My AC and Sam,
As your mother, I've uttered the two-letter-word you loathe so many times: At the store, on requests for more computer time, on pleas for a later bedtime. You've even crowned me "The Queen of No." It's a title I take on willingly. It comes with it's perks - you're not surprised when you hear the royal decree. And, of course, there are some drawbacks - you've assumed the Queen of No married the King of Yes, which means you try the royal patience at times: when "We" say no, you forget it's the royal we, and that the Queen and King rule the land together.
But "no" and "yes" are a whole lot more definitive than that word I loathe - maybe. In fact, you've decided that a maybe from me is just "waiting on a no," and a maybe from dad is a "go ask your mom so she can say no."
Maybe bothers me because it lacks a backbone. A maybe often means "I'm just afraid to say yes or no when prompted." It doesn't request more time to think. It doesn't lend the speaker to more information. It's sitting water. It stagnates. It breeds growth of a whole bunch of procrastination and stinks of passivity.
I love what Jesus says about maybe. After his sermon on the mount, he tells his disciples "Let your yes be yes and your no be no. Anything else is just evil." I used to think his rhetoric was a bit much, but as I grow older, I realize how right this dude was.
Because yes lets me move forward and so does no. Maybe is fine, sometimes, I GUESS, but often, maybe tells me I'm scared to be a truth teller.
Being an adult means saying what you mean and meaning what you say (a little Brother's Bear lyric for ya). It means being honest, right in the moment, with the person in front of you. This doesn't mean you always have to make split-second decisions. It means being willing to say "I don't know" or "Let me think about it" or "Give me more information." ANYTHING that lends you to wisdom.
We live in the south, where the plain truth can be a little buttery: it looks pretty stable, but put some heat on it and you'll be left with little substance. We're taught here it's better to be nice than honest, and that a disagreement is a fight. We'd rather sit in a room where the truth is stifling with us rather than uttering hard words that air the honesty out. But no one lives well like that. Not for long.
I want us to be a family of truth-tellers. Irish philosopher Pete Rollins says