It was a beautiful garden — teeming with gladiolus, roses, and palms. As a child in southern California, I’d walk by it on my way to the convenience store to buy a bag of candy on a lazy Saturday morning. That was back when you’d let a young girl run an errand alone without a second thought. It was also when neighbors might turn a deaf ear to the cries and wails that emanated from the home behind that lovely garden.
The sound of the woman’s voice still rings in my ears — always screeching in anger or bellowing with brutality. I also recall a time when I saw her two young girls run from the house, hiding among the taller flowers and plants, trying to camouflage their brightly colored clothes among the vibrant petals. I guess I thought of it more as a game, because I hadn’t heard yet of physical, mental, and emotional abuse. Later I realized it wasn’t a game, and I think of the women those girls became, and wonder how they are doing. They must have realized their mother treated her flowers with more care and gentleness than she treated them.
This memory haunted me for a short while. Was it because I struggled sometimes when my children were younger, trying to keep my voice below a yell and keep my tone from cutting deeply?
I remember one time my husband was on a business trip and my children were little. I have such respect for parents of either gender who balance the stressful responsibilities of life, without a partner on the other end of the teeter-totter.
I was worried about how loud I’d have to get — and how often — while Daddy was gone for a meager four days. Some moments I yelled to get someone’s attention or threatened to take away something, anything, that would get their attention. Fortunately, most of the time that weekend, things were good and we had fun in our all-girls club.
I always disliked yelling at my kids for one basic reason: I don’t yell at anyone else in my life so why should I yell at them? It galls me to think I might treat them, the two people I love and want to protect most in the world, worse than I treat anyone else.
Granted, most parents eventually yell at their kids because it is the only way to get their attention after speaking in a normal voice three times in a row. They don’t listen very well, so we yell to make them hear us better.
Of course, we don’t even have to raise our voices to say something that sounds like screaming to them. Fierce tones or ugly words can do the trick, too. Yet we’ve learned from books or talk shows that verbal abuse can scar like physical abuse.
Often how we respond to the child depends on his or her personality. Some children are more feisty or willful. Others, who want to please us, are more willing and quicker to obey. Fairness and sibling rivalry aside, I guess we end up parenting each child differently.
Some people may say God does the same thing with us. For some of us, it takes yelling or harsh words to get our attention. Others may need only that infamous parental tool— “the look.”
As my children grew older, I quickly noticed it was easier to get their attention and tried to raise my voice only when they were too far to hear me speak at a normal level. They’ve both mentioned separately that I “never” yell at them, as they hear some of their friends’ parents do. I would say it is probably “rarely,” but I was relieved and grateful for the comment that they cast off so casually.
Still, their maturity and growth had a lot to do with my turning down the volume. Maturity brings responsiveness. Maybe that’s true, too, with our responding to God. I hope I respond quicker than I did during my spiritual infancy or adolescence.
I pray nearly every day for direction on how to be a wiser and more patient mother and guide. It seems to get easier with time, as they’ve matured as children … and I’ve matured as a mother. I’m grateful for that because I want my children to feel that I treated them with more care and gentleness than I treated anything else in my life.
I hope those two young girls have been able to blossom like those beautiful flowers into women — and, maybe, mothers — who feel cared for and loved, able to share love with others.
Jaletta Albright Desmond is a self-syndicated columnist who writes about faith, family, and the fascinatingly mundane aspects of daily life. She lives in Davidson with her husband and two daughters. Contact her at jdesmond@bdtonline.com
To the Editor:
