It’s been a hard climb, trying to repair some of the damage I’ve inflicted on my relationships with my older children. And the best conversations we’ve had—no, I shouldn’t say best, because they were painful; what I mean is that they were real and honest and significant—came about because I led with honesty about mistakes I’ve made in my own life.
And yes, some of the good came from the confession that entailed—the admission of my culpability in wrecking their home. But good also came from the vulnerability I offered them. To speak honestly about how I had deluded myself, about the selfishness and ego that I still battle daily to keep in check, was to be like the Wizard of Oz choosing to pull back the curtain himself, rather than having it done to him by Toto.
Because let’s face it: our kids know we’re not the Great and Mighty Oz. They know there’s a vulnerable man behind that curtain. Admitting we know it as well models honesty and humility for them. It’s an essential ingredient to trust—because who can completely trust a bozo who never admits when he’s wrong, and has only impressive tales to tell about his past?
I’m not saying you should confess every deep sin to your children. But I am saying that you should share some of your life with them. What your childhood was like, for example. The things you loved to do. Things you feared. The times you resented your parents because they wouldn’t let you do what you wanted. Kids who beat you up. Kids you beat up.
Or what your days are like now. The phone calls. The meetings. A supervisor who rides your ass too much, or who you have to bail out because he’s still learning to do his job right.
Things you’re afraid of even now. Things you love. Things you wish you could go back and do differently.
This vulnerability isn’t just a tool to get them to open up to you in turn, though none of us should expect vulnerability if we don’t first extend it. But this habit is more about showing our children a healthy way to view the world. How to handle pain and disappointment without becoming embittered. How to recognize and be thankful for blessings we didn’t earn. The imperative of having grace for fools, because we have all been fools ourselves.
That means we’ve got to check our attitudes as we sort through what to share. Listen to the talk that goes on in your head. Listen to how you speak about your life to friends and older family. If what mostly comes out of our mouths is bitterness, anger, and regret, that’s how we’re teaching our kids to see relationships. Or if we talk like work is meaningless drudgery that saps the very marrow from our bones, we’re training them to believe jobs are inevitably dull.
How we talk about our lives profoundly affects how our children see theirs. We have to govern our mindsets. And a good place to start, believe it or not, is by playing the role of a wiser, stronger man.
That’s right, I’m telling some of you to pretend to have a better outlook on life than you actually do. I can tell you that because I’ve done it myself. And it works.
I hold grudges, for example. I’m embarrassed to admit that this ugly habit has rubbed off on a couple of my kids. So now I’m learning to play the role, basically, of a more forgiving man. When I tell them about a jerk I’ve had to work with, or how someone almost ran me into a ditch on my drive to the grocery store, I note that the offenders must have hard things going on in their own lives, to behave the way they did. I point out that I’ve been a jerk at work, and an asshole on the road. That often I didn’t even realize what I was doing until much later.
I model grace, in other words, even though what I really want to do is whip out a broadsword and start laying bloody waste to everyone who’s ever offended me. I force myself to speak and behave like a man whose heart is made of better stuff than mine. And the funny thing is, just pretending to be more grace-filled has filled me with more grace. Who’d have thunk it?
In the end this habit is an opportunity to share not just parts of our lives, but the best parts of ourselves. In many cases, that means making ourselves better in the process. Which ultimately is what our kids need more than anything else: for us to strive toward a better vision of fatherhood.
Additional Resources
The Death of Santini. Author Pat Conroy tells funny and hard stories of his family, some of which informed his novel and subsequent movie, The Great Santini. He also tells how the wounds his book caused his father were subsequently healed.
Frederick Buechner. I don’t know many writers who are better at delving into the pain and hope that infuses the heart of a father. I recommend in particular the essays in Telling Secrets and The Eyes of the Heart.
Home Economics. Wendell Berry‘s essays range wider than family and home, but his deep attachment to place, and the way he has of weaving personal stories into his larger political and economic points, are well worth considering for anyone who wants to get better at sharing from his heart.
How to Tell a Not-Boring Story. Author and creative thinker Jeff Goins offers some simple basics on how not to bore your audience to tears.
Lessons from a Master Storyteller. Aside from great anecdotes and advice on how to discover stories worth telling from your own life, Matthew Dicks offers a simple, powerful method for daily journaling that enables you to not only capture memories, but reduce the in-the-rut feeling that can plague a regimented life.
The Little Way of Ruthie Leming. Writer Rod Dreher offers a poignant and humble account of what the loss of his sister taught him about the importance of family and community.
Storytelling for Introverts. A simple four-step guide to help even the shyest person craft more engaging stories, from the underspoken folks at Introvert, Dear.