This little boy came in with his parents. He was small - very small.
He was four but looked barely more than two and a half. He was thin and wiry and hesitant. He hid behind his father as he came in- that should have warned me. But it did not!
We always must learn- learn to be in THE moment. To observe. To simply breathe and let the air and the light wash over us. But... we start to make our own stories and create our own interpretations. We must make some decisions, some judgements- before we even consciously identify any facts of the matter. Then we spend the rest of the interaction justifying our baseless judgement.
How can we do that? We- who are supposed to be intelligent and observant creatures- and the creatures whose power of observation really must determine the quality of life of any soul who walks in through the doors to our chambers. We- the doctors!
But... we learn. We stop. We take stock once more when confronted by new or different information... I did, too.
The father began to speak. And the boy sat quietly- much too quit for the terrible twos or the frustrating fours!
"His speech is not clear." Simple enough complaint. There are not many things that can go wrong here. So I carried out my preliminary examination- tongue fine, teeth good, muscle tone fine, even the ears great. No reason the child should not speak clearly.
Another alert! By now, I was better placed. I was PRESENT IN THE MOMENT... to the child. My eyes were on the little fellow. My ears were eager to hear what he would have to say. I needed a speech sample to move further.
He started moving and placing his tongue unnaturally over the lower teeth and into the back of lower lip. No matter what I tried, the tongue would not really make the excursion through the various parts of the mouth for speech clarity. All the sounds were jumbled and warbled. One phonetic group was completely substituted by the other. Then, there were sounds that defied definition. He could not even enunciate his own name- poor baby!
By now, alarm bells were ringing in my head. I turned to the parents. And told them that the child seemed to be terrified of something or someone. And that the would need not only to work on the physical world of the tongue gaining more flexibility and movement but also his mind being more playful and able to be the child he could be.
I turned back to the child, "Dhruv*!, Are you afraid of anyone?"
I have noticed that direct questions work better than indirect ones in these situations. That the children are no different than adults except that they have fears that overwhelm their little minds much more readily than adults can imagine. And that they MUST speak what is in their head- and they often do- to be free. They can BE free- easily.
We must learn the art of acknowledging our fears from the little ones, just identifying the fears loosens their grip on our life.
He looked at me- with eyes wide and unblinking. A tear formed at one corner. And then a torrent started. All I could do at that time was to reach out- and hug the baby. I did. I gently asked him again. "Are you afraid of someone?"
He looked at his mother- sitting across the room- and blurted out. "I am afraid of my mother. She hits me. Very badly. And I do not know why." He started sobbing. Tears were now freely rolling down the cheeks. I did the only natural thing for me to do here. I completely ignored the father. And asked the mother to leave us alone for a while. She walked. In dignity. In stoic silence- her head held high in the wake of a storm that her little son had managed to start.
I asked Dhruv* again. "Do you not think your mother loves you?"
He sobbed, "Not very much. She has more anger than love. She really hits me. "
"But you must be doing something for her to feel the need to hit you," I persisted. "I am sure she loves you and you do not understand." To give this little tyke his due, he stood firm on that shaky ground; the tremors were only for his mother.
No.
My mother does not love me.
Now- being a mother myself, I cannot believe that it is possible for a mother to not love her own child. So I wanted this love deprived child to understand that love can have many faces- some of them may not even look like love. But I could not do that. Instead, I asked HIM- "What would make you think your mother loves you?"
He cried even more bitterly.
I had to press on. This child needed to know how he could identify love. And his mother needed to know how she could love him so he could feel the love. Often we do not even know that the way we express our love is not the way the other sees love. We talk French, hoping to understand and be understood by a person speaking German. It is not going to happen! Not only is one language soft and the other guttural, both are totally different in their soul and expression.
I asked him whether he would feel loved if his mother hugged him like I was hugging him. He backed off. And told me- he would not let her come that near because he was sure she would hit him. Now that is really not natural! I asked him what then would make him feel loved by his mother. He brought up a tiny hand, and lovingly gripped his own jaw between his thumb and his fingers on the other side and said- when she kisses me like this!
How clear can a love language be? Gary Chapman would be proud of that child.
Now it was time to talk to the mother. I called her in. And sent the child and the father out. And I asked her. "Why is your son so afraid? What scares him so much?" Now it was her turn for catharsis. She could not speak at first. Then words came tumbling out. "The atmosphere at home! My husband had threatened to divorce me. My mother-in-law was torturing me. Now we are separated from my in-laws and live separately, but I used to take out my frustration of not being able to find love by hitting Dhruv*. I have hit him very badly in the past. And I realize I have really damaged him. I am sorry. I am so sorry. I am so so sorry!"
When Dhruv walked in a few minutes later- he did not have to be told that his mother loves him.
He looked at her and she was crying. He was crying, too.
They both reached out for each other and hugged each other.
And she held his face between her thumb on one side and the fingers on the other... and...
...she kissed him.
Gently.
On his tears.
The salt of his emotion mixing and mingling with the salt of her emotions. The tides rising and falling synchronously. They had found each other.
And i found myself!
How many times do we try to RULE the lives of our children?
Do this, do not do that!
Speak properly. Now shut up!
Sit down. Stand up. Eat. Wash. Sleep. Wake up. Walk. Run.
There appear to be only commands. Where do those words that the children need to hear as much as us go?
Go back home and say to the ones who matter to you- I love you. You matter to me. I am sorry. I am grateful for being with you. And say thank you.
Thank the people who make the life you live worth living.
Thank the Lord for putting them in your life to make it meaningful.
And understand that each day- we must choose. We must choose to live a life worth living, or not.
Understand that the things that matter most cannot be measured.
That we must find our own love space. And fill it with light. So we are not afraid of the dark.
