Category: 2020-August

If asked, my school children will likely tell you “it costs nothing to be kind” is my go-to phrase. It rolls off the tongue. I treasure the thought. I say it all the time, probably too often for some ears.

Every teacher has a signature phrase. For Olon Shuler, it was “only in America.” For Grey Cartwright, it was a rambling sermon about “this red pen will cut you down faster that any samurai sword ever could.” For my mother, it was “drama is life-life is drama.”

I’ve also been known to utter, “You’ve over-cookin’ my grits, son.”

And, “It’s not rocket surgery.”

And the always mystifying, “You’re treading on thin water.”

But the big one for me? “It costs nothing to be kind.”

Now you know what I believe. Now you know how I aim to live. Kindness. Random acts or intentional moments. Either way, it matters. The world, for all practical purposes, is a small place and I’m a big believer in trying to get along while helping the man next door.

It doesn’t seem like too much to expect. Or ask.

On more than one occasion I’ve asked Sophia and Miles, “would y’all rather be angry for one minute or happy for sixty seconds?” They invariably choose the sixty seconds. Smart children. Perhaps, even, wise.

Imagine my surprise this week when I shared some good news about some kids I know pretty well. I expected the adults in my life to surrender sixty seconds and say “well done. I’m proud of you.” Maybe a pat on the head or an encouraging smile. But that did not happen. The sharing was problematic. The expectation was too much. Sixty seconds was too much to give. Sixty seconds was too much too share. So much for the man next door.

It costs nothing to be kind.

Maybe I’m wrong. It might cost sixty seconds. Maybe.

For some, that was too much to ask.

You reap what you sow, you reap what you sow.

By all accounts, I was a low-maintenance child. Go ahead, ask my mama. I amused myself for hours in the gym or sitting at her desk or playing in Uncle Larry’s room. Lots of invisible friends and an imagination that would not stop.

I recreated scenes from movies and plays, performing each role as if I were before an audience of kings and queens. I imagined a thousand ball games with each dribble and every touchdown. Good times.

Of course, as children can and will, I pondered many things…

How do cows from the mountains walk normally when they are in the barn at the fair? (Because everybody knows mountain cows have two long legs and two short legs.)

Why does God live at the funeral home? (Because Aunt Sally went to live with God and we went to see her at the funeral home. Therefore, God must live at the funeral home.)

And, when they made up words, if somebody had decided that “orange” was a better number than “four,” then today, 2+2 might not equal “four” but, instead, “orange.”

Just sayin’. My mother never dealt with the orange question. I should ask again.

I thought about a lot of things. I still think about a lot of things. 

My children ask an incredible amount of questions. There are moments when I feel like Sophia and Miles are more closely related to Albert Einstein than their mother or their father. Sometimes, my patience grows thin.

They ponder many things, those two. And I try to remember the enormous patience found in my mother and my Uncle Larry and the many souls that crossed my path.

By all accounts, they are low-maintenance children. Go ahead, ask their mama.

I’m preparing for the orange question. Good times.