Mr. Christensen of Ridgefield, Washington is proud to say that he is perfectly normal, thank you very much.
Now his kids might disagree, in fact they might think their dad is quite strange. Sometimes he dances around the house with moves that make them cry, and not the good kind. Other times he sings loud and boisterous songs he makes up off the top of his head about whatever his kids were up to that day. Most of his songs make no sense, but sense isn’t to be expected in a dad who cheers embarrassingly loudly at soccer games, uses 90’s slang to be cool, and doesn’t understand the intricacies of emoji communication.
But there is one silly thing this dad does that seems to have paid off in some oddly fulfilling, emotionally satisfying, non-financially profitable inspiring way.
He reads to his kids in different character voices.
It’s unclear when the phenomenon started- but by the time these kids were old enough to handle the magical world of Harry Potter, reading in a boring dad voice simply did not suffice. This simple muggle father seems to have tapped into some kind of wizard power procuring his vocal Patronus, repelling the gawky nasal of his natural tone, and replacing it with all sorts of variations, pitches, and accents sure to offend many cultures of different lands.
As for these kids, they didn’t necessarily want it. They certainly didn’t ask for it. But the dad wand chose the kid wiz, and they’re stuck with him whether they like it or not (but they seem to like it!)
Having just wrapped up the Order of the Phoenix (the longest and most difficult read of the series) last night with the boys, they are anxious to find out what happens next (although it’s possible they already know, as the book is nearly 20 years old and someone in the extended family may have spoiled poor Dumbledore’s death).
It’s worth noting, this dad has grown up with these books as they were released, attended every midnight showing of every movie as it was released, and has listened to the Jim Dale audiobook versions more times than perhaps he is willing to admit. Is it possible that some of the voices imitate versions of on-screen actors or audiobook characters? Yes. Is it possible that those voices occasionally change throughout the story because he forgets what someone is supposed to sound like? Absolutely. Do these kids make sure to call him out on it when he gets a voice wrong? All the time.
But the fact that they do, means they’re not only paying attention to the story, but the characters and the narration, as well as how and what is being said. They’re engaged, attentive, and content.
It’s a time of bonding, creativity, wonder, excitement, and happiness. This dad LOVES reading to his kids.
Yes dad does silly voices, but he always has, and this odd little quirk has actually become quite useful. That’s not to say it’s easy, it’s actually quite challenging. Switching in and out of characters can really strain the brain, but it’s slowly become 2nd nature. Now if only someone would pay him to do it.
Often we’ll be sitting around and these kids will request a voice. “Dad, do Hagrid!” or “Dad, do McGonagall!” (those are some of the more fun ones to do). It’s always a blast.
More importantly, there’s only one first time with everything, and more than anything this dad feels honored to be able to share these stories for the first time with his children. He looks forward to reading to them as often as possible, and the wizarding world of Harry Potter continues to bring magic into the life of this family.
What exactly is compassion? And how can I show more of it?
I often find myself writing down thoughts of things I need to work on. Lately those thoughts have revolved around how I can be a more compassionate human.
Overall, I think I’m generally a decent person with an ability to feel love and show compassion to anyone around me. I’ve never doubted for one second the love I feel for other humans in my life, especially my wife and children. That love is unconditional, of course it will always be there, no matter what. But the older my children get, and the more strenuous the turmoil they tend to put me through, I often find myself realizing that I need to work on my own compassion.
If love is a deep and lasting feeling, compassion is how that feeling is expressed.
There have been moments when a child of mine has expressed that they don’t feel loved by me. This causes me enormous pain and confusion because it’s so ridiculously untrue. I can’t believe my child could actually feel that way. And it’s in these moments that I have to evaluate how I show love to each of my children, my wife, and other humans in my life.
I know that I love my family, and I try to express that to them verbally and daily. Verbal expressions of love are the low hanging fruit on the tree of compassion. But how do those verbal expressions of love stack up against the many other memorable and/or unfortunate expressions throughout the day? Expressions of frustration, annoyance, impatience, intolerance, and even anger. If I do an honest intake of my interactions with my children at the end of a difficult and stressful day, from the perspective of my child, it doesn’t take long for me to start to feel guilt for the many mistakes I often make as a parent.
To a child, verbal expressions of love are slippery, they might go in one ear and out the other, like most words a parent speaks to a child. However, visual and tonal expressions of anger are sticky. They don’t go anywhere for a while. There have been several times when my young children have reminded me of some mistake I’d made in the past that still sits with them. It breaks my heart. But it also provides me an opportunity.
