“What Can I Give You?”

Grandma Leah Nelson, c. 1970

Last night my grown-up son came to visit Paul and me. We’ve been confined to home with bad colds and it was good of him to brave the risk of infection and cheer us up. As he was leaving, I followed him to the door and heard myself say, “What can I give you before you go?”

As the words came out of my mouth I laughed and immediately said, “Now I’ve become my grandmother.”

When I was in college, I would go visit my grandma sometimes on a Sunday evening. She was incredibly old to me. As we sat in her little house, she would ask me about school and show me a quilt she was working on. After our visit, as I began to say my goodbyes, she would say, “Now what can I give you before you go?”

Then she would go to the kitchen to put some homemade cookies in a sack (usually hard and stale), or she would say, “Run down to the basement and get yourself a jar of peaches.” She never wanted me to leave empty handed.

My mother would do this too, when she was widowed and old and infirm. I would go each evening to help her prepare for bed. After I gave her medicine, helped her into her nightgown, rubbed lotion on her feet, and tucked her in, she would say, “Now what can I give you before you go?”

Mothers and grandmothers want to give to their children. Of course, we do. When our children are little and we are strong, we give all the time: food and warmth, comfort and knowledge. Pretty much we can fix whatever problems they have. You’re hungry? Have an apple. You’re tired? Time for bed. You hurt yourself? Let me kiss it better.

When we are getting to be old, and our children are now the adults, we still want to give to them. Unfortunately, I don’t can peaches anymore and seldom keep cookies in the house (probably because I eat them as soon as they are baked). I couldn’t send Mark to the basement to get a bottle or even put some treats in a sack.

So what can I give to my adult children, when they really don’t need any tangible help--when they have launched into adult life and are succeeding at it, praise the Lord.

Sometimes what I want to give them is advice. I forget they are adults, and I still want to make better whatever concerns they may have. I notice when they are worried, when they have troubles. I want to make it better, the way I could solve their little problems when they were little people. It’s because I love them, of course, I want to do this.

But those are not the best gifts to give to adult children. Trying to fix the problems they need to fix themselves just sends a message that they are not capable of fixing them themselves. It says, “you are still a child.”

I remember my mother giving me advice. I don’t think I ever followed it. But I do remember feeling terrible that she thought so little of my abilities that she thought I needed advice.

Our grownup children are not children. They are adults and they need to solve their own problems.

A wise friend once told me, “When my children grow up, my husband and I tell them it’s up to them to make their own mistakes now. Goodness knows we’ve made our share of mistakes along the way. We need to let our children make mistakes too.”

Solving our own problems and making our own mistakes and finding our own successes is what it means to be grown up. We can’t take that from our grown up children.

Once I heard Steven Covey, author of Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, speak about loving adult children. He said, once your children are grown, you don’t tell them what to do. You just tell them what they are doing well.

Of course, I still end up giving advice--often even without knowing I am doing it. Bless my dear children for being patient with me when I do that.

But this is what I really want to give to my adult children, as they leave my house. I want to listen. I want to applaud. I want to share my own stories. 

I can pray. I can give them my trust and confidence along with my heart, which they have always had.

But I am kind of sorry I don’t have a jar of peaches to send with them too.

I Lied

In my last post, I lied. This week I want to set things straight.

The post was about a dream that encouraged me to try for a full-time faculty position at BYU. In the dream, the flight of stairs to the full-time offices was missing, but I just pretended they were there and I was able to make the climb. The dream inspired me to act as though I were full-time--even though I wasn’t--and, eventually, I was hired in a full-time position. All of this is true.

This is the lie:

When a 3-year full-time appointment became available for non-PhDs, I applied. And I didn’t get it.

No problem. The next year, I applied again.

“No problem.” That was the lie.

It was definitely a problem when I didn’t get the position. I was devastated. I knew—I thought I knew-- I was the most qualified. I couldn’t imagine why I wasn’t chosen. I felt betrayed by the hiring committee--colleagues whom I had felt were my friends, who I had assumed would appreciate my hard work and clearly want to choose me. I’m pretty sure I went home and pulled the covers over my head. I wanted to just give up.

The lie I want to correct was the impression I may have given that the journey up the invisible stairs was easy. It wasn’t.

It wasn’t easy to try to figure out a professional discipline without classes or professors to help me along.

It wasn’t easy when my proposals to present papers at conferences were rejected. Nor when I sent articles to journals for publication and they weren’t accepted. I didn’t understand what was wrong. I felt like I didn’t know the rules, but I was trying to play the game anyway.

It was not easy to take over a tutoring program and make changes that were not totally popular with the tutors. It was not easy to deal with budget cuts and unhappy teachers and ineffective tutors. It was not easy to create workshops that were initially poorly attended. It was not easy to keep reading and learning and researching when it didn't seem to get me anywhere. It was hard work.

Just like every worthwhile thing anybody has ever accomplished. It’s hard to be a mom. It’s hard to be a good friend. It’s hard to go to school. It’s hard to become an accountant or a doctor or a mechanic. It's hard to clean the toilet. It’s hard to do stuff that matters and makes the world a better place.

But in all the hard things, there are joys. For me, in each difficulty, I found support and encouragement to get through. I had mentors to help me, generous colleagues. I had students and tutors who believed in me. I had a wonderful family: My husband and children helped me with my work, were patient when I couldn’t complete home responsibilities, and, especially, comforted me when I was discouraged. With all this help, I kept trying and learning, and there were many more times of joy than sorrow. Along the way, I found friendships and experiences that I would never trade.

Just like all of you, as you have climbed your own staircases. Climbing that staircase is hard, but it is worth it. The invisible steps hold.