On one occasion, we were planning to visit a friend who had suffered some major setbacks in his life and career. We had an appointment to see him as a family, so we made a point of telling the children to be home at a specific time. We were quite emphatic.
But at the appointed time, our daughter Emily was missing. She had gone to play with Betsy, but the two girls had gone on a walk and had not returned.
As we waited at home, I stewed. I reflected on other times Emily had been late. I fretted that we would not be able to visit our friend as a whole family. I built quite a case against her. By the time we left, I had transformed Emily’s lateness into evidence of a character defect. Her carelessness had robbed us of an important opportunity as a family.
The rest of us went to visit our friend. When we returned home, Emily was there, looking very sheepish. My tirade was well prepared and fully rehearsed.
Fortunately, I had just enough good sense to ask Emily to explain why she had not been home at the appointed time.
She apologized. She said that she and Betsy had gone to see Millie Haws, a widow who lived down the street. They had visited for a while and then told Millie they needed to go. But Millie begged them to hear just one more story. The girls fidgeted and fretted but did not know how to break free from Millie’s storytelling in a polite way.
I might have lectured Emily about assertiveness and responsibility. But I, like her, had been caught more than once in Millie’s magical storytelling. All I could do was sigh in sympathy and thank Emily for the compassion that had taken her to visit the widow in the first place.
What a different story from the one I had created!
Each of us constructs stories to explain what we see other people do. When we are irritated with our children, our minds are remarkably efficient storytellers. A child leaves a mess, and we conclude that she is inconsiderate. A boy ignores our request, and we decide that he does not respect us. A teenager arrives late, and we pronounce him irresponsible.
We move quickly from what happened to why it happened—and then from why it happened to what kind of person our child is.
Unfortunately, the story we create in anger is seldom our wisest story.
We know some of the facts, but there are vast gaps in our knowledge. We see behavior, but we cannot see everything going on inside our child—the hopes, worries, distractions, pressures, misunderstandings, and good intentions that may help explain what happened.
That is why parenting requires so much humility. We know what our children did; we often know far less about why they did it.
As Mary Christensen observed, “It is a mighty thin pancake that does not have two sides.”[1]
The soft-spoken parent tries to replace accusation with curiosity.
Before we correct, we can ask:
“Tell me what happened.”
“Help me understand.”
“What was going on from your point of view?”
I especially like, “Help me understand.” Those three words can save us from many foolish lectures. They communicate that we are interested in understanding rather than prosecuting.
Of course, hearing our children’s side of the story does not mean that every choice they make is wise or that consequences disappear. Sometimes, after hearing them out, we will still need to teach, redirect, repair damage, or set a limit.
But now we will be responding to the child who is actually before us rather than to the villain we created while we were angry.
There is another blessing in hearing our children’s stories. When children know that we will listen before we judge, they have less need to defend themselves, hide their mistakes, or invent excuses. They can tell us what really happened. Curiosity creates safety, and safety makes honesty easier.
Our children know far more about their inner worlds than we ever can. They know what they hoped for, what frightened them, what distracted them, what seemed reasonable at the time, and what pressures we never saw.
When we invite them to tell us their side—and listen with genuine respect—we often discover a very different child from the one our irritation had invented.
Sometimes we will still need to correct. Sometimes there will still be consequences. But correction can now grow out of understanding rather than accusation. We can teach rather than prosecute. We can preserve the relationship while helping our children grow.
Before we judge, we can get curious.
That is one more way to become a soft-spoken parent.
Reflection
Think of a time when your first interpretation of your child’s behavior turned out to be wrong.
What changed when you heard your child’s side of the story?
The next time you feel angry, what could help you become curious before you become certain?
Applying This Strategy
I ask Heavenly Father for help.
I remind myself: Before I correct, I get curious.
I say, “Help me understand what happened.”
I listen to understand rather than to prepare my rebuttal.
I remember, with gratitude, past successes with this strategy.
I ask myself, Does this strategy fit me? If not, can I adapt it or should I discard it?
I plan my response for the next time the challenge arises.
I imagine or pre-experience the better way of responding.
I try it out.
I keep refining my efforts—otherwise known as repenting.
Invitation
If you enjoy thoughtful gospel insights, Sarah Brinton and I invite you to listen to our podcast, Transformative Truths: Quotes for Learning, Growing, and Becoming, where we share meaningful quotations and reflect on how they can bless everyday life. Available on all major podcast platforms.
References
Mary Christensen, in “Letters,” BYU Magazine, Dec. 1984, 4.
