Our Children’s Wisdom

By Lana Christian

When we bought our first house, my brother-in-law and his family drove up from Texas to visit us, with their two young children in tow. At the time, they lived in a part of the state where scorpions and fire ants were more common than grass. When they got to our house, the kids asked permission to go outside and play. "Sure," I said. "If you want a ball or a Frisbee or anything, it’s in the garage."

The two raced outside, straight past the play box and in to the yard. They dropped to the ground, pulled off their tennis shoes, and just sat, grabbing the turf with their little toes. My niece ran her hand over the Midwest’s emerald product of lush spring rains. "Ooooh, have you ever felt anything so …"

Words failed her, but her face showed all the rapture of someone who’d won the lottery.

When’s the last time you were unabashedly grateful for anything—let alone something as simple as GRASS?

* * * *

A few years later my son was born. When he was two, we went to a fancy restaurant to celebrate a grandparent’s birthday. As we drove home, I noticed gravy on my husband’s tie. I fussed over the tie, not knowing how to wash it. I clucked over my husband’s poor aim with his fork. I—was suddenly interrupted.

My son piped up from his back-row car seat. "Don’t worry it, Mommy!"

He was right. How much energy do we waste on insignificant things? What would happen if we redirected it to enjoying our family, making a positive difference?

* * * *

As my son grew, so did his ear problems. By first grade, he had his fourth set of tubes in his ears. We could have redecorated our house with the money we’d spent on antibiotics. Secretly, I worried that he’d suffer permanent hearing loss. One night, I confided this to my husband in hushed tones behind the closed door of our bedroom. When I tucked our son in bed that night, he said, "It’s OK, Mommy; I hear everything I want to hear!"

Hearing versus listening. The former is passive; the latter is active. Too often we cruise in passive hearing mode. What would happen if we really listened to what someone said—so we could hear beyond the words? How much more sensitive would we be to each others’ needs?

* * * *

My father was paralyzed the last 14 years of his life from a near-fatal stroke. As a result, his entire left side hung limp and lifeless. A smidgen of residual upper leg muscles allowed him to sling the affected leg forward so he could walk slowly with a cane. Our son was born five years after dad’s stroke. Although he always regretted not being able to throw a football or play soccer with his grandson, my dad was as involved with our son as his health would allow. And our son never considered his grandfather a "cripple." Instead, he’d say, "Lean on me, Grandpa. I can help you. Here, I’ll get your cane for you." My son’s [then] eight-year-old frame couldn’t support his grandfather, but his heart could.

What we adults call "support" is often perfunctory concern that stops at good intentions. What would happen if we truly helped "bear each others’ burdens?"

Take a tip from a child. It may be the wisest advice you get.