I can’t go back and change any mistakes I’ve made. But maybe I can create new memories of sticky compassion.
“Your compassion is a weakness your enemies will not share.” -Ra’s al Ghul
“That’s why it’s so important. It separates us from them.” -Bruce Wayne/Batman
It’s a classic quote from a fantastic movie. And 100% true. Compassion is not weakness. It’s strength. Strength to not react to the anger of the moment. Strength to take a step back and consider the effects of my actions on others. Strength to hold my mortal tongue from speaking words I will regret, and may remain imprinted on the minds and hearts of someone I love.
Of course that’s not to say that we should never feel or express those feelings of anger, frustration, or pain. Holding in frustration and anger creates longer lasting damage within ourselves and likely those around us at some point when we inevitably explode.
But the few times in my life that I have been able to temper my emotions in the moment and allow myself to feel love and express compassion to that person I love, that’s a moment that sticks with me. Whether it’s acknowledged or not by the person to be loved, I can feel the strength of the moment. The strength of compassion.
Like a muscle, I feel it get stronger every time I’m able to do it. It gets easier the next time I feel the weight of the moment. Sometimes it’s too much for me to bear, and I give up and don’t push through the pain. And that’s ok, life is just plain unbearable sometimes. The weight is too heavy. And in those moments, I have to remember to be compassionate with myself. I’m often too hard on myself, or get in my own head with the woulda coulda shoulda’s.
In those moments, I look to others. Who seems to show this strength of compassion better than me?
Sometimes it’s the very people I’m struggling to show compassion for, like my wife and children. For me, a gentle hug from a child instantly kills any and all feelings of frustration. It invites forgiveness and magnifies compassion. I’m grateful for amazing children who’ve given me this gift many times.
Of course one of the greatest examples of compassion is Jesus Christ. He is not remembered for his wielding of earthly positions of power, political prowess, or unmatched strength of legions and armies, besting his foes and parading about as a man of great pride with important possessions. He’s remembered for his compassion. For his humility. For his ability to feel love for his fellow man, and express that love with a perfect strength of compassion. And he taught us how to do it.
I’m a witness that it’s easier said than done, and that I’m far from perfect at it.
But there is strength in compassion. It may not be flashy or bold. It might seem quiet and content. And some might even call it weak. The loud voices of arrogance tend to drown out the whispers of compassion. So often humility is a hard pill to swallow, but it’s the fuel that keeps the strength of compassion burning.
I will never understand someone else’s life experience. I’ll never be able to feel everything they feel, or know why they make the choices they make. And I can (and have) easily sit back and judge people from a distance. From my limited world view and understanding. And unfortunately we live in a world today that not only praises that kind of behavior, but encourages it, and even claims it as necessary righteous dominion. Holds it up as a thriving and positive way of life. Something to be exonerated and worshipped.
But it’s dispassionate, unkind, and causes tremendous pain.
I firmly believe there is a whole world, an entire life experience, that we have just barely scratched the surface of. There’s a power that’s waiting to be tapped into. And the only way to tap in is to access our own internal sticky strength of compassion. It means letting go of judgement. It means finding some common ground. It means learning from someone different than you.
I hope that, especially as a husband and a father, I can increase my own strength of compassion. As I get older, I’m learning that the main purpose of me being alive is to show love and compassion to everyone around me.
That’s it. Anything else is secondary.
If I can do that better, maybe it will stick, and others can do it with me.
I was terrified. Of being a dad. Of feeling helpless at the hospital. Of the earth-shattering life change that was coming.
Then, all of a sudden, pure joy. The world stopped as I watched a tiny head and delicate body immerge from an opening that should defy the laws of physics. It shouldn’t be possible. But somehow it was, and I saw it happen. The image is burned in my brain and imprinted on my soul forever.
A child. My child. A taste of creation.
I had never seen anything so incredible in my life. A healthy, beautiful, baby girl.
My amazing wife. How the hell did she just do that? My love and appreciation for her as a woman, my wife, and now a brand new mother, deepened. Everyone faded away and it was just me, her, and our newborn baby.
“Dad, do you want to cut the cord?” a male voice asked from somewhere.
“Huh? Dad?” I mumbled, my eyes glued to my daughter. My DAUGHTER. I’m a DAD. Wait, who was speaking? I really wasn’t interested in anything that didn’t involve staring at this child.
