Aftertaste

I'm fortunate to be a little sister to some amazing older siblings. Lucky for me, those siblings go in front of me in life, encounter everything just a few years before me, and then pass on their delicious wisdom. I tasted some of that deliciousness a couple days ago when I was out to lunch with my sister-in-law Gayle. She's a brain--has her PhD and runs a whole program at a local university. She is witty and bright and looks out for me. She and my brother have amazing twin girls three years older than my eldest. And over our salads and iced coffees, she shared a--well, not-so-scrumptious idea with me.

Her girls had gotten off the bus and were picking on each other as sisters can do--Gayle allowed them to handle their own conflict until one of them said to the other, "Well that's why you don't have any friends." It's a retort most siblings have used on each other at some point, right? But Gayle heard those words and knew that remark could leave a painful memory--especially since the recipient child is struggling with friendships right now. She called the guilty twin into the kitchen and handed her a spoonful of horseradish. Gayle administered aforementioned medicine and said, "This horseradish will leave an awful aftertaste, but you will drink water and wash that taste away within minutes. However, what you said to your sister might not wash away."

What a great tangible lesson that I wish I had heard earlier. The last few months the parenting issue we've been dealing with the most is the impact of our words. We have not been ok with how Adelaide talks to one of her friends, and last Sunday we reprimanded her about not being kind, loving, and gentle with her words. As penance, Kyle and I made her clean her room and spend some time alone. Even after the scolding, Kyle and I heard several tones of voice and snotty words from her that day; after each of us had individually admonished her to speak well (remember, Gayle had yet to share the horseradish with me). Up to this point, we were calm, handling our job as parents with excellent serenity. However, one can only be tranquil for so long.

That evening, I was nursing Charlotte in her room with the door closed (mind you, I hear everything from in there, I practically have bat radar). While Kyle was getting the older two ready for bed, Evie selected a book--evidently, the wrong book according to Adelaide. So she griped noisily, “Evie, now I have to get another book.... you are such a pest!”

WHAT?! Did I hear her correctly? Seriously? After our whole spiel about loving your freaking neighbor? After a whole day about being kind with our words! What?!! Well, I couldn’t hold my tongue. Gentleness thrown in a pile on the floor, I jumped up, Charlotte's meal rudely interrupted and now squirting all over her face, and stormed into the hall. I shouted,--no, roared-- “Adelaide, we don’t ever say something like that! That was the final straw! Seriously!” And then I looked at my much calmer husband and shook my head at him, just to reiterate how furious I was. I went in to finish feeding the baby, wondering immediately if I overreacted and hadn't been gentle and loving and kind with my words... Yikes. My heart was pounding I was so ticked. Obviously, our gentle talks had not gotten through to her.

I wish I would have heard about the horseradish first and maybe we could have dished out a tablespoon the first time we heard cutting words come from our daughter's mouth. Obviously our approach during the day was not lingering in Adelaide's mind--or her tongue. What could I have done to help her check herself before speaking? What could I have done to check my own self?

When I took communion this Sunday, I prayed that I would remember the taste of the cracker and the juice all week--and remember that the words (and tones) that come from my mouth ought to be sweet and pleasing to Him. I want the aftertaste of his body and blood to spill into my actions, my love for others, my words and correction with my children. And, of course, I want the same for them. So that will continue to be my prayer all week... and next.