When you believe your voice matters, you have the strength to say, “Let me out of the car” when you feel you are in a dangerous situation.
When you believe your voice matters, you have the courage to say no to harmful substances that can affect your ability to make decisions and prematurely end your life.
When you believe your voice matters, you have the bravery to admit you made a mistake and use that experience to learn, grow, and do better next time.
When you believe your voice matters, you have the confidence to reveal your most difficult truths so someone else doesn’t feel alone in his or her struggles.
During these actual events in my life I could have suffered in silence, but instead I spoke up. Why? Because my dad listened to me as I grew. And what this means is there is hope, great hope, for those who yearn to build a solid foundation in the lives of the people they love. You see, perfection is not required in order to give someone a solid foundation. After all, there will be days when you are dealing with heavy, soul-crushing issues. There will be days when nothing you do feels like enough. There will be days when smiles don’t come easily and harsh words are spoken too quickly. On those days, I urge you not to say things like, “I’m a failure” or “I’m a bad parent” or “Nobody needs me.” Instead, I urge you to garner the strength, the patience, the resolve to do one thing: Listen.
Listen when she wants to tell you the (many) reasons she chose the pink shoes instead of the red ones. Listen when he tells you (in agonizing detail) how he built his giant Lego skyscraper.
Listen when she tells you (for the fiftieth time) about the moment she met your father. Listen when he (annoyingly) chuckles his way through the time he drove his great-grandpa’s tractor into the lake.
Listen when he confesses he is struggling to make ends meet. Listen when she admits she hates how she looks.
Listen when she reveals her fear of being alone. Listen when he admits you are his only hope.
Listen with your eyes, ears, and heart. They know. They know when you are listening, and it matters; it really matters.
Because someday your loved ones will find themselves in a difficult situation, and they’ll have a choice — either to suffer in silence or speak up. Perhaps that is the moment they will remember your eyes, the nodding of your head, your focus, your thoughtful response. Suddenly, they will be reminded that their voice holds value. Whether it’s a plea, a confession, a protest, a blessing, or a prayer, your loved ones will find the strength to lift their voices. Perhaps they won’t even know where that strength is coming from, but perhaps they will. All your mistakes that you thought were so unforgettable will be insignificant compared to the way you loved them by listening.
HANDS FREE LIFE DAILY DECLARATION
Although I may fall short and make mistakes today, I can do one thing well: I can listen. I can look up when she walks in the room. I can focus on the color of his eyes when he speaks. I can look into his eyes before he gets out of the car. I can listen in a nonjudgmental and supportive way by nodding and smiling. I may not have all the answers, but I can listen. Because when it comes to building up a human being, unconditional attention is just as important as unconditional love.
BUILD A FOUNDATION THROUGH LIFELINES
I grew up equating handwritten notes with expressions of love. My mom worked long hours, so she often left small, square papers on the bed for my sister and me to find. Sometimes it was just a smiley face; other times she simply wrote the words Love you! in ordinary ballpoint pen, but it was more than enough. The way she didn’t quite close the circle on the happy face and the way the letter L had a fancy loop were as comforting as the words that she wrote.
Lifelines —
Starting in elementary school, my mom requested I write notes to my grandma who lived a few hours away. What I loved the most is that Grandma always wrote back. The excitement I felt when I looked in the mailbox and saw a letter in my grandma’s shaky font never disappeared. Even in college when there were tests to study for and social gatherings to attend, I took time to sit on my narrow bed and read my grandma’s letters the moment they arrived. By studying her handwriting, I could tell how she’d been feeling that day. Toward the end of her time on earth, her script became barely legible. Those notes are now treasures connecting me to hugs that smelled of Kleenex, rose-scented lotion, and butterscotch candy.
Lifelines —
I’ll never forget when the guy I was dating my senior year in college had a family emergency and had to take a sudden trip home. Sometime during the night, he’d dropped off a handwritten note telling me why he had to leave. A personal note of this nature from this particular guy seemed like a really big deal, and I felt incredibly excited by it. I tucked that note away for safekeeping, not knowing that message would be the first of many special letters from my future husband, Scott.
Lifelines —
The words I’m proud of you from my dad written in his signature black felt-tip pen, birthday notes from friends containing funny memories, and cards from my former students written in sublime kid penmanship are filed in a drawer next to my bed. Anytime I want to remember where I’ve been, what I am made of, or how immensely I am loved, I simply open that file. These touchable lifelines have played an important role in building the strong foundation on which I’ve navigated life. But it wasn’t until I embarked on my Hands Free journey that I discovered lifelines could also be lifesaving.
Around the time I woke up to the fact that I was missing my life, Avery was learning to write words. As I took small steps to be more present in her life, she began writing me love notes. Although I’m sure the timing was purely coincidental, these tangible messages would come to me at the precise moment I needed to slow down and notice the blessings in front of my face. Avery’s backward letters and childlike scrawl had a way of grounding me. I knew this beloved calligraphy was only temporary.