I re-awoke to the reality that there was a doctor in the room and a nurse standing next to me holding up a tray of sterilized surgical instruments, indicating to me what looked like a small pair of scissors. Honestly, I didn’t really want to, but I was so hypnotized by what was happening that I unwittingly just went along with whatever he said. He probably could have asked me for my wallet and the keys to my house and I would have given them to him. I grabbed the little sterilized scissors from the sterilized tray, he pointed where to cut, and I cut, and set the now unsterilized scissors back on the sterilized tray. Oops, I guess I wasn’t supposed to do that I thought to myself as my eyes caught a quick glimpse of panic in the doctor’s face staring down at his now tainted tray. Well, he’ll figure it out because that’s all the energy I could put towards anything else in that moment. My focus returned to my family.
My FAMILY. No longer just my wife and I. Just like that we were now a family of three.
Little cries filled the room as the nurse handed our baby girl to my wife. A precious moment. This tiny human, miraculously grown and carried inside her body for the past 9 months, now being held in mother’s arms.
“Hello there” my wife says as she embraces our daughter, the first of many consoling hugs to come. Already connected and familiar, just seeing each other in a new light.
What happens next is something that I’ll never forget. Something that will grow to define our daughter for years to come.
She’s placed on a scale, poked, prodded, and cleaned up. Nurses lovingly work hard to making sure our baby is healthy and strong. Often babies cry big gulping cries when all this is happening (this is exactly what my boys did when they were born a few years later). They’re naked, cold, and scared. But none of this seems to bother our little girl.
She doesn’t make a sound. I get up close, my first real good look at this heavenly creature, and I see these big beautiful eyes. How can her eyes be this big? Immediately it’s her most defining feature. These eyes are darting all around the room, taking in everything she can from her surroundings. I know she only sees light, dark, and blurry shapes, but I get the sense that she is not going to waste any time to take in and take on the world around her.
She’s perfect. And in that perfect moment, her eyes tell me exactly who she is. It’s as if she was saying “Hello daddy, I hope you’re ready to show me all the beauty here on this earth, because I can’t wait to see it.”
Feelings of terror resurface like waves pounding on a warm beach. Am I ready for this? I have no earthly idea. But maybe this heavenly human will teach me to overcome my earthly ideas.
We spend the next few hours feeling all the joy and fear of new parenting. A strange powerful feeling enters into me. It starts small, but slowly electrifies my body. I’ve felt slivers of this before, for my wife, my family and siblings, my baby sister, and even other small children. But that feeling really pales in comparison to this. What is this?
It resembles the feeling of love, but it’s more than that. Connection. Belonging. Furious and raging. Then gentle and soothing. She is a part of us. A part of me. Something that can never be separated. The feeling was expansion, like the Grinch, my heart grew three sizes that day. All of my heart. The pain and the elation. The sorrow and the happiness. The fear and the fierce. She tugged on every emotion. She picked up the violin of my heart strings and let me know she would not only become an expert musician, but she would turn this into a symphony.
We named her Zoe. Can’t explain it other than it just felt right.
Zoe Dance Christensen
Beauty Mark
When Zoe was four years old, my wife took her and our two boys to the zoo. It was a weekday and I was at work. Sometime in the middle of the day I got a stressed phone call from my wife that Zoe had climbed onto a big rock and fell, cutting her forehead just above the left eyebrow. It was a deep cut and there was a lot of blood. I left work and met up with my family at the urgent care.
There was a panicked calm on my wife’s face as she dealt not only with the stress and sadness of the situation, but also 2 little boys clueless to what was going on. She took the boys home and I stayed with Zoe to meet with the doctor who would let us know what the best course of action was.
Stitches.
While we waited for the doctor, I chatted with Zoe about what happened. She said she climbed on top of a rock to see something and then lost her balance and fell. I asked her if it hurt when she fell, she gave me a 4-year look of duh dad, of course it hurt, what a dumb question. It was a dumb question, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t going to ask it. I’ve never cut myself so deep to need stitches, I live life much too cautiously, so I genuinely wanted to know how it felt. At the age of 4 she had experienced an injury that I, at age the age of 30, had never experienced, and I was curious.
Overall, she had cried her cries and was in a good mood. The doctor came in and let us know that she would need some stitches. Zoe, a much braver soul than I, sat nervous but calm in the chair while the doctor went to work. I watched her face while each stitch went in. I could see her reaction to the pain and her tears leaking out slowly as he went. But she endured it well and within seconds of completion, jumped up at me for a hug. I was truly impressed. Wow, how did she do that?
