Afraid of Leaves
I think my daughter is afraid of leaves. If we're walking in the park and there's a big leaf in her way, she'll cautiously pick it up, drop it off to the side, and then proceed. There have been times she's casually strolling through the grass, until she realizes her feet are touching leaves, and then she'll freak out and freeze, as though she was bolted to the ground. And this from someone who scales steep slides and fearlessly chases the sheep and goats at the petting zoo.
I have to see that I've been quite pleased with my approach to this phobia of hers. Rather than scolding her for having such irrational thoughts, or even trying to persuade her that she needn't fear the leaves, I've just let her be. I even affirm, in a sense, her right to be afraid: "Yes, the leaves are scary to you." But: "You'll be OK, just hold my hand."
I'm pleased with my approach because I am otherwise a hyper-rational, problem-solving kind of person. If someone comes to me to complain or vent, I usually respond in one of two ways: 1) you don't need to complain like that (i.e. you're being irrational), or 2) here's what you can do to fix that (i.e. you're a problem to be solved).
And while it's not bad to be rational and problem-solving, sometimes what people want isn't rationality or solutions. Sometimes they want empathy. They want to vent, and they want you to say, "I hear you," or "I'm sorry." Maybe their problem, or their approach to their problem, ought not be affirmed; but they ought to be affirmed.
I am reminded of a letter from the publisher of a parenting magazine. In this otherwise high-end and somewhat snobby publication was a jewel of an insight. The publisher spoke of how crushed her daughter was when she had to leave her friends at the end of the day, or if she had made new friends on vacation. Her first reaction was always to say as any parent might say: "Don't cry; we'll see them tomorrow," or "It's OK, you'll make new friends." But she would always stifle that comment and replace it with something more affirming: "I'm sorry you miss your friends," or "It must be really hard to say goodbye to someone you like so much." The publisher spoke of how we as adults have context, so we know that these kinds of hurts will be temporal and tomorrow's a new day. But kids don't have that kind of context to draw from, nor should they; and so for them to hurt in this way is appropriate and shouldn't be stifled or dismissed.
My wife and I recently talked about this in the context of being teased. Kids are merciless, aren't they, and no doubt our daughter will be the subject of teasing at some point in her life. At first, I wanted to take the approach of telling our daughter how ignorant the teasers were: "They're just being stupid," or "They're just saying that because they don't understand." But my wife reminded me that we also need to communicate to our daughter that we affirm her feelings: "That must have hurt you to hear those hurtful words," and "I'm so sorry they said that to you."
I've been reading through the book of Job in the mornings with my daughter. If you don't know the book, the gist of it is that a righteous man has a series of calamities and cries out to God for answers. His three friends join him, sometimes commiserating and sometimes scolding him for doubting God. In the end, God appears on the scene, and far from giving Job answers, basically says, "I'm God, you're not." Job repents, and God blesses him.
The part that strikes me in all of this is very early in the book, when Job's three friends first arrive on the scene. Job is covered in boils and clearly in pain, both physically and emotionally. The three friends arrive, sit down next to Job, and start to cry. There are no words of comfort, rebuke, or instruction, just a coming alongside and a weeping.
I remember studying the book of Job in college, during a time when many of my close friends were going through some very serious emotional distresses. Being a problem-solver, my approach as a friend was to help them to rationally find a place of faith and comfort in the midst of their hardships. I would write down applicable Bible verses or try to say encouraging things.
But after I had studied the book of Job, I decided to try a different approach. I remember a good friend of mine calling me up to get together. He was already out of college and living in the area. And his girlfriend, who he had had every intention on marrying someday, had cheated on him. And he was devastated.
When we met up, I said something to the effect of wanting to say the right thing to cheer him up, but that the only thing I could think of was how painful this betrayal must have been to him. And then, considering such a pain, I began to tear up, both from imagining if I had to go through such a pain and from knowing my friend was going through it. And then he began to cry, perhaps for the first time since he had heard the news. And we cried and cried and cried.
Later, he told me that was one of the most significant and touching things a friend had done for him. That was really good to hear, since I was still thinking that I had failed him, in that I couldn't think of anything good to say to him. But I realized that I hadn't failed him; that what he needed from his friends wasn't answers but someone to cry with.
I think I'll always be a hyper-rational, problem-solving kind of person. But through the lessons of the book of Job, a too-trendy parenting magazine, and my daughter's fear of leaves, God is complementing that with the kind of empathy He desires to see in His children.