One morning I wrote, “I love you, Avery,” on a yellow sticky note and placed it in Avery’s lunch box, not realizing there was a blank one attached to it. When I cleaned out her lunch box that night, my love note had multiplied. I cried when I saw she’d written the same thing as me except she put my name where hers had been. Although her note to me said, “I love you, Mom,” it might as well have said, “This is worth living for.”
I reached up and, as a source of daily encouragement, stuck my daughter’s note on the kitchen cabinet where the sandwich bread was stored. I taped another one of her notes in the pantry where the cereal was kept, then another in my clothes closet where I got dressed, and another on the bathroom mirror where I brushed my teeth. Wherever I turned, there was a Hands Free “stop sign” bringing my hurried, distracted, perfectionistic, and tech-obsessed self to a halt.
Although it came to the point that I no longer needed to post Avery’s notes as visual reminders to pause for life and love, I knew I had experienced their lifesaving power for a reason. I anticipated the day when I’d write a lifeline that could potentially save someone else. I never expected it to be Natalie.
I took pen to paper when a beautiful and vibrant teen named Rebecca took her life after being a victim of cyberbullying. As I read the significant actions that Rebecca’s mother, Tricia Norman, had taken to protect her daughter and remove her from the toxic environment, I couldn’t help but weep knowing the tragic outcome. The mother noted that she’d thought things were going better for Rebecca at her new school, but the child had kept her distress from her family. “Maybe she thought she could handle it on her own,” the mother was quoted as saying.*
Maybe she thought she could handle it on her own. I felt as if these ten words were a gift to me and to anyone listening. Natalie’s exposure to the pressures and pain that came with growing up in a tech-saturated world were just beginning. I knew it was time to give Natalie tangible proof that she didn’t have to go it alone. I consider the message I wrote to Natalie to be a lifeline for anyone living in the twenty-first century . . . a time when lives and rep
utations can be shattered with the click of a button . . . where embarrassing mistakes are not limited to those who witnessed it but to thousands scrolling the social-media newsfeed . . . where acceptance is based on appearance and status . . . where public persona matters more than inner beauty, compassion, and kindness.
A TWENTY-FIRST-CENTURY LIFELINE TO MY DEAR NATALIE
Technology has become an integral part of your life now that you need it to complete your schoolwork. Eventually, you will want a phone and will want to start communicating with others online. Before that day comes, it is very important for me to tell you a few things. You will hear these words a lot from me — you might even get sick of them. But these reminders are important. When the time comes, you will know how important they are.
My reminders to you . . .
TOMORROW HOLDS PROMISE
When you have been teased, hurt, or humiliated, that day will seem horrible and unbearable. Just know that when you make it through the day, tomorrow will bring a new light. Tomorrow holds possibilities that you cannot see today. I will help you see the promises in tomorrow when you can’t.
MY LOVE FOR YOU CANNOT BE CHANGED
With me, you don’t have to be strong. You can cry, scream, and let out your true feelings. My love for you cannot be changed by revealing the feelings going on inside you — no matter how hard they are to say out loud.
YOU ARE WORTHY OF LOVE
You are worthy of love and respect and kindness. If people hurt you, together we’ll figure out a way to help you work through those problems, move on, or distance yourself from them if needed.
I encourage you to find that one loyal and kind friend with whom you can go through the school year. Don’t let societal standards fool you into believing this friend must be popular, good looking, or cool; at the end of the day, kindness is the most important quality to have in a friend and be in a friend.
YOU POSSESS COURAGE AND STRENGTH
If you have been humiliated or teased, facing certain people may seem impossible. But you have the courage and strength within you to show others they cannot hold you back from living your life.
IT’S ABOUT THEM, NOT YOU
No matter how personal the attack, it is about them — their insecurities and their issues — not about you.
NO ONE CAN CHANGE THE WAY I SEE YOU
No matter how humiliated you are and no matter how embarrassing it is to tell me what happened, when I look at you, I see my beautiful and amazing child. No one can change the way I see you.
NOTHING IS TOO BAD TO TELL ME
You can come to me with anything — even if you made a mistake, even if you used bad judgment. There is nothing that is “too bad” to tell me. Believe me, I have made plenty of mistakes and even though it was hard to let someone else in, I was so relieved not to carry the burden alone.
LET AN ADULT KNOW
If your gut tells you what someone is doing is wrong, it probably is. Don’t take part. Letting an adult know about someone who is being harmed or disrespected does not make you a coward — it makes you courageous and compassionate; it makes you a good friend who can look back on this later in life and proudly say, “I didn’t turn the other cheek. I tried to help.”
YOU ARE NEVER ALONE
I cannot make your problems and hurts go away, but I can listen. And together we can come up with a solution. There is nothing we can’t get through together. You are never, never alone.
I love you forever and always.
Mom
When I presented the note to Natalie at bedtime, I wasn’t expecting her to pin it to her bulletin board amongst her other keepsakes. I wasn’t expecting her to crawl into bed and ask if we could talk more about this. It quickly became apparent that she’d been waiting for an opening. Twisting the corner of her yellow bedsheet around her pointer finger, my daughter shared her own personal observations and experiences about peer alienation and ridicule. She maturely described how it felt to be betrayed by someone she trusted. That is when I told her about Rebecca and other young people who ended their lives as a result of being tormented.
