Parables Under My Roof

From ladiesagainstfeminism.com

Teach Your Children Well
Parables Under My Roof
By Mrs. Chancey
Nov 2, 2006 - 4:33:00 PM

Some days the Lord sends us parables in the form of our children. I had a living parable delivered to me today while my second-born son, Alex, practiced piano in our living room.

Alex just started piano lessons this fall. In fact, his first lesson was yesterday. Until now, he has contented himself with picking out a few tunes by ear on the keys and watching others play. Alex sings beautifully and loves music, so he has been chomping at the bit to begin "real" lessons. After his first session with his teacher (our dear neighbor up the street), Alex came bouncing into the house, eager to show me what he had learned. He pulled out the piano bench, seated himself, and sat up straight and tall.

"This is the way you sit, Mom," he happily proclaimed, holding himself at an amazing 90-degree angle. He placed his hands gently on the keys, trying not to "break the bubble" beneath his curved fingers. "And this is how you put your fingers on the piano, Mom!" (This to a mother who took piano for nine years; ah, memories!) Alex happily plunked out a few notes before jumping up and heading on to his next project. But right after breakfast this morning, he made a beeline for the piano, determined to get in his daily practice while he was fresh. I checked on the other children to make sure they were occupied with chores and school work, then headed into the bedroom to dump out some laundry and do some straightening.

That's when the odd sounds began to issue from the living room.

These were not the joyful sounds of a boy who loves his music. This was more like the agonized outcries of someone in great pain and anguish. My eldest son popped his head into my room. "Um, Mom? I think Alex might need some help. He is yelling at his fingers."

"Yelling at his fingers?"

"Yes, ma'am. He is mad because they won't do what they are supposed to do on the piano."

I stepped out to investigate. Sure enough, Alex sat slumped over the keyboard, close to tears. He looked despondently at his hands and said, "Why do I have these bad fingers?" Suppressing a desire to giggle, I asked my son to come into my room.

"Alex, why are you shouting at your fingers?"

"Because they won't do what they are supposed to do! This one"--pointing to his right pinky--"just sticks up in the air instead of staying down on the piano key!"

I took Alex into my lap, giving myself time to control a fit of laughter and compose my expression. "Alex, how long have you been taking piano lessons?" I asked. Alex looked at me incredulously. "Only one day!" he said, frustration rising in his voice. "Yes, son," I replied. "One day. That means your fingers have had only one day to learn what they are supposed to do. They still don't know where they're supposed to go. They haven't learned how to stay still and how to hit the piano keys nicely and stay put when they've finished, do they?" Alex shook his head. "How do you think your fingers will learn to play the piano, Alex?" My son wrinkled his brow and puzzled over this for a moment, finally saying, "I don't know!" I held out my hands. "Alex, it took my hands eight years to learn to play the piano--and I still don't play as well as daddy does. He has played far longer than that. He has practiced and practiced and played and played, and that's how his fingers remember what to do." Alex nodded slowly. "How do you think Daddy taught his fingers to play? Did he yell at them and say, 'You bad fingers! Why can't you just play this piano RIGHT NOW?'" Alex giggled. "Do you think Daddy got mad at his fingers and told them they wouldn't be allowed to play piano until they could do it perfectly?" Alex smiled, seeing where this story was going. "No, ma'am. He had to keep playing, or his fingers wouldn't be able to play." I hugged Alex. "That's right, honey! The only way for your fingers to learn how to play the piano is for you to let them practice. That means they will stumble and bumble and make lots of mistakes. They will be weak at first, but the more you exercise them and help them to learn, the better you will be able to play." The lightbulb was now on and burning brightly.

After we prayed for Alex to have patience with his hands, he hopped up and went right back to the piano. No more sounds of frustration issued from the living room. And that's when my lightbulb went on, and the parable opened up before my eyes. Aren't we parents just like Alex at times? Don't we get frustrated when our children cannot seem to learn to do something, no matter how many times we've shown them? Don't we wonder how long it will take before they finally get it? And, let's be honest: aren't there days when we raise our voices in frustration and say things like, "Move over. I'll just do it for you," as we take the mop or the dust rag or whatever it is and finish the job? Yet how do children learn? They certainly don't learn how to do the dishes in one session. They definitely can't expertly wield a broom when it is first handed to them. When we say, "Clean your room," they don't always know that the socks don't go in the shirt drawer, nor the Legos in the hamper. Like the weak fingers of a new piano student, our children aren't born with the skills and knowledge to do tasks perfectly after one command or a single lesson. The only way is to practice, practice, practice...every day, over and over, every week, every month, every year.

As I watched Alex struggling manfully with his "bad hands," I thought, "There I am." I have a house full of children of varying skills and abilities. There are days when I doubt that anything is sinking in. I could record, "Please pick that up and put it where it belongs" and just have it on permanent playback some days! Yet I am commanded to love my children and not to provoke them to anger. I am commanded to be "patient, kind, longsuffering," knowing that this is how true love reacts--even during long days when the littlest people under my roof just don't seem to understand the words coming out of my mouth. It really is a lot of work to turn a babbling infant into a responsible adult. It means consistency and faithfulness every day. It means counting to ten instead of responding in frustration when yet another shoe is left on the stairs. It means bending down to show the two-year-old how to fetch the toys from under the bed (again...and again, and again). It means a whole lot of prayer and even more grace.

And that's when the Lord sends us these little reminders that He is here with us; that He is watching us with His infinite care and, yes, with satisfaction. When our hands are weak, He is strong, and He promises to "strengthen the weak hands, and make firm the feeble knees" (Isaiah 35:3). And whole-hearted attempts to obey (even when we are weary and fainting) are pleasing to Christ, "who has already accepted [our] works" (Eccl. 9:7).

I thank God for these parables He has seen fit to place in my household. I pray daily that I may be faithful and not faint or grow weary in well-doing as I remember that I, too, needed years of training when my parents taught me. I needed the daily reminders, the sessions of firm discipline and correction, the loving praise for a job well attempted, and the reminders to press on toward excellence even in the small things. Thank God for my faithful parents, who surely put up with a lot of frustration in bringing up this first-born perfectionist, who spent many an hour crying over her "bad hands" and wishing it wasn't so hard to learn to sew, or cook, or write a story, or memorize historical timelines, or.... Wow. Thank you, Lord, for giving me an Alex. And a John Nathan, and a Thomas, a Belle, a Felicity, a Tucker, and a Patrick. Seven living parables, if I only have the eyes to see and the ears to hear.

Post Script

After mulling over my conversation with Alex, the Lord sent me another postcard in the form of my two daughters, ages 4 and 2. From toddlerhood, I teach all of my children to put away their toys and clothes and keep their rooms neat. My older boys are all absolute whizzes at keeping their room straight and helping clean up clutter around the house. They call it "Tornado Clean-up," because they fly around the house in a blur, putting things where they belong in record time. Such has not been the case with my daugthers. A total neatnik from birth myself, I have puzzled and puzzled over how two girls can wreak so much havoc in such a small space and profess themselves unable to put it all back. One day, it dawned on me that I hadn't really shown them how to clean up like I'd taught their brothers years before. I had to remember the time when I spent days and days walking the boys through the steps of picking up the clothes and putting them neatly in drawers; picking up the toys and putting them away in the box; picking up the books and putting them on the shelf. They've been so good at cleaning for so long that I had a memory lapse. When this realization dawned on me, I got right to work, showing the girls how to put their room in order, step by step. Some days I was sorely tempted to run around quickly and get it all done. Some days they'd come to me and say, "Our room is clean, Mama! Come inspect!" And I'd walk in, only to find clothes hanging out of drawers, toys scattered under beds, and shoes in the bookshelf. I'd sigh inwardly (sometimes outwardly) and say, "Let me show you again, girls. Let's start with the shoes." And we'd walk carefully around the room, looking for things that didn't belong so we could put them in their right places. This has gone on for a good while now, and there have been days I've wondered if anything was sinking in at all. Then came my postcard today.

As is usual before lunchtime, my children scrambled to put away the books, papers, crayons, pencils, and other items from the dining table. They also ran to do a check on their rooms to make sure things were neatly in place. I'd popped my head into the girls room and told them they still had nightgowns on the floor and toys lying around from after breakfast. Then I went back to making sandwiches. About five minutes later, Felicity ran into the kitchen and said, "We're all finished, Mama!" I smiled indulgently, knowing the room was probably still in a state of minor chaos. Then Belle came in and announced, "You can come inspect, Mama! We did it!" I raised my eyebrows. "Really? Are you sure you want me to inspect?" Both heads nodded emphatically, and I followed them to their room. You could have knocked me over with a feather. I stood in stunned silence in the doorway for a full five seconds while it sank in: beds neatly made; toys put away; nightgowns back in the drawer; not a shoe in sight. Clean as a whistle. "Girls!" I exclaimed, dropping to my knees and holding out my arms. "You did it! You cleaned your whole room! It's beautiful!" My little ladies beamed and giggled and hugged my neck. "Did you have any help?" I asked, wondering if big brother Alex (the clean machine) might have given them a hand. "No, ma'am! We did it together!" Alex popped around the corner to confirm this statement, saying he'd been working with Thomas to get the dirty clothes in the hamper and hadn't helped the girls one bit.

What a milestone! This necessitated a call to daddy, who praised the girls for their hard work and for being such a big help to mommy. My little ladies spent the next twenty minutes singing over their sandwiches and smiling every time I caught their eyes. Blessing! The work does pay off. It is worth it. One step at a time. Isn't that just how God treats us? May we remember and treasure these moments for the days when the shoes are all over the stairs and the bad fingers just won't hit the keys like we want them to. And that's my postcard to you!