My grandfather passed away not long ago. His passing, which was not unexpected, has struck a chord that resonates in every area of my life. We weren’t close, so although I do grieve his passing, it causes me more reflection than pain.
Now that he’s gone, I’m hearing lots of stories of his generosity and gung-ho attitude in business and friendships. He was a war veteran, an entrepreneur, an “old sodbuster,” as he always put it. But I’ve spent more time with a different side of him.
Several years ago, Grandpa started sending me his memoirs as he wrote them. He had many interesting stories, but as I read over them again for his memorial, I detected little black splotches of bitterness on the colorful painting of his life. Sometimes their origins are discernible - a mother who married and mothered too young and lived to resent it, a childhood in constant need that gave way to an adult determination to succeed and never be without again, no matter the cost. Sometimes I don’t know where those black splotches come from.
We sometimes have a vague idea of what we want people to say in our obituary. That we were loving or a good friend or really generous or a great listener. But it’s a rare moment when we evaluate the life-changing moments we’ve experienced and make a choice about how our lives will go from here. I find my mind popping up with questions at unexpected moments: did Grandpa want his life to look like that? did he do this or that on purpose, or was it just the path of least resistance? what were his main priorities in life? did he choose them purposefully, or did the circumstances of his life dictate them?
This leads to more questions: how will I handle the curveballs life throws? Grandpa couldn’t control the circumstances of his childhood - he grew up in the midst of the Oklahoma Dust Bowl. The rest of his life, from my perspective, seems to be largely a reaction to the poverty he experienced then, both in his focus on financial success and also in his generosity to the people around him.
In my own life, I can identify the big events and see how they have added to my life’s painting. My parents’ divorce, for example, was a huge blow to my security as a child. For years that insecurity plagued me in the form of misplaced pride (an inability to admit I was wrong for fear that my dignity would be lost) and a way of choosing friends who I felt were beneath me somehow, so I always had something to teach or offer them. Small black splotches in the grand scheme, perhaps, but black splotches all the same.
I’ve had twenty years to figure out how to live past that event, and it took ten of them for me to choose not to let it dictate the path my life would take. At some point, I saw the value of confidence - not only for myself, but for the positive impact I believe it has on everyone I meet. I can’t make people’s lives better if I’m so internally focused that I choose friends for their perceived failures or take small slights as personal affronts to my dignity.
The difficult events of my life have changed me, no question. But out of them I have a choice - let them define me, or recognize them as learning experiences that give me better tools to love the people around me. They may be black splotches I didn’t want on my painting, but I have a life to live, and Grandpa’s life and memoirs are a reminder that I have the power to blend out those stark splotches instead of let them be repeated throughout the pattern of my life.
This post was first published at http://www.nrtoday.com/news/featured/11037659-113/splotches-adrienne-black-grandpa.
My mom told me a story once about why she had five children. "Some people had an opinion after I had two (a girl and a boy). 'Shouldn't that be good enough?' they said, and couldn't believe my arrogance when I told them I planned to have lots more," she told me.
"They said, not kidding, 'How dare you have more kids when there are already too many people in the world?' I made it simple: I told them that tomorrow's society was going to need leaders and my kids were going to be those leaders for their kids."
This is the same woman who, when people asked her what she planned to name her kids, replied, "Well, if it's a girl we were thinking Whitney Wanda DeWhitt, and if it's a boy, probably Dwayne Dwight DeWhitt."
The point is, it was none of their business either how many children she had or what she chose to name them.
I'm not here to argue that our society gets in each other's faces too much when it comes to parenting; I stand with the best of them in having an opinion and not always calling up the self-discipline to keep my trap shut.
However, I do stand firm in my desire to have lots of children. Because you know what? She was right.
Her offspring, in a large capacity or a small one, are leaders in their communities. One or two of them may even change the world on a grand scale.
Why? Because she knew from the beginning the kind of sacrifice and example it would take to mold each of these very unique individuals into the the best human being he or she could be.
I want to be that kind of parent. I want my children to see me humble myself when I'm in the wrong, follow through on my promises, do the right thing even when it hurts, hold fast to my faith when everything falls apart, and choose love when no love is shown to me.
My mother isn't a saint. She has failed plenty in life by a lot of people's standards. But there is no other mom I would choose to emulate.
She is one of those quiet successes whose friends from college look at her and think, "Yeah, she knew what she was doing as a parent; why didn't we follow her lead?"
Look, I don't have some scheme to compare myself to friends in 25 years and see whose kids turned out the best. Every life must speak for itself.
But I want to look at my life then and be proud of the job I've done. As I build habits into my new role as a mother, I want to remember the watchwords I saw so evidently in my own mother: commitment, consistency, patience, humility, faith and love.
This post was first published at http://www.nrtoday.com/news/9466531-113/adrienne-kids-love-mom.