9 years later, a tiny scar remains. Over the years, I started calling it her “beauty mark.” Obviously she is beautiful with or without the scar. It’s more of a reminder of the beautiful life that she lives. Zoe is adventurous, daring, always wanting to try new things, and not afraid to get hurt along the way.
The reminder really isn’t for her, although it can be if she wants. But her memory of that day has faded. She now only knows what we have told her, and seen the evidence and photos. No, the reminder is for someone like me. Someone who looks at her. That there is beauty in imperfection, and she is proof of that.
Her scars don’t make her more beautiful (that would be quite impossible!) but rather her scars show anyone that sees her or spends time with her that Zoe knows how to live, and that life is beautiful. All of it. Including the painful parts.
Matilda
When Zoe was 9, she surprised us when she expressed interest in wanting to try out for a musical production our local theater group was putting on of “Matilda the Musical, Junior.” She had been involved in dance for a few years, living up to her middle name, and put on a few performances with her dance studio, but she hadn’t yet showed an interest in theater. Since my wife and I both grew up doing theater, we of course encouraged her.
Now this was during the early years of COVID. So auditions for Matilda were held virtually. First she submitted a song and a monologue. Now I knew my girl could sing, I’d heard her many times and she had even sung with me a few times on my YouTube channel. Singing with Zoe is one of my favorite things to do! But I did not know the full extent of her ability to be a little expressive sassy convincing actor! My wife says that Zoe inherited my facial expressions and mannerisms so combine that with her inherited gift of dance from her mom and Zoe’s outgoing and explosive personality and, well, we may have created a theater monster!
She blew us and the directors away with a great audition tape and then virtual callbacks. It was her first show audition and she was cast in the ensemble AND Matilda understudy! Wow! We did not expect that for her first show! For the next few months we dropped Zoe off every week to rehearse. Because of COVID, we were unable to enter the building and watch any rehearsals whatsoever. So we really had no idea how things were going besides listening to her practice at home.
When Zoe wants something, she will work incredibly hard at it and give 110%. As Matilda’s understudy, she had the opportunity to perform one show as Matilda, and we were so nervous and excited. Performing on stage and especially playing a main role is incredibly nerve wracking! I’ve been there, but not at the age of 9!
It’s another one of those moments burned into my brain. I’ll never forget Zoe entering the stage, all eyes turn to her, she literally steps up onto a box, the center of attention, and she starts to sing. Solo. I’m sitting close enough that I can see her shaking, I hear the nervous pauses in her voice and breath. I’m on the edge of my seat. Is she going to make it through? Of course she does. We applause. I’m crying cuz my heart to tears valve broke a long time ago.
I’m so proud of my baby girl. She is so brave. I’m in awe of her.
Zoe singing her solo “Quiet” from Matilda the Musical.
She sang with heart. She performed with confidence. And she had a blast doing it. For the next few years, theater became her thing.
Heart
Look I could go on and on gushing about my daughter. Music, dance, theater, piano, saxophone, flute, cross country, basketball, track… It really doesn’t matter, if it’s something new and there’s a chance Zoe can experience it, she will, and nobody can stop her. Her talent, creativity and imagination knows no bounds.
She has incredible heart.
If you’re lucky enough to know her, you don’t need me to tell you any of this. You already know. Her eyes to heart valve is wide open. One look and you see exactly who she is. She’s your friend. She can talk with you. Whether you’re 5 or 50, she is fun to be around.
I love being with her. I love giving her rides to dance or church activities. Sometimes we chat. Sometimes we sing Taylor Swift songs. Sometimes she reads in silence and I just enjoy being next to her.
Today, my baby girl, my little buddy, my cuteness wonder, today… she turns 13. I feel like she’s already been a teenager for a while now, she is so grown up. But today it’s official.
I’m still that same terrified father. I have no idea what comes next or what to expect. But I do know Zoe. And that’s reassuring.
Because Zoe lives with her eyes and heart wide open.
Me, at the beginning of my innie work day at the office, wearing my leather jacket I found at Goodwill.
“What indeed is YOU? How can you mean different things to millions of readers around a vast earth? And perhaps most importantly, who are YOU?” -Dr. Ricken Lazlo Hale, PhD
If you’ve read the ridiculous and presumptuously profound book by Dr. Ricken Lazlo Hale, PhD, you may know what I’m talking about. Or you may not, as the book makes almost no sense.
