A DIFFICULT GIFT
She’s a gift, her voice breathed, I just didn’t know how hard it would be.
The words left her mouth as she turned toward the open door. It was the end of the night, time to head home, time to round up the kids and the serving dish and thank the hosts for a lovely evening. But her parting words were not just a casual ‘until next time,’ they were a snapping of the fingers jolt back to the reality that I had failed to see.
She spoke of her daughter. She’s a gift, her shoulders dropped, I just didn’t know how hard it would be.
And in that instant I saw her, truly saw her. Saw her yearnings, saw her hopes, saw her struggle. And saw painfully through my own snap judgements.
I had met her just hours earlier as her family entered my home for a group dinner. Our sons were friends but our paths had yet to cross, the way it sometimes is when you’re raising teenagers.
Her youngest daughter also joined us and little time would pass before my mind filed the observation, “this girl’s got some spice.” As the night unfolded, the daughter would prove to give her parents a bit of a run for their money.
It’s embarrassing to me how quickly the mind assumes it knows the situation of another, how fast we find our inner world establishing itself as judge and jury over a fellow human. I saw their daughter, observed a few interactions, and for a moment internally questioned their ability to parent.
I so wish I could rewind the night and see it with different eyes.
How could I have forgotten my own history?
How could I, the one who raised an incredibly challenging child for the first ten years of his life ever weigh-in on the abilities and efforts of another parent? How could I, the one who had experienced countless moments of public humiliation at my son’s unexplainable behavior ever wonder if another mom was ‘doing it right?’
Life came too fast for my son’s developing brain and the fallout was often epic and loud. I have not and will not ever forget the judgmental looks from strangers and the way a face can speak, “My kid would never behave that way,” without even saying a word.
We are wise to question our understanding of another’s successes and failures.
We are wise to question our understanding of our own.
Not a single person at my home that night knew where my mind had gone, but I saw my rush to judgement and it broke me.
So to the mom doing every loving thing she can to raise a difficult child or a child in a difficult season, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I forgot our shared history and was so quick to judge. I’m sorry others who don’t share our history are doing the same.
I’m sorry you feel like you’re failing, that the end is no where in sight. I’m sorry that this is hard, that you’re trying and trying and trying, only to deem yourself forever coming up short. I’m sorry that the words you long to hear are spoken too few and far between.
You’ve got this.
You’re doing a good job.
Keep putting one foot in front of the other, your best is most certainly good enough.
As for me, I’m reminded of the grace we all long to see extended to us, of the grace we must first extend to another. I’m reminded that success and failure often look far different than we assume and that eyes that look out with curiosity are far more just than those that assume they know the answers.
I’m reminded that we all struggle, we all hope, and if we’re not careful, we are all too quick to judge. I’ll do it differently next time, I promise. And to the moms out there trying…on behalf of all of us leveling snap judgements, I’m sorry.