Stay the Course

 

The other night, as we were debriefing and talking about our day, I suddenly looked at Micah and said, "Do you know what parenting has taught me? To stay the course." 

It wasn't the first time I'd thought it, but it seemed especially relevant that night as we talked through our kids' ups and downs in middle school and high school: emerging behaviors or attitudes, relationship drama, hormonal rollercoasters, and all the other wonderful things that come with the adolescent years. It seemed especially relevant in light of politics, and our jobs, and our extended families, and the economy. It seemed relevant regarding our faith. 

There have been so many moments in the past few years that have made us uncomfortable. Our instinct has been to pull back and retreat, or to jump into action, or to come to conclusions in the moment. Sometimes it's felt like we're correcting course every few minutes, responding to whatever the newest, most pressing challenge is. Our life path has seemed zigzagged at times, as we crisscross our way through the minefield. 

But in just one or two areas, we'd made a different decision. We'd stayed the course. We set our sights on some future goal--be it a trait we hoped to see developed in the kids, a financial goal, or some other far-off destination-- and we hadn't wavered. We'd sailed straight on toward the goal, with only minor adjustments to the waves and currents that threatened to take us off course. 

That night I gave him an example. For years we've had a rule in our house that screen time is earned by doing chores. During the week, our kids are not allowed to watch shows or play video games--unless they choose to do an extra job around the house. They can earn 30 minutes, for example, for unloading and reloading the dishwasher. Mowing the lawn earns up to an hour. Vacuuming, cleaning the bathrooms, and walking the dog can all contribute to the hours of screentime. 

It took a few years for the system to catch on. We had endless arguments about how unfair our parenting style was, and how every kid in the country was allowed free time except ours. Most often, they just refused the jobs and missed out on the screen time. In fact, it wasn't until Henry was somewhere in the middle of his eighth grade year that it suddenly seemed to click for him that hard work could be rewarding (sometimes in the literal sense). Almost overnight, he was begging us for jobs to do, and amassing up to three or four hours of screen time many nights. The other two stood by, jealous of his access to electronics, still arguing and fighting the system. 

But last week, Thomas came to me and asked me for a job. He had just finished unloading the dishwasher and was committed to walking the dog that evening, but he wanted a little more time to play a new video game. I looked at him a little surprised. He'd been the most vocal opponent to the rule of anyone, and here he was, asking for more jobs. Since then, he's asked more than once what more he can do to earn screen time, and he suddenly seems to grasp the value of hard work. 

In a small area, in a small way, we had stayed the course. We held our ground and carried on toward the goal: to teach our kids the value of hard work. And it had worked. 

I watched a documentary once that showed what life was like in England during the second World War. A team of historians lived and worked on a 1940s farm for a full year, replicating the conditions (as closely as possible) that existed during the war. In one episode, as demands for food grew and more farmers were drafted, the team was required to plough up additional land for crops. Having a full farm to manage already, this meant ploughing during the only available time, at night. But air raids and enemy surveillance made it extremely dangerous to be out at night with any kind of lighting or machinery that could draw attention. So the farmers developed a system: they hung lanterns with covers on top from the hedgerows at the ends of the field. With no other lighting, they fixed their eyes on the lights hanging in the distance ahead of them and drove their ploughs through pitch black fields. As long as they were focused on the light ahead, aiming for nothing but the light, they were able to create perfectly straight, neat furrows in total darkness. 

I was fascinated by this concept, and a little skeptical, until I watched another documentary. In this show, a farmer was showing the host how to plough straight rows for competition. He climbed up onto the antique tractor and pointed at the field ahead. "Pick a spot on the horizon," he told the host, "and don't take your eyes off of it." He explained that as long as the farmer rode looking down at the ground in front of the tractor, he would be tempted to make constant corrections and turns--and be left with a messy, zig-zagged field. Beyond being ugly and uneven, this could be disastrous for a farmer, since uneven fields are difficult to weed and harvest. It's the nice, straight, even furrows that allow a farmer to maintain the field and eventually reap the harvest. And this is only possible by fixing on a point ahead in the distance. 

That sounds like life wisdom to me. The kind that requires, at times, a steady hand and a steady heart, and a clear view of the light ahead in the hedges. But how beautiful to think that the result of that steadiness, of that long view, is something that can reap a harvest. How refreshing to let go, and release my need to make constant corrections and adjustments. I wonder what else parenting has to teach me...