Be Kind

I turn to put the final rinsed off sippy cup into the dishwasher as I hear the all too familiar whomp- thud-sob trifecta that instinctively signals my mommy brain to be on full alert . My lower lip immediately juts out to mimic the scrunched and freshly tear-streaked face of my baby, while instinctively my nostrils flare as my eyes dart to my toddler. The eldest, who inherited my triangle shaped nostrils, matches my irritated nose and raises me a defiantly guilty glare. In his hand he clutches the item of iniquity. The empty water bottle my baby dug from the trash just moments before was the now coveted piece of rubbish that prompted the assault. Or was it actually my son’s greedy nature that sparked the tragedy? Regardless, it was a classic victim versus assailant case.

The adult part of me wanted to make a flippant remark about how it’s just plain foolish to fight and hurt our siblings over a piece of trash. Really?! That is completely nonsensical.

Luckily, three solid years into this parenting gig, I have strengthened my mom muscles enough to discern between a logical and passionate decision based reaction.

This was not a proprietary issue. This was a heart issue: brother against brother.

Scooping up the whimpering baby, I straddled him no my hip, and knelt down to face his, now remorseful, brother. By now his face had softened, and the corners of his emerald eyes pooled with anticipated tears of remorse. In unison, we once again repeated last month’s Bible verse from Sunday school.

Be kind and loving to each other. Ephesians 4:32

We chant these words so frequently, they have organically morphed into our home’s mantra. These words warranted reiterating a handful of times before the sun set that night.

During the long days of summer, our family had taken to playing the role of local tourists to our little slice of the world. One of our most anticipated destinations were the battlefields of Gettysburg. Only a couple hours away, we imagined an afternoon littered with fascinating historical facts and wide eyed stares of excitement as we would show our kids cannons and towering bronze statues of our country’s heroes.

Tickets purchased, we loaded onto the bus and settled into our nineties era geometric patterned seats that allude to the authenticity of the tour company. Decades have gone into mastering the perfect tour for the thousands of people who annually stream through the historical town. Our guide was masterful in painting the picture of the three day battle that tore across the now serene countryside of Southern Pennsylvania. We could soberly envision the young men marching across the fields, desperately establishing the high ground, bravely obeying their orders to attack, and valiantly laying down their lives for an ideal that was greater than one man.

My eldest son listened intently while the guide verbally transported us back in time. It wasn’t until after we strapped him into his car seat for the long ride home that the rapid fire of questions shot out from the backseat.

“Why were the Army men angry?

Why did they shoot people?

Are they all dead?“

Gulp. My husband and I locked panicked eyes and silently questioned who should take on the hard-hitting questions. I had not properly anticipated this. Give me a birds and the bees question over one addressing death and violence any day. These are the hard questions I was warned I would one day have to answer for. At the end of the three hour bus ride I had heard: bravery, altruism, determination, and national unity. My son had just heard: school aged soldiers, bloody wheat fields, traumatic injuries, mangled bodies, and shallow graves. To him, it was brother versus brother.

My mind spun, desperately searching for the right answers to help him understand. I wanted to get it right. I wanted to help him see. In the end I settled on the truth:

“I don’t know. “

It’s true. I don’t understand. How does one explain a murky grey matter to a child who innocently views the world in contrasting shades of black and white? How is killing you brother ever a solution?

I do know I am glad we live in a country where people automatically recoil in horror at the thought of slavery. I know I am glad to live in a unified country. And I know I am in complete awe of those who sacrificed their lives to live on the foundation of ideals and principles.

According to USA today, modern slavery sadly still exists in 167 countries. India has the appalling honor of being at the top of the list with 14.3 million entrapped souls. Africa boasts the statistic for being the continent with the most civil wars. Since 1960, twenty inter-country wars have endured armed conflict.

What is the cost? What are the options? Did we have to kill our brothers in order for the right to prevail? Was there some other way? Would we have be a divided country, still filled with human bondage, if it hadn’t been for the thousands of men who died? Even though these questions are sparked from my naïve three year old, they still hold profound gravitas.

If war has taught us anything, would it not be to always question violence- to shine a light of inquisition, always asking why? I certainly don’t hold the prowess of a political strategist, but I do know the world could benefit from more decisions rooted in love. Crouching down to the vantage point of a child yields a refreshing viewpoint, visible in stark hues of black and white. If I am eligible to chose a path it is this:

Be kind and loving to each other. Especially your brother.

#write4good #iam4