If you haven’t read it yet, I highly recommend it. It’s a real treat (and it’s free right now on the Apple Books app!). From odd bee metaphors, to weird film analysis of the movie Sister Act, to hilarious commentary on sex, witless self encouraging poetry, and much more, it’s absolutely worth the read. I smiled the whole time.
One of the reasons I find this short read so delightful is because I’ve gotten to know the author, the character of Dr. Ricken Lazlo Hale, PhD, from Apple TV’s hit show Severance. If you’ve watched Severance, there’s just no way not to love Ricken. He is unassumingly odd, obliviously self-aware, graciously gentle, and modestly self-deprecating.
The book serves as a companion piece to the show so if you read this book and haven’t watched the show to familiarize yourself with Ricken’s personality quirks, you’ll undoubtably be very confused. Hell, even if you’ve watched the show, you’ll still be confused, but readers everywhere will at the very least be illuminated and amused. Especially if you listen to the audiobook, read by none other than Dr. Ricken Lazlo Hale, PhD himself.
I have a lot to say about Severance, but I’m saving that for another post at another time. For now, I simply want to bask in the enlightenment channeled by Dr. Hale and provide my own take on the me I am.
Who am I?
The book is all about YOU and diagnosing who YOU are and what that means. For a long time I pondered daily who I was. The simple answer was something engrained in me since I was a child, singing in primary: “I am a child of God.” And while that provided some peace and comfort to the extent that my adolescent self could comprehend my own existence, 39 years of life have taught me that there is much more to me than that. After all, my own children are not just children of me, they are their own little people with personalities, talents, brains, hearts, words, thoughts, ideas, and feelings. I don’t want them to just be a product of their parents, I want them to be who they are. And I hope that that person is very different from me.
But as for me, who am I?
Michael
Who is Michael? A name my mother only called me when I was in trouble, which if you’ve read any of my posts about my childhood you would know, that hardly ever happened… 🙂 It’s a proper name, reserved for legends with last names like Jackson or Jordan. It was also #1 name on the list of most popular baby boy names the year of my birth, 1985. I guess my parents were goin’ with the flow that year. Michael also is of Hebrew origin and means “who is like God” or “gift from God.” But I don’t aspire much individual connection to that as I’ve already stated we are all children of God and all children are truly gifts from God. Also, people at work sometimes call me Michael as that’s the name I put on my resume, and sometimes it just sticks.
Mikey
Who is Mikey? For my family and friends that grew up with me, I’m commonly known as Mikey. A name I enjoy still to this day (hence the title of my blog- a play on words from a long running popular 1970’s Life cereal commercial) and has always been more acceptable by those who know me on a personal level. To this day, if I run into anyone I’ve known since elementary school, they’ll still call me Mikey and it’s totally fine. There have also been friends I’ve met as an adult, and since my wife calls me Mikey, she will introduce me as Mikey to her friends, her friends become my friends, and voilà, I’m almost a 40 year old grown ass man people still call Mikey. Sounds strange, I know, but it works.
Mike
Who is Mike? At some point during my teenage years, I started to go by Mike. It felt weird to make friends and introduce myself as “Mikey.” So for as long as I can remember, when I make new friends, meet new people, or talk to others in a professional environment, I introduce myself as Mike. Short, sweet, simple.
The only times this presents a problem is when people from these different areas of my life collide, and they all know me by their version of my name. It doesn’t happen often, and it’s sometimes entertaining to watch people all of a sudden question themselves in regards to my name.
In reality, I don’t really care what people call me because when it comes to who I am, I’m more than just my name.
Somebody That I Used To Know
Last year was my 20 year high school reunion. 20 YEARS! Yikes. Well, I wasn’t able to make it. But I messaged a few old friends, and saw the Facebook photos, and it was fun to remotely reminisce about those days and the people I knew.
KNEW. I intentionally say that in past tense because, since I haven’t kept in touch real well over the years, I really don’t know them anymore at all. My version of who they are more than likely no longer exists.
Hopefully, they’ve changed.
Think about someone you know, but haven’t seen or talked to in a while. What are they like? Who are they? You really have no idea. They are just somebody that you used to know. Have your friends collect your records and then change your number.
Change
We live in a world where we can often digitally observe other people’s changes. Physical changes, political changes, spiritual changes, or whatever people are willing to share over the internet.