He was four but looked barely more than two and a half. He was thin and wiry and hesitant. He hid behind his father as he came in- that should have warned me. But it did not!
We always must learn- learn to be in THE moment. To observe. To simply breathe and let the air and the light wash over us. But... we start to make our own stories and create our own interpretations. We must make some decisions, some judgements- before we even consciously identify any facts of the matter. Then we spend the rest of the interaction justifying our baseless judgement.
How can we do that? We- who are supposed to be intelligent and observant creatures- and the creatures whose power of observation really must determine the quality of life of any soul who walks in through the doors to our chambers. We- the doctors!
But... we learn. We stop. We take stock once more when confronted by new or different information... I did, too.
The father began to speak. And the boy sat quietly- much too quit for the terrible twos or the frustrating fours!
"His speech is not clear." Simple enough complaint. There are not many things that can go wrong here. So I carried out my preliminary examination- tongue fine, teeth good, muscle tone fine, even the ears great. No reason the child should not speak clearly.
Another alert! By now, I was better placed. I was PRESENT IN THE MOMENT... to the child. My eyes were on the little fellow. My ears were eager to hear what he would have to say. I needed a speech sample to move further.
He started moving and placing his tongue unnaturally over the lower teeth and into the back of lower lip. No matter what I tried, the tongue would not really make the excursion through the various parts of the mouth for speech clarity. All the sounds were jumbled and warbled. One phonetic group was completely substituted by the other. Then, there were sounds that defied definition. He could not even enunciate his own name- poor baby!
By now, alarm bells were ringing in my head. I turned to the parents. And told them that the child seemed to be terrified of something or someone. And that the would need not only to work on the physical world of the tongue gaining more flexibility and movement but also his mind being more playful and able to be the child he could be.
I turned back to the child, "Dhruv*!, Are you afraid of anyone?"
I have noticed that direct questions work better than indirect ones in these situations. That the children are no different than adults except that they have fears that overwhelm their little minds much more readily than adults can imagine. And that they MUST speak what is in their head- and they often do- to be free. They can BE free- easily.
We must learn the art of acknowledging our fears from the little ones, just identifying the fears loosens their grip on our life.
He looked at me- with eyes wide and unblinking. A tear formed at one corner. And then a torrent started. All I could do at that time was to reach out- and hug the baby. I did. I gently asked him again. "Are you afraid of someone?"
He looked at his mother- sitting across the room- and blurted out. "I am afraid of my mother. She hits me. Very badly. And I do not know why." He started sobbing. Tears were now freely rolling down the cheeks. I did the only natural thing for me to do here. I completely ignored the father. And asked the mother to leave us alone for a while. She walked. In dignity. In stoic silence- her head held high in the wake of a storm that her little son had managed to start.
I asked Dhruv* again. "Do you not think your mother loves you?"
He sobbed, "Not very much. She has more anger than love. She really hits me. "
"But you must be doing something for her to feel the need to hit you," I persisted. "I am sure she loves you and you do not understand." To give this little tyke his due, he stood firm on that shaky ground; the tremors were only for his mother.
No.
My mother does not love me.
Now- being a mother myself, I cannot believe that it is possible for a mother to not love her own child. So I wanted this love deprived child to understand that love can have many faces- some of them may not even look like love. But I could not do that. Instead, I asked HIM- "What would make you think your mother loves you?"
He cried even more bitterly.
I had to press on. This child needed to know how he could identify love. And his mother needed to know how she could love him so he could feel the love. Often we do not even know that the way we express our love is not the way the other sees love. We talk French, hoping to understand and be understood by a person speaking German. It is not going to happen! Not only is one language soft and the other guttural, both are totally different in their soul and expression.
I asked him whether he would feel loved if his mother hugged him like I was hugging him. He backed off. And told me- he would not let her come that near because he was sure she would hit him. Now that is really not natural! I asked him what then would make him feel loved by his mother. He brought up a tiny hand, and lovingly gripped his own jaw between his thumb and his fingers on the other side and said- when she kisses me like this!
How clear can a love language be? Gary Chapman would be proud of that child.
Now it was time to talk to the mother. I called her in. And sent the child and the father out. And I asked her. "Why is your son so afraid? What scares him so much?" Now it was her turn for catharsis. She could not speak at first. Then words came tumbling out. "The atmosphere at home! My husband had threatened to divorce me. My mother-in-law was torturing me. Now we are separated from my in-laws and live separately, but I used to take out my frustration of not being able to find love by hitting Dhruv*. I have hit him very badly in the past. And I realize I have really damaged him. I am sorry. I am so sorry. I am so so sorry!"
When Dhruv walked in a few minutes later- he did not have to be told that his mother loves him.
He looked at her and she was crying. He was crying, too.
They both reached out for each other and hugged each other.
And she held his face between her thumb on one side and the fingers on the other... and...
...she kissed him.
Gently.
On his tears.
The salt of his emotion mixing and mingling with the salt of her emotions. The tides rising and falling synchronously. They had found each other.
And i found myself!
How many times do we try to RULE the lives of our children?
Do this, do not do that!
Speak properly. Now shut up!
Sit down. Stand up. Eat. Wash. Sleep. Wake up. Walk. Run.
There appear to be only commands. Where do those words that the children need to hear as much as us go?
Go back home and say to the ones who matter to you- I love you. You matter to me. I am sorry. I am grateful for being with you. And say thank you.
Thank the people who make the life you live worth living.
Thank the Lord for putting them in your life to make it meaningful.
And understand that each day- we must choose. We must choose to live a life worth living, or not.
Understand that the things that matter most cannot be measured.
That we must find our own love space. And fill it with light. So we are not afraid of the dark.
2 comments:
Heart touching
Thanks so much @mythoughts! I have not revisited my writing for a long time. So I missed your comment. Sincere apologies!
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