(Original Post - May 2011)
Saturday morning. Norah and I are driving through town, headed for swimming lessons.
As we drive, she punctuates her monologue of how she and a mermaid are alike with questions about the things she sees through her window. It’s an admirable quality. She can tell a story or carry on a conversation while analyzing everything we drive past. Interspersed through the aforementioned monologue were the following observations and questions:
“Is that building a dance school Daddy? Will it be my dance school someday?”
“Do you think there’s a path to walk around that pond? Do you think rabbits use that path?”
“Why is there a yellow light between stop and go?”
But on this particular Saturday, she asked me a question that taught me a little something. It was the best type of question. It was a question that made me question myself.
We stop at a red light, both of us bopping our heads to “The Wheels On The Bus”, when Norah looks out her window.
“Where do you think that man is going, Daddy?”
“Who?”
“That guy.” She points.
“Oh,” I reply. "I think he’s headed up the road.”
“No,” Norah returns. “I think he’s going to his house. That one.” She points again. I look in the direction her finger indicates and smile broadly.
“No, Norah honey. That’s not his house.”
“How do you know?” she asks.
I open my mouth, and then shut it. I don’t know how to answer. The reason I “knew” the house didn’t belong to the man was, in fact, the way he looked. The house was a nice one, a big one, and he didn’t look like he could own a nice, big house. In three seconds, I determined that this man’s physical appearance precluded his owning that particular home. Three seconds, and I deemed him unworthy of that home. Why?
Because it looked like he hadn’t shaved in a few days? I look in the mirror. I haven’t shaved in six.
Because his clothing has a rough, dirty look? When I fertilized the lawn last week, I wore jeans ripped to shreds and a stained shirt.
Because he was looking at the sidewalk as he walked, as if looking for loose change? Perhaps he was looking for a hair buckle his daughter lost, or a dinky belonged to his son.
I look in the mirror again, but this time it’s not to check out my unkempt appearance. It’s simply to take a look in the mirror.
“Well, I think it’s his house”, Norah says as the light turns green.
“You know what, Hun. I think you’re right."
We drive off, though I go slowly. I’m looking in the rear view mirror still. I’m trying to see if he’ll turn up the walkway to the nice looking home. Unfortunately, we go around a turn first, and I lose sight of him. Perhaps it’s better that I never know. It makes the lesson all the more meaningful.
I take a final look in the mirror. Not at myself, but at the little girl in the backseat. A little girl, playing with plastic binoculars who has no idea how much more clearly I see the world because of her.
Just a thought – Steven Covey, author of The 7 Habits of Highly Effectively People, once confronted a man on a subway because the guy sat unnoticing as his kids ran wildly around the train, annoying and pestering all the passengers. His impression was that this man was an ineffective, useless parent. The man replied with an apology to Steven, saying that he’d just come from the hospital where his wife had just died of cancer.
We are quick to judge. It’s so much easier than taking the time to look deeper. In the next week, try to catch yourself in one of these judgmental moments, and take a look in the rear view mirror…
“Good judgment comes from experience. Experience comes from bad judgment.”
- Bob Packwood
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