Like a picture of themselves (above) that clearly shows a wrinkled face, emerging grey hairs, and one eyeball that refuses to open as much as the other. The moles look questionable, the eyebrows like furry caterpillars, and Indiana Jones called, he wants his jacket back. That right there is a different looking person than the awkward, nerdy, skeleton of a boy that graduated high school over 20 years ago.
But more than that, the man pictured up above thinks different. Has different habits. Has a changed perspective of priorities and goals. Has new responsibilities and challenges thrust upon him. He has 20 years of experiences. He may not believe all the things he believed 20 years ago. Or even 10 or 5 years ago. He’s probably changed his mind on all kinds of social, political, or religious points of view. If you sat down and had a conversation with him today, you might be surprised at something he says, believes, or does today. He might not fit the past version of him that you may have had in your mind.
Acceptance
This is what acceptance is. Accepting and loving someone as they are, not as they were, or who you’d like them to be. As they are, right now, in front of you.
It’s human nature to put people into boxes and label them. It simple, easy, and doesn’t require much effort on our part. It streamlines our worldview. Especially if we think we know everything about someone after a brief conversation, or worse, a social media post of some kind. Social media is the epitome of a floating iceberg. What we think we know about someone just barely scratches the surface. I know I do this. I’ve got someone neatly tucked away in my brain as a specific kind of thing and label, and then, all of a sudden, they go changin’ on me and I weirdly act surprised by this?! How could they! I maybe even get a little judgy in my mind. Wow, that person did that? Said that? I never would have thought! They pulled out my neat little box, ripped off the label, and emptied it all over the floor. Then lit it on fire.
It’s hard to accept things we might not understand, even though we actually do it all the time. I don’t understand how cell phones work, I just know how to use one. I don’t understand how gigantic metal shafts full of people are able to fly in the air at crazy fast speeds, but I’ll watch a movie and sleep soundly in my barely reclined chair as I gaze down upon mountains below, like a mythical Greek god. I’ll never understand how a woman’s brain operates (and I’ve been married to one for over 16 years!) but I accept that somehow the female species can manage to think, speak, listen, and act simultaneously on a regular basis and still function. Not only function, but thrive.
Accepting people, not what they do or say, but who they are, may or may not help us understand them, but it will increase our love for them.
Beeeeee Yourself
So who am I? No idea. I don’t ponder this question daily anymore. The less time I spend worrying about who I am, and the more time I spend just being myself, the happier I realize I become. I like myself. Whoever that is. You can put me in your box and label me, stick me up on your shelf. You can judge me all you want or think you’re better or worse than me, whatever that means. We all do it, myself included.
It’s simple and perhaps cliché, but just beeeeee yourself. Whoever that is. Roll with the punches. Change. Accept. Love. Look forward to a time where you can look back and be proud of how much you’ve changed.
If you can do that with yourself, I think you’ll find you can do it with other people around you. Let others beeeeee themselves. Whoever that is. Roll with their punches. Their changes. Accept and love them. Be proud of how much they’ve changed.
The more you allow them to be themselves, they’ll allow you to be yourself, back and forth like a symbiotic dance where change, acceptance, and love deepens. You care less and less about The You You Are, and more and more about the love you have.
For others and for yourself.
So I’m Sorry Dr. Ricken Lazlo Hale, PhD, as much as I absolutely love you and your fictional self, and as fantastic as your book is, I don’t want to spend any more time thinking about the me I am.
In preparation for a talk I recently gave in church, I thought a lot about this. There have been several instances in my life that have taught me what it means to be a peacemaker. Here is what I’ve learned.
My Family
I’m all about family. I always have been. As number 5 of 8 children, I come from a big one. Too big, I’ll say, yes too big. Don’t get me wrong, as a kid I loved it. I was smack dab in the middle and always had someone to play with. But as a parent now, with my own children, the idea of having 8 children puts me into a coma. For us, three is good. Three is the number and the number shall be three.
There was something about being in the middle of all of my siblings that had a profound effect on my life and personality. I observed silently as my older siblings would summon conflict with my parents and each other, and I learned how to avoid said conflict. I watched my older siblings get in trouble, get grounded, and receive a wide variety of creative punishments my parents were quite expert in crafting. I, of course, never got in trouble… And since they aren’t likely to contradict on a blog post you’ll just have to take my word for it that my parents would wholeheartedly agree I was a perfect child.
Not because I actually was, but because I was a certified expert in avoiding conflict. Something that would later come back to haunt me in my first few years of marriage. But that’s a story for another time.
I guess as a result, I was told multiple times by my siblings that I was a peacemaker. I rarely ever got contentious, angry, or visibly upset. I developed a very passive and easy going personality. I thought I had it all figured out. Was this really all there was to being a peacemaker?
Missionary Companionship Inventory
The first time I ever had to forcibly deal with real conflict resolution was as a missionary serving in the Ecuador Guayaquil South mission. For those of you that have served, you know what I’m talking about. It’s called companionship inventory, and we scheduled it every Wednesday. It was your time to sit down with your companion, someone you did not choose to spend 100% of your time with, begin with a prayer, and then proceed to tell each other that they walk too slow, chew too obnoxiously, snore too loud, or talk too much. As much as I tried, I could not avoid the conflict of having another human around me 24/7, especially one I didn’t get along with. Luckily not every companion was like this, and for the ones that were, there was an end date in sight you could look forward to.
In the mean time, however, I tried as hard as I could to remember the words from Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount: “Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you.”
This attitude was also encouraged from my mission president, who must have intentionally stuck me with certain companions to provide me this conflict learning opportunity. What this meant as a missionary was, if you aren’t getting along with your companion, go make their bed. Fix them some breakfast. Offer to do something kind, in spite of whatever conflict there might be. I wasn’t always great at this, but the few times I did do it, the tension in the room would cease, tempers dampened, and love increased for that companion.
It’s amazing how quickly service brings love and peace.
Among the many things I learned as a missionary, I learned that being a peacemaker was more than just avoiding conflict, but putting forth some conscious effort, in spite of that conflict, to choose to love that person with acts of service.
BYU Folk Dance Performance in Belarus
After my mission I went back to BYU provo, where I was immediately placed on to a folk dance team that would, unknowingly at the time, determine my future in more ways than I knew, despite my lack of dance experience. I entered the rehearsal room and introduced myself to the team, my awkward posture, perfectly parted hair and thin frame glasses speaking louder than any words I may have said about how recently I had just returned from my mission (it had been 1 week). Nobody on the team knew me and many faces stared back at the skeletal figure before them with wonder, possibly fear, at the idea that it seemed nobody had fed me the entirety of my mission. But there was one freckled face that saw past the gangly body and instead saw a future husband, father, and friend. Her name was Amanda and it was everything I could do to keep her off of me, to give me some space and not smother me as she relentlessly pursued me for a year and a half until I finally gave in and agreed to marry her.
Ok, Amanda’s version of those events might be slightly different, but since I have a blog and she doesn’t, you have no choice but to believe everything I say.
While attending BYU, Amanda and I both had the amazing opportunity to perform internationally with BYU’s Folk Dance Ensemble. Now before you get overly impressed, please understand that while all of the amazing women, including Amanda, were incredible dancers who had trained and prepared themselves most of their lives up to that point to be on a team like this, it was always difficult to fill up these teams with men, so for most of the men, including myself, if you could walk and chew gum you were on the team. Regardless, I began to grow an immense appreciation for the power and emotion that dance could bring to everyone we performed for.
While Amanda and I were dating we got to go to many eastern European countries with folk dance. One of those countries was Belarus. As we entered the country by bus and prepared for our show, we were instructed several times from our leaders that we were not to talk to people on the street or even smile too much, so as not to be accused of proselytizing in any way. We were even given expectations that many people might not come to the performance, and those that did might not give us a warm welcome and response that we were accustomed to. We barely knew anything about the people of Belarus or the politics at the time, just that we should put on a good show regardless of the response. So we did.
Halfway through the show, we could see ushers lining the aisles with additional chairs. The venue was at capacity and they were trying to make more room. It would have been a full on fire hazard. But not just that, out of all the crowds we performed for spanning across 6 different countries, they were the loudest, most energetic of all of them. They were on their feet, clapping, dancing, and fully enjoying the show. We couldn’t believe it.
I share this story because I learned another way to be a peacemaker. I didn’t know these people. I didn’t know their struggles or lives or conflicts they were going through. But somehow, through music and dance, peace was made all the same.
Construction Conflict
In a previous career, I spent 8 years as a construction superintendent and construction manager building new houses in the Seattle area. I learned everything I could about construction, safety, building codes, homeownership, but most importantly, I learned another lesson in how to be a peacemaker. You see, a construction manager is really a glorified babysitter of adults. From the foundation guy, to the framer, the plumber, the electrician, the drywaller, on and on, you have different companies, cultures, and people from all walks of life, stepping foot inside your house being built, and you are in charge of making sure they do their job. The environment is just ripe for conflict. Everybody is mad at each other, or mad at me, or the customers, or mad at the weather, or whatever else is preventing them from doing their job that day, and since I was the man in charge, it all came down on my shoulders. In the construction world, there are very aggressive personalities. People with short tempers. People that seem to enjoy yelling, arguing, and threatening. People that were so different than me in almost every way that it was difficult not to get pushed around for my first few years on the job.
I had to learn to be a peacemaker. And what that meant in this environment, was learn how to be a good listener. I’ll never forget one time in particular being yelled at several inches from my face by the drywall supervisor about some kind of scheduling mistake for his drywall guys to install. He seemed to have a lot to unload as he went on for about 20 minutes straight barely taking a breath. I stood, silent and didn’t say a word. Over the course of those 20 minutes, he began to slowly back away, almost looking exhausted. After a long pause, once he was all done and got it all out, I asked, in a sincere tone, if there was anything else. He waved his hand, slumped over on a bucket now, signaling for me to go away, which I did. About an hour later, he gave me a phone call, and calmly apologized for his behavior. Strangely, from then on, we got along pretty well. Any future conflicts or issues were handled with much more respect and mitigated tempers. I learned from this experience that most of the time when people got upset, they just needed someone to listen to them. I realized that I could be that person.
I ventured from the world of passive easy going nature, into one of assertiveness. It was uncomfortable. I wasn’t perfect at it and I’m still not. But it allowed me to better communicate and listen to everyone, and more effectively do my job.
In The Home
The most important example, however, of being a peacemaker, is within the walls of my own home. Some days start with “Love at Home” and end with “Master The Tempest Is Raging” (just a little hymnbook joke there, can’t remember where I first heard it).
I often worry about the example I set for my children. Am I a peacemaker in the home? I sometimes get upset when children don’t listen, or argue, or fight, or wipe their boogers in their sisters hair, or spew mouthwash all over the floor after being tickled by that same sister. I often have to ask myself if I can put forth the same effort, like I did with the drywall supervisor, or the crowd in Belarus, or that annoying missionary companion, to serve, to show love, and listen to my wife and children in times of conflict.
My children will be the first to tell you that dad can frequently get upset, and they enjoy mocking my authoritative voice every now and then, in a loving way of course. Now, as a father and husband, learning to be a peacemaker is a daily challenge. Nearly every day there is something that puts me on edge, tests my patience, or causes me to loose my cool. And that’s okay, that’s kind of the definition of parenting and marriage. It’s all a bunch of hard work. Peacemaking ain’t easy!
There’s a trick to getting through each day, despite those tough moments. And it’s actually quite simple, if you make time for it…
Find time for daily personal peace.
For me, it’s in the morning. Before the kids are awake. While the house is still silent. I know what time the kids wake up, so I get up before they do. I give myself whatever time I need to get ready, eat some breakfast, and spend some time alone. Meditate? Sure. Pray? Of course. Read? On occasion. Maybe even just pulling out my calendar and going through in my head what I have going on that day. It varies from day to day. But the point is, it’s my time. It’s my few minutes of peace. Like the calm before the storm. Like taking a breath before jumping into the deep end of the pool. Like the hushed silence from a crowd when the announcer yells “On your mark” moments before the race.
Although I think it’s ideal, it doesn’t have to be the morning. It can be whatever time works for you. I personally can’t stand waking up to the sound of screaming children. It makes me feel like I’m starting my day already underwater.
Also, daily personal peace doesn’t solve all your problems. But it does help you to feel some of that peace and remind you that you can offer some of that same peace to somebody else that day. Maybe a spouse, a child, a co-worker, or a friend. I believe that maintaining some semblance of inner peace, even just for a few minutes each day, and help you contribute immensely to the world around you, a world in desperate need of the peace you have to offer.
I don’t have teenagers yet, but those days are just around the corner and I’m sure my peacemaking abilities will be tried, scrutinized, and challenged in ways I don’t even understand yet. But I know that with acts of service, love, listening, and finding time for daily personal peace, I’ll hopefully be able to navigate those days ahead as I continue to learn how to be a better peacemaker.
Mikey He Writes It 