Natalie sat up abruptly, as if the words she was about to speak could not be said lying down. “I would never kill myself, Mama! I have you, Daddy, Avery, and Banjo. I have too much to live for!” she said with conviction.
Not too long ago, I couldn’t have imagined such grave words coming from my daughter’s lips. Not too long ago, such words would have made me want to cry. But things are different now. Like so many others, the world of technology is pushing me into territories unknown, to places I never wanted to go. It is not possible to physically be by my loved one’s side each time she enters dark territories of isolation and pain, but I can give her something to hold on to. I will fill the walls of her room and the walls of her heart with lifelines — tangible proof of where she’s been, what she’s made of, and how immensely she is loved.
HANDS FREE LIFE DAILY DECLARATION
What calms my child’s school-day fears can be found in the smiley face above the letter i. What creates affirmation in the heart of my spouse can be posted on the bathroom mirror. What makes my friend feel beautiful can be written with a broad-tipped Sharpie and tucked beneath the windshield wiper of her car. What I believed in and how I loved can be evidenced in my handwriting long after I am gone. Today I will not assume they know how I feel. Today I will tell them by throwing out a lifeline. What really matters in life is literally at my fingertips.
BUILD A FOUNDATION THROUGH FAITH
Shortly after our family made an out-of-state move one summer, Avery began expressing worry about fitting in, new school routines, and homesickness. I took time to listen, assure, and empathize, but I knew it was time to lead her to something more comforting than any words I could give. I invited Avery to join me on my daily walk. Ever since my mom instilled the walking routine in me during grade school, I have literally walked my troubles away. Whether as a high school student, a young new teacher, a pregnant mother, or a full-time author, I have walked myself toward peace and clarity. I hoped that walking could help calm Avery’s anxieties too.
I told Avery I’d discovered a beautiful tree-covered area not too far from our neighborhood. I warned her that we would first have to walk on a very busy road past a cemetery. Surprisingly, Avery had no interest in the shaded area but was captivated by the graveyard. It quickly became our routine to walk around looking at each stone and then resting on a wooden bench.
One morning we’d gotten there especially early. Dew still covered the ground. Avery noticed some new flowers propped up against a marble slab. “Do you think someone came here last night?”
“It sure looks like it,” I said. “People come and visit the graves of their loved ones on the anniversaries of their death or their birthdays. Sometimes they come when they are worried about something and need someone to talk to. Sometimes they come to find comfort here, pray, or feel less alone.”
“But there’s no one here,” she said, looking around just to make sure.
“Some of the greatest comforts in life come from things we cannot see, Avery. It’s called faith,” I offered.
“Oh,” she responded, but I could tell that she needed more explanation to fully understand.
“Do you remember when Daddy was trained to help the people in Tuscaloosa dig out their most valuable possessions when the tornado destroyed their homes?” After Avery nodded, I continued. “Well, Daddy always had to ask the homeowner permission before he and his team removed any debris. This question revealed what was most important to people. I will never forget the stories of Miss Dottie and Mr. Franklin. Maybe hearing these stories will help you understand the meaning of faith.”
Avery scooted closer, as if planning to stay awhile. I began describing two people I would never forget. Miss Dottie was a retired elementary-school teacher in her seventies. Her husband, a former professor, became very ill in the last years of his life. She cared for him in the corner bedroom of their ranch-st
yle home before he passed away. Miss Dottie only wanted one thing from Scott and his relief team. She wanted to salvage the furniture from the room in which her dying husband had lived his last days. That is all she wanted. After removing the two-hundred-year-old fallen tree that had crushed that particular part of her home, the team relocated her husband’s bed and chair to an undamaged section of her home.
Although I don’t know this for sure, I envisioned what Miss Dottie did after the relief team left that day. I imagined she placed her fragile, aging body on her husband’s bed. I imagined she stretched her body out but kept her arms wrapped tightly around her body. I imagined warm tears flowed down the sides of her face into her hair and onto the bed that had held her dear one. And for the first time since that tornado ripped through her house, I imagined Miss Dottie felt comfort. She couldn’t see her husband, but he was there. He was there. She was not alone.
Mr. Franklin was in his sixties. He had been forced to retire from his occupation as a garbage collector when he fell from a garbage truck going thirty miles per hour. Mr. Franklin’s knees were in bad shape, but that did not stop him from doing what he loved: gardening. When Scott asked the man how they could help in his recovery efforts, Mr. Franklin showed them his beautiful flowerbeds and lush garden that were now covered in disarray and destruction. Mr. Franklin only wanted one thing. He wanted to be able to access his garden. That is all he wanted.
As I did with Miss Dottie, I imagined what Mr. Franklin did after Scott’s team prayed with him and went to their next work order. I imagined Mr. Franklin gingerly kneeling down in the rich, resilient Alabama soil. I imagined him digging his hands deep into the healing earth that quickly became saturated with his tears. And for the first time since the tornado shook the walls of his house, I imagined he felt comfort. He couldn’t see God, but he knew God was there. God was there. Mr. Franklin was not alone.
Hands Free Life Page 7