A Meditation on Patience for Parents
Dear Stranger,
You were finishing up browsing at the rock shop when Easton and I walked in. You gave us a half-smile as Easton and I started to browse and he pointed out the dinosaur fossil kit he liked.
Easton is only 6, so sometimes his voice is a little too loud in public. He’s enthusiastic about everything — and can’t stop talking about it. So he kept up a steady monologue as we moved around the perimeter of the store and you kept making your selections.
I saw the shopkeeper eye Easton and I with trepidation. We were interrupting the calm vibe of the store a little bit, I know.
Then we walked over to the wall filled with bins and bins of different polished rocks and crystals. This is what I had brought Easton to see, since he has been so interested in gemstones after he got a little mining kit for Christmas. I had promised that he could pick out one “gem” of his choosing.
“These are all different kinds of stones, buddy,” I told him. “You can look at them and pick out one you like but be careful not to pull the bins all the way out —“
CRASH. He pulled the bin all the way out and we both watched in dismay as a hundred small pieces of smoky quartz scattered all over the shop floor.
“— or they’ll spill —” I sighed. The shopkeeper sighed louder. “— Just. Like. That.” My voice was more than a little sharp and a little exasperated as I knelt down with Easton to start picking up the rocks. I heard it.
And you heard it too. You put down your basket and hurried over and started picking up pieces of smoky quartz with us.
“I’ve done that a bunch of times,” you said quietly. You spoke directly to Easton, kneeling next to him on his level and touching his arm. “It’s OK. We’ve all done it. We’ll pick them up. It’s no big deal.” I could see his lip quiver a little as he plunked the rocks back into the bin.
You continued, still addressing only my trembling, self-conscious child: “See? Look, we’ve almost got them all picked up already. You don’t have to worry.”
Your voice was gentle and calm, a marked contrast to the tone I had used just a minute before.
I heard it. And I took a deep breath in and remembered: He’s only a kid.
Dear stranger in the store, thank you. Thank you for responding to my child with kindness and empathy when I could only react with frustration. Thank you in turn, for gently reminding me to practice patience with my 6-year-old, who didn’t mean any harm.
Thank you for giving me pause and a parenting lesson, in the subtlest way, to remind me that everyone makes mistakes. Six-year-old boys make mistakes. They spill things. They break things. Thirty-six -year-old moms make mistakes too. They speak more harshly out of frustration than they intend.
On the shop floor that day, I exhaled slowly and I followed your lead, reassuring Easton that he hadn’t done anything wrong. I softened my voice and touched his hand to let him know it really was okay. In that moment, I rose above my momentary frustration and embarrassment because you showed me the way.
A minute or two later, the three of us had picked up all of the smoky quartz. You continued to kneel next to Easton and then asked him, “Would you like one? A smoky quartz?”
His eyes were wide and I could tell he didn’t know what to say. “No,” he finally stammered. Then: “I want the red tiger eye.” (The rock we had picked out just a minute before spilling the quartz.)
“OK, ” I told Easton. “That can be your one.”
“Thank you so much,” I told you, pointing at the price sticker and shaking my head, indicating it was too much to allow you to spend. “You don’t have to do that. Thank you for just helping us pick them up.”
“Are you sure?” you asked.
“I’m sure,” I said. “Really. Thank you.”
You smiled and nodded, then returned to your selections and started to check out. When you finished, you smiled again at us and called, “Have a lovely day. Enjoy the rocks.” Then you left, the chimes on the door ringing behind you.
Easton and I browsed a little more, being extra careful as we inspected the different stones. I picked up a few to show him my favorites, reading the names and what the stones symbolized. A few minutes later, we were ready to leave and I went to the register to buy our crystals.
The shopkeeper rang up my two stones and then nodded at the red tiger eye. “She paid for that,” the shopkeeper told me. “So your total will be $2.46 today.”
I felt warmth spread slowly down my spine. Now I was the one stammering. “That was so sweet,” I said, surprised.
I handed Easton his red tiger eye as we left the store. “Buddy,” I told him, “the lady who helped us pick up the rocks? She bought you this tiger eye. She paid for it. Wasn’t that nice?”
“Why?” he asked.
A great question. Because the kindness of strangers still exists. Because something about Easton and I in that store spoke to you and touched your soul. And something about your small gesture of generosity spoke to mine.
On the way home, Easton and I talked about random acts of kindness and ways we could pay your kindness forward. He shrugged off his embarrassment from the store. We got home and he showed off his red tiger eye proudly. He forgot about my sharp voice when he spilled the rocks.
But I didn’t. I carry that encounter with me as a reminder to react with patience instead of frustration and offer grace instead of disapproval.
Dear stranger in the store, thank you. Your gesture meant so much more to me than the few dollars it cost. Sometimes the very lessons that we so badly need to hear come from the unlikeliest places — but they are always there waiting for us if only we are willing to listen.
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