it worked - the people and atmosphere around me had not changed - I had. All because a bartender had sensed my discomfort and helped put me at ease.

Before I knew it, my food was ready to go.

I paid for my order and stood, once again ready to retreat to the familiar interior of my vehicle in the parking lot. "Hey - thanks," I called to my bartender friend. "Thanks for everything."

"No problem," he answered.

And you know what? He really meant it.

The Blue Sweater

Christmas! The season is here. I have so many reasons to love this holiday, but the most prominent are the memories of the years that we had the least - monetarily, anyway.

Our first few years in California were tough. After my Dad lost his job in Iowa we moved to California to live with my Aunt Bonnie and Uncle Dick. They were generous enough to not only offer my father employment but to also welcome us into their home. We lived with them for quite a while until Mom and Dad felt like we could try to make a go of things on our own and we moved into a nearby apartment. Mom and Dad told us that there would not be much for Christmas that year, but we would all be receiving a little something.

I remember well a trip to the mall a few days before Christmas to see the holiday displays and do some window shopping, something we did often. As I passed one particular window I caught sight of a beautiful blue sweater. Oh, how I wanted that sweater! I was at one of the most awkward social stages of my life. I had difficulty making friends and I was sure this sweater could help me in that department. With this sweater? Instant popularity! Friends galore! I slipped into the store, waving my family ahead.

I found my size and held it in front of me. It was so soft and warm. I looked into a mirror and could see how its blue color brought out the color of my eyes. I didn't dare try it on for fear that it would be a perfect fit, cementing the thought in my mind that we were made for each other, this sweater and I. I looked at the price tag... there was no way. I couldn't even ask.

I folded the sweater up and placed it back with the others in shades of red, purple and green. After one last, longing look, I hurried to catch up with my family.

Over the next couple of days we enjoyed some simple holiday traditions together - making cookies and decorating the tree. On Christmas Eve we delivered cookies to a few of our neighbors and friends then came back home to enjoy some Christmas treats. As we watched some holiday programs on the T.V. a loud knock sounded at our door. We ran to find who was coming to visit on Christmas Eve, throwing the door open eagerly. There was no one there. We were excited when we looked down and noticed a large box, filled with canned food, a ham and a gift for each of us! Christmas morning could not come quickly enough.

After a long, restless night, Christmas morning dawned. We gathered around the tree, eagerly anticipating the opening of gifts. There were a few things for each of us and we (im)patiently sat as each person took turns opening their presents one at a time, the way Mom liked to have us do it. Why we weren't allowed to just tear into the paper like wild banshees and get to what was inside was beyond me, but Mom made the rules.

I don't recall what my other gifts were but when it finally came my turn to open the mysterious gift left anonymously, I said a little prayer in my mind... "Please, Heavenly Father, let it be the blue sweater..." then I stopped. I felt a bit embarrassed. Who was I to ask God for a silly sweater? And why get my hopes up? The chances were slim to none. I slowly opened the gift and could not believe my eyes.

There it was. My sweater. The right size, the right color. We were made for each other.

Some may chalk it up to coincidence, but I choose to believe that God knows us personally and He knows what our needs are. And I think He works through others to bless us in simple ways when He knows we need it most.

This may sound over dramatic to you, but to a young pre-teen girl in need of a boost in the self-esteem department?

It was my own Christmas miracle.

We Could All Use A Little Change

Yesterday my little Superman was digging around in his change jar before school. That usually means he has enough to buy school lunch, which I think is disgusting, but hey, it's his money. I asked him what the change was for so I would know if I needed to pack him a lunch or not.

He responded: "Miss S. showed us a jar in class yesterday. Any money we put in it will help to buy books for kids who don't have any."

I asked if he was sure he wanted to put his change in the jar. After all, wasn't he saving for a new pack of Pokemon cards? Didn't he want to buy that kite at the dollar store? How about a new set of Legos? There had to be something else he wanted to use his money for.

I think he was disappointed in me.

He said: "Mom, some kids don't have books. Can you imagine not having books?! Besides, Miss S. put just about her whole purse full of money in the jar. If she can do that, I can put in my change."

It's days like this I realize I must be doing something right in teaching these kids of mine. I guess we could all use a little 'change' every once in a while.