A few years ago I was in the middle of one of those parenting situations that you don’t forget. When the kids are little, older folks tell you, “Little kids little problems, big kids big problems.” Well, it’s true.
In my case it happened on a day when I was home alone with my oldest son, who was in his late teens. Our younger two were at summer camp. My wife was in Israel on a trip for work. Man-to-man coverage, which should have been easy enough.
But, for any of you out there who have been in the lives of teens in recent years—maybe especially teenage boys—you may not be surprised that, looking through some banking stuff, I figured out that my son had gotten into a little trouble in the world of sports betting. (Note: He gave me permission to share this story. And he and I are both now of the strong opinion that the easy availability of sports gambling has not been good for either sports or the lives of most people.)
I tried texting my wife, but it was the middle of the night in Israel and she was asleep. I was handling this solo.
So next I did what any parent would do in this situation: I looked up stuff on the internet about gambling problems. Gamblers Anonymous. Parent groups. Learning about all the ways this stuff can ruin your life. And, as a result, spinning stories in my head about what my kid’s future would look like. My anxiety was high.
I finally managed to get a hold of Natalie and we made a game plan for a conversation with our kid. To my credit, I think actually handled it pretty well. I was firm but also listened, and in listening I actually learned some things and helped him feel understood. I was able to show love and empathy, and we came up with some steps to take. And I’m glad to report that we, and he, have dealt with the biggest parts of the problem.
But the thing that has stuck with me from that day is how my conversation with Jonah ended. I decided to tell him—maybe that’s giving me too much credit; it might be more accurate to say that I just blurted out— “Kid, I have to tell you, I am pissed. I’m pissed at you for getting us into this mess. I’m pissed at Mama, for not being. And I’m pissed at myself, for feeling pissed.”
Jonah looked at me and, with a straight face, said, “Abba, you know what I think you need to do? Go and meditate.” Checkmate, kid. Obi-wan has taught you well.
Now, if you’re a longtime listener, you may recognize this story because I shared it a few years ago in an episode on the Torah portion of Toldot. But I wanted to tell it again today because this is the fifth episode in our miniseries on family. Today’s theme is mindful communication between family members, and there’s a lot about this story that I think is on point.
In many cases, mindful communication really starts with the words going on inside our own heads. And I give myself a half-decent grade here: I didn’t just barge up to my son’s room and berate him. I took some time, learned some info, contacted my wife, and we made a plan. Mindful communication also involves not just speaking, but listening. And here, I’ll be honest, I give myself higher marks: I asked him about what was going on. I knew there was more to the story than just what I knew. And I think that’s always been an important thing for our kids—the knowledge that we’ll listen to them and get their version of events before making decisions.
In a family context, what might be most important is to tie mindful communication back to what we discussed last week, love. That’s part of what makes family different than many other groups: With a basis of unconditional love, we expand the size of our container for communication. Because of the love and trust we’ve hopefully developed, we can maybe be more honest. But we also take a bigger risk. If we’re not careful, we can wind up doing a lot more harm in a hard family conversation than in your garden variety interaction. The stakes can be higher.
So here’s a practice that can help. It starts with a reflection on the passage in the Torah that we actually say frequently. It’s from the paragraph that we say right after the Shema in our daily liturgy. For this first part of the practice, just sit and listen.
We say v’ahavta, we’re commanded to love the Holy One with all of our heart, all of our soul, all of our being. (Yes, that’s a tall order.) Then we’re told to place the words of the Torah on our hearts. And then we say this line: “V’shinantam livanecha v’dibarta bam, You shall instruct your children and you shall speak of these words—when you sit in your house and when you go on your way, when you lie down and when you rise up.”
The plain meaning here would seem to be that we’re supposed to talk about Torah all the time. (And like I said, high bar.) But we Jews are nothing if not creative when it comes to our holy texts. So here I’d like to suggest that, by mentioning children, sitting in our homes, walking on our way, lying down and rising up—by mentioning all of these really intimate kinds of things we do in family life—the Torah might be reminding us specifically about our family relationships. And it says “v’dibarta bam,” not just speak about Torah, but treat all of our words like we treat the words of Torah—as sacred.
Every time we speak, every time we listen—especially in a family context—is an opportunity to be a little more mindful, a little more loving, even when it might be hard.
So the invitation here is to try to slow down a notch in our family communications. Take an extra beat. Breathe. Ground in love if you can. Remember that family communications are our most intimate and special communications. And see if pausing to do that in your next conversation helps you show up just a little more fully and mindfully.
Blessings for the journey. Know that I’m on it with you.