A year or so ago the pastor of the church I attend delivered a revealing message that could be boiled down to the assertion that whatever it is to which you give the majority of your time is arguably what you care about the most. In other words, if you ranked the activities that, and people who, comprise your average week by time allotted, it would likely resemble the level of concern and importance you assign them, whether you like it or not.
Now, like everything in life, there are certainly exceptions. Sometimes work schedules conflict – we don't all live the Dolly Parton 9-to-5 lifestyle (or probably any Dolly Parton-related lifestyle, unless of course you own a theme park that bears your name, or you're still getting nipped and tucked at 65+) – so even if you fiercely tried, it might be simply unfeasible to be around a cherished one for more hours than you each work. Or in my current case, I live 400 miles away from my parents, so while we communicate multiple times each week, the aggregate time given them overwhelmingly pales in comparison to the 40 hours per week I give my employer – but that's hardly a fair representation of my priorities (sorry, Turner – let's keep things professional).
The rare exceptions aside, that principle holds more veracity than is comfortable accepting. And it makes sense, right? I mean, the more you enjoy something/someone, or the higher value and regard you give something/someone, the more time you'll naturally give it/him/her/them.
Well, thank the Lord my parents understood this little nugget of truth and ensured they apportioned their time according to their life concerns.
I often tell people that I never had a need growing up that wasn't met. Sure, I had plenty of wants that went unfulfilled – a trampoline, a slip-n-slide, a Power Wheels truck (but, hey, that's what neighborhood friends are for, right?) – and of course plenty of them were granted, but I always had a meal prepared, I always had clothes to wear, I always had the school supplies demanded, and most importantly I always had the time and attention of my parents.
I'm a fervent believer that time and attention trump all tangibles you can give someone. They're also the easiest things you can give someone – and, oh hey, they're free. Yet we colossally suck at giving either to anyone. Sadly, I don't see that changing, as technology and social media continue to evolve in a way that chiefly leads to the wasting of our time and diversion of our attention to the constant buzzing and beeping and tweeting about principally meaningless matters that we nevertheless feel warrant our immediate focus. (Are my eyebrows getting wiry? I feel like Andy Rooney.)
All that to say my parents served me up all the time and attention I could ask for on a silver platter. And is there a childhood need greater than those two offerings? My dad tossed baseball with me in the backyard. My mom read with me on the couch. My dad played rounds of golf with me. My mom taught me at home from fourth through eighth grade. My dad battled against me in chess and checkers. My mom battled against me in games from the '70s you’ve never heard of, like Flinch and Pente. They both took me shopping; attended 99% of my baseball games, no matter how many counties or states away the baseball fields were; and just talked, listened, asked, and advised.
I can't recall a single time I came to them with a request, a question, a need to talk, or a want to do something and hearing a "no." There were no replies of "I've got too much work to do" or "I'm watching TV right now" or "I don't really feel like it." Rather, I felt assured that their time was my time, that I was their priority, and that, true or not, their desire to watch another Gene Kelly flick or read another David McCullough biography or sketch another art piece unfailingly took a backseat to throwing baseball with me or building hotels on Park Place and Marvin Gardens with me.
We just don't have much time here. And the everydayness of life demands our coveted attention. So giving either of those precious, limited commodities to the key folks in our lives is the ultimate display of love and respect. It's how you show people they matter, where they rank in your priorities.
Thankfully I'm perpetually left unquestioning where I rank with my parents' priorities. Hope that backseat is comfortable, Gene Kelly and every program on the History Channel.
Monday, February 18, 2013
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Lesson #4: Give a Little Bit
My parents are no dummies – it didn't take long for them to learn how to get me to surrender and comply to whatever was asked of me, and do so with minimal complaining. All it took was the promise of food.
Go to swim lessons at the YMCA? Buy me a TV dinner at the grocery store on the way home.
Go to baseball practices and games and give it my all? Reward me with drive-thru junk food for each great play.
Go to Tuesday night Pentecostal church services that could range from anywhere between three to six hours? Give me a $2 spending spree at any fast-food chain afterwards. (Hey, in a time when McDonald's hamburgers were just 49 cents, two bucks was jackpot city.)
I'm not kidding. For better or worse, I'm that easy.
That agreement extended to volunteering, which is something for which my mom has always strongly advocated and hammered into my brother and my brain. Whether it was Ehrler's ice cream in Louisville or something salty and greasy from just about any establishment with a drive thru, my mom knew how to tug at myheart stomach strings and lure me in to whatever volunteerism she lined up for us, be it working at a soup kitchen, picking up carelessly disposed trash along roadsides, or feeding hungry soldiers.
Look, I'm not gonna lie and say I did any of these things out of the goodness of my heart. Quite contrarily, it was solely for the promised food that followed. So even in volunteering, it was all about me, me, me. Or at least that's how each volunteer opportunity started.
A couple hours in to serving plates of hotdogs and Ruffles chips or stabbing at old, littered Coke bottles, after my initial childish complacence finally wore off, the feeling that my not-exactly-voluntary labor might yield a reward greater and more satisfying than fatty calories for my spoiled self would indubitably sink in. Did I want to go into that soup kitchen and prep food for, and make small talk with, a bunch of homeless people who looked "funny" and smelled "funny"? Nope. Did I want to walk up and down a highway and make someone's irresponsible litter my sudden responsibility to clean up? Not in the least. Did I want to go all the way to Louisville every other Saturday night and spend hours setting up the same rows of chairs for, serving the same meals to, and hearing the same jokes and performances for hundreds of uniformed men and women as part of a ministry program to appreciate those in the military? God no. Absolutely zero of any of those things sounded remotely appealing. My time would be better spent watching a movie or building a town out of Legos.
That's how I felt beforehand. But then when I unfolded my arms and took my stuck-up nose out of the air and actually got to work, a conflicting feeling overtook me time and time again: I felt small for always thinking I was above meaningful work that positively impacted others, yet I felt big because I was contributing – willfully or otherwise – to something that was bigger than me. I thank my mom for that, for coercing me to give my time and efforts to others, for allowing me to see what my contributions could produce, especially in conjunction with others' contributions.
My mom didn't stop there, however. With her checkbook (my dad, too) she loudly demonstrated the equal importance in giving – and doing so cheerfully – from a monetary perspective, that organizations that serve and contribute deserve financial support from those of us who are blessed enough to provide such funds – and that true giving is giving because you want to and not because someone in power mandates it.
This isn't meant to be a self-righteous, hey-look-at-me statement whatsoever, but as a Christian, I'm an ardent tither to my church, because I feel led to, blessed to, and confident enough in how my church uses those funds to serve the many needs in my community to know that they're doing right by the money I offer up. Now, if you don't believe in tithing, or if you find the organized assembly of people before God to be evil and corrupt across the board, that's cool – there is a plethora of non-religious ways in which you can contribute your time, sweat, and/or money to people, charities, or other organizations in need.
She might not know she did, but my mom successfully taught me how giving in any facet is a privilege, something of which to be appreciative to even be able to do. It's an honor to give. I know that because the elated feeling and general satisfaction afterwards can't be matched.
And for the record, I haven't changed much; I'm pretty much a meal's bribe away from doing or attending just about whatever dreadful thing you want me to.
Go to swim lessons at the YMCA? Buy me a TV dinner at the grocery store on the way home.
Go to baseball practices and games and give it my all? Reward me with drive-thru junk food for each great play.
Go to Tuesday night Pentecostal church services that could range from anywhere between three to six hours? Give me a $2 spending spree at any fast-food chain afterwards. (Hey, in a time when McDonald's hamburgers were just 49 cents, two bucks was jackpot city.)
I'm not kidding. For better or worse, I'm that easy.
That agreement extended to volunteering, which is something for which my mom has always strongly advocated and hammered into my brother and my brain. Whether it was Ehrler's ice cream in Louisville or something salty and greasy from just about any establishment with a drive thru, my mom knew how to tug at my
Look, I'm not gonna lie and say I did any of these things out of the goodness of my heart. Quite contrarily, it was solely for the promised food that followed. So even in volunteering, it was all about me, me, me. Or at least that's how each volunteer opportunity started.
A couple hours in to serving plates of hotdogs and Ruffles chips or stabbing at old, littered Coke bottles, after my initial childish complacence finally wore off, the feeling that my not-exactly-voluntary labor might yield a reward greater and more satisfying than fatty calories for my spoiled self would indubitably sink in. Did I want to go into that soup kitchen and prep food for, and make small talk with, a bunch of homeless people who looked "funny" and smelled "funny"? Nope. Did I want to walk up and down a highway and make someone's irresponsible litter my sudden responsibility to clean up? Not in the least. Did I want to go all the way to Louisville every other Saturday night and spend hours setting up the same rows of chairs for, serving the same meals to, and hearing the same jokes and performances for hundreds of uniformed men and women as part of a ministry program to appreciate those in the military? God no. Absolutely zero of any of those things sounded remotely appealing. My time would be better spent watching a movie or building a town out of Legos.
That's how I felt beforehand. But then when I unfolded my arms and took my stuck-up nose out of the air and actually got to work, a conflicting feeling overtook me time and time again: I felt small for always thinking I was above meaningful work that positively impacted others, yet I felt big because I was contributing – willfully or otherwise – to something that was bigger than me. I thank my mom for that, for coercing me to give my time and efforts to others, for allowing me to see what my contributions could produce, especially in conjunction with others' contributions.
My mom didn't stop there, however. With her checkbook (my dad, too) she loudly demonstrated the equal importance in giving – and doing so cheerfully – from a monetary perspective, that organizations that serve and contribute deserve financial support from those of us who are blessed enough to provide such funds – and that true giving is giving because you want to and not because someone in power mandates it.
This isn't meant to be a self-righteous, hey-look-at-me statement whatsoever, but as a Christian, I'm an ardent tither to my church, because I feel led to, blessed to, and confident enough in how my church uses those funds to serve the many needs in my community to know that they're doing right by the money I offer up. Now, if you don't believe in tithing, or if you find the organized assembly of people before God to be evil and corrupt across the board, that's cool – there is a plethora of non-religious ways in which you can contribute your time, sweat, and/or money to people, charities, or other organizations in need.
She might not know she did, but my mom successfully taught me how giving in any facet is a privilege, something of which to be appreciative to even be able to do. It's an honor to give. I know that because the elated feeling and general satisfaction afterwards can't be matched.
And for the record, I haven't changed much; I'm pretty much a meal's bribe away from doing or attending just about whatever dreadful thing you want me to.
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