I think my daughter is afraid of leaves. If we're walking in the park and there's a big leaf in her way, she'll cautiously pick it up, drop it off to the side, and then proceed. There have been times she's casually strolling through the grass, until she realizes her feet are touching leaves, and then she'll freak out and freeze, as though she was bolted to the ground. And this from someone who scales steep slides and fearlessly chases the sheep and goats at the petting zoo.
I have to see that I've been quite pleased with my approach to this phobia of hers. Rather than scolding her for having such irrational thoughts, or even trying to persuade her that she needn't fear the leaves, I've just let her be. I even affirm, in a sense, her right to be afraid: "Yes, the leaves are scary to you." But: "You'll be OK, just hold my hand."
I'm pleased with my approach because I am otherwise a hyper-rational, problem-solving kind of person. If someone comes to me to complain or vent, I usually respond in one of two ways: 1) you don't need to complain like that (i.e. you're being irrational), or 2) here's what you can do to fix that (i.e. you're a problem to be solved).
And while it's not bad to be rational and problem-solving, sometimes what people want isn't rationality or solutions. Sometimes they want empathy. They want to vent, and they want you to say, "I hear you," or "I'm sorry." Maybe their problem, or their approach to their problem, ought not be affirmed; but they ought to be affirmed.
I am reminded of a letter from the publisher of a parenting magazine. In this otherwise high-end and somewhat snobby publication was a jewel of an insight. The publisher spoke of how crushed her daughter was when she had to leave her friends at the end of the day, or if she had made new friends on vacation. Her first reaction was always to say as any parent might say: "Don't cry; we'll see them tomorrow," or "It's OK, you'll make new friends." But she would always stifle that comment and replace it with something more affirming: "I'm sorry you miss your friends," or "It must be really hard to say goodbye to someone you like so much." The publisher spoke of how we as adults have context, so we know that these kinds of hurts will be temporal and tomorrow's a new day. But kids don't have that kind of context to draw from, nor should they; and so for them to hurt in this way is appropriate and shouldn't be stifled or dismissed.
My wife and I recently talked about this in the context of being teased. Kids are merciless, aren't they, and no doubt our daughter will be the subject of teasing at some point in her life. At first, I wanted to take the approach of telling our daughter how ignorant the teasers were: "They're just being stupid," or "They're just saying that because they don't understand." But my wife reminded me that we also need to communicate to our daughter that we affirm her feelings: "That must have hurt you to hear those hurtful words," and "I'm so sorry they said that to you."
I've been reading through the book of Job in the mornings with my daughter. If you don't know the book, the gist of it is that a righteous man has a series of calamities and cries out to God for answers. His three friends join him, sometimes commiserating and sometimes scolding him for doubting God. In the end, God appears on the scene, and far from giving Job answers, basically says, "I'm God, you're not." Job repents, and God blesses him.
The part that strikes me in all of this is very early in the book, when Job's three friends first arrive on the scene. Job is covered in boils and clearly in pain, both physically and emotionally. The three friends arrive, sit down next to Job, and start to cry. There are no words of comfort, rebuke, or instruction, just a coming alongside and a weeping.
I remember studying the book of Job in college, during a time when many of my close friends were going through some very serious emotional distresses. Being a problem-solver, my approach as a friend was to help them to rationally find a place of faith and comfort in the midst of their hardships. I would write down applicable Bible verses or try to say encouraging things.
But after I had studied the book of Job, I decided to try a different approach. I remember a good friend of mine calling me up to get together. He was already out of college and living in the area. And his girlfriend, who he had had every intention on marrying someday, had cheated on him. And he was devastated.
When we met up, I said something to the effect of wanting to say the right thing to cheer him up, but that the only thing I could think of was how painful this betrayal must have been to him. And then, considering such a pain, I began to tear up, both from imagining if I had to go through such a pain and from knowing my friend was going through it. And then he began to cry, perhaps for the first time since he had heard the news. And we cried and cried and cried.
Later, he told me that was one of the most significant and touching things a friend had done for him. That was really good to hear, since I was still thinking that I had failed him, in that I couldn't think of anything good to say to him. But I realized that I hadn't failed him; that what he needed from his friends wasn't answers but someone to cry with.
I think I'll always be a hyper-rational, problem-solving kind of person. But through the lessons of the book of Job, a too-trendy parenting magazine, and my daughter's fear of leaves, God is complementing that with the kind of empathy He desires to see in His children.
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