The Stories We Tell Ourselves

One of our sons was due to start in a new school. He dreaded it and looked forward to it at the same time. He wondered if he would make new friends, if they would be better than him at soccer, if the teacher would understand his handwriting – all those important questions that urgently needed an answer.

We arranged for one of the assistant teachers to keep an eye on him to make sure that his transition would run smoothly. This wonderful young woman won my son’s heart, and soon he confided in her all his worries and plans for the future. Some she kept to herself and some of it she wrote to us in a little red book that we kept for messages. He knew all about this, of course, and once in a while he would read through the messages.

What we never saw coming

One day he came home from school, casually stating “My assistant teacher wrote you a note today.” Nothing unusual in that. Then I read the note.

She had written something about how the day had unfolded and added a few anecdotes. Then she finished by saying: “By the way, he wants you to know that he doesn’t want to be treated like a poor slave at home anymore. Love, H.”

I was flabbergasted. A what? When had we ever treated him like a slave? My son was sitting at the kitchen table chewing a sandwich while watching me intently.

“Did you tell her that you didn’t want to be treated as a slave anymore?”
“Yes, I did. And it’s true, too!”

He stared at me defiantly while waiting for my next question.

“Really? How on earth do you come up with these things?”

No answer. The same stare.

Getting to the truth – once and for all!

“Sweetie, when have we ever treated you as a slave?”
“Like, every day.”

He was getting warmed up now. I could almost see his mind working to launch a well-placed attack. I decided to remain still to make a better target.

“Every day, huh? What do we do?”
“You make me clean the table after the meals.”

He was all worked up. His fists were clenched, his body rigid and bolts of self-righteous lightning were shooting from his eyes.

It was true. We made everyone in the house contribute to the household chores. The kids would help set the table, put the dishes in the dishwasher and the leftovers in the fridge. Our eldest children would help with other chores, too. As our kids grew older we would gradually increase their responsibilities as well as their privileges. We found that doing things together – even household chores – strengthened our sense of community and interdependence. We valued these moments of togetherness.

My son had one chore only. After each meal he had to dampen a kitchen rag and clean the table. That was it.

The work of slaves, apparently. Of poor slaves, even. How could we?

He was studying me to see if I was taking him seriously. I was giggling inside, but I made sure that none if it slipped out. He was mad. I had to make sure I at least had the proper facial expression.

“So, you’re angry because we make you clean the kitchen table?”
“Yes!”

He was fuming. Fireworks in the dark brown eyes behind the stained glasses. I struggled to contain myself. I wanted to run my fingers through his curls and kiss the frowns on his forehead. I knew better.

“You know, cleaning the table is an age-appropriate task for a 10-year-old.”

He was puzzled. The fireworks somehow seemed to pop and disappear.

“Really?”

“Yes. You’re good at it, actually. I think you’ll do well as you grow up.”

It’s hard to remain mad at someone who gives you a compliment. He looked confused for a second before returning to his usual beamy happiness.

“So, I’m good, huh?”
“Yes, you are.”

Settling score

He returned his attention to the sandwich. He was done. I still had a score to settle.

“You might want to look for a ride to get to school tomorrow.”
“Why? Aren’t you taking me to school as usual?”
“Well, poor slaves don’t have private drivers, you know.”

He stopped in his tracks for a few seconds before moving toward me.

“I’m sorry.”

As we hugged and I assured him that I would always take him to school no matter what, he was calm enough to answer some of the questions that were on my mind.

“Why did you say that you were treated as a slave?”
“’´Cause that’s what it felt like.”

“But why did you tell your assistant teacher that? Did you think that she could change anything?”
“No, not really. You’re the one who could change it.”

“Well, why didn’t you come to me?”
“Are you crazy? You would have known immediately that it wasn’t true!”

Now I was the one left with the blank stare. My freakishly clever son refused to make a claim to me that I would know to be untrue. However, if he had his assistant teacher doing it he thought I might believe her. In his mind she was now the one saying that he was being treated as a slave in our home. That changed everything. She was an adult and an assistant teacher. He reckoned I would have to listen to her.

Stories we tell

He had told himself the story of a poor little slave trapped in domestic drudgeries so many times that it became his own story. Somewhere deep down he knew that it wasn’t so, but it felt true. He did not want to clean the table. So instead of telling me, maybe even asking for another chore, he created a story where he was victimized by the circumstances. He was stuck in a reality that he didn’t like and there was nothing he could do about it. It felt true. It had to be true.

It’s easy to smile at my son’s charming efforts at constructing a reality, but I’ve done the same more times than I care to admit.

If only they would realize…
If they would finally appreciate…
If I had not grown up with…
If someone would just…
If only…

We keep on repeating the story of our unfortunate circumstances as if the realization of our very purpose of life depended on it. It feels true, so therefore we are poor little slaves, right?

There’s one truth, and that is to be found in the word of God. Whenever you have made misery your company, make sure that you return to the Truth of your life:

Mercy and truth have met together;
Righteousness and peace have kissed.
Truth shall spring out of the earth,
And righteousness shall look down from heaven.
Yes, the Lord will give what is good;
And our land will yield its increase.
Righteousness will go before Him,
And shall make His footsteps our pathway.

Psalm 85, 10-13 (NKJV)

You are not a slave.

You’re walking in righteous footsteps. As royalty should.