I love you more than all the glass in the house.
Feb 19th, 2008 by Jill
That’s my favorite line I’ve ever thought up on the fly.
The kids were rough housing. I heard glass break. I came out and saw a blue handblown vase I’d bought from my local Mexican folk art store broken on the floor. The kids were sitting still with wide eyes looking scared — both of the broken glass and of what I might say. They still didn’t know me that well. I could tell they were worried.
“Chill out,” I said. “It’s no big deal. I’d rather my stuff didn’t get broken, but this wasn’t that special of a vase to me.” (It wasn’t.) “I know it was an accident. Besides, you guys are more important than any vase could ever be. I love you more than all the glass in the house. I love living in the same house with you guys. If it came down to it and I had to choose, I’d rather live in a house with you that had no glass in it at all!”
It was the perfect ending for that vase. It might have even been what I bought the vase for (without knowing it, obviously).
If it had been a really special vase, I probably would have been more upset initially. And if they hadn’t been obviously sorry and scared, I might have emphasized the “I don’t like it when my stuff gets broken” part a lot more.
But this happened just right. Given the choice ahead of time, I would gladly have traded it (and, actually, come to think of it, all of the glass in the house) for a chance to show and tell the kids in just this way right then that they were important to me and that I loved them.
“Look!” I said, after I’d swept up the glass and convinced them it was safe to move around and that I really wasn’t mad. “Now I have the perfect spot to put this pitcher. I’d been looking for a place for it.” (It was true, too.) I put a hand-blown blue water pitcher from the same shop in the same spot. They cheered right up.
* * * * *
I had a friend in high school whose father started a church in a rough part of town. One Monday she came to school and told me about a sermon her dad’s co-pastor had preached that weekend. He brought a vase up to the pulpit with him. His best friend had made it for him before going to Vietnam. His best friend died in Vietnam. That vase was really special to him. He told the congregation all of this. Then he threw the vase down and broke it. Everyone was quiet and horrified. “That’s a little bit like what God did for us,” he said, “when he sent Jesus to die for us. He sacrificed his only son. I only broke one of my most precious possessions to make a point.”
I’m not a Christian but I’ve always found that story to be powerfully moving. My friend said everyone in the congregation was quiet. It was the kind of sermon you only hear once or twice in a lifetime. It wasn’t just words. It was action. It was sacrifice — and sacrifice only to teach something. But I think it was worth it to him. It was a powerful enough sermon to reach me, and to keep reaching me for years, without my having been in the building when it was delivered. I don’t believe in the kind of salvation this man was preaching, but I do believe in love, and in showing it not just with words, but with actions and sometimes sacrifices.
That story was in my mind when the kids broke this vase. I was in the pulpit in our dining room, sweeping up glass. My sermon was, “I love you.”
This is beautiful, Jill. What a powerful message! Thank you.
Yes, Jill, very beautiful. What I especially love about what you’ve written is your honesty about the importance of the ratio of the value of the piece and the remorseful reaction of the kids. If they hadn’t expected you to be angry, if you hadn’t felt their fear and their immediate wish to be forgiven, would your gentleness have had as much impact, and would you have felt it as sincerely? In all relationships, there has to be this kind of allowance and opportunity for us to be our best selves. And with stepparenting, this is exactly where we’re most often handicapped. Stepkids naturally begrudge our residence in their worlds, and in ways both big and small, they work to deny us our rights there. This makes it so, so hard to be our best selves! In this case, your stepkids immediately acknowledged your territory and their violation, so you didn’t have to assert it yourself. They allowed you to be generous, and you were generous.
The good news is that as my stepsons have gotten older and require less supervision, I’m spending a lot less time telling them what I think they need to know or hear, both about who I am and how they’re behaving. And now, (maybe as a result?) they’ve begun to ask me for the things they know I can offer, that they have learned to value and that comfort them. I feel like a business that doesn’t have to advertise anymore, which is a much nicer way to have presence here in our home.
You’re doing a great job. Your stepkids know it now. And when they’re older, they’ll let you know how much they appreciate you.
OH NO- he broke the vase! I put my hand over my mouth when I read it. That was a sacrifice and he did make a point.
How do you be such a forgiving, wise and generous woman? I think it’s probably just who you are and it’s quite remarkable. I think in my mind, I do nice things like you do , but then when the vase in my house breaks, I’m not so beautifully composed. Your kids are lucky. Tell them I said so.
IR
Jill:
What a fantastic post! I’d love to run it in an upcoming Becoming a Stepmom newsletter if you’re game. And great blog, too. Thanks so much for all the wisdom and honesty you share!
Jacque
What an honor, Jacquelyn! I’d love that.
I should confess a couple of things to everybody else:
1.) I’ve packed away anything of mine that I would really melt down over if it broke. It’s either in my bedroom or packed in a box. And I do think leaning heavily on the “I don’t like it when my stuff gets broken — how would you feel if it was your stuff that had gotten broken? I feel like you would feel. Please respect my stuff.” message is TOTALLY appropriate if kids are breaking your stuff.
2.) I DO melt down. Mostly over rejected meals I’ve slaved over. I think I’ll write more about this.
3.) I’m not that physically demonstrative, and I’m a little shy, so a wide open, clearly-welcomed-by-the-kids chance to say “I love you” was a godsend for me when this happened.
What a lovely story! I will have to remember it for later.
Word.
This is such a beautiful slice of life, Jill. Thanks for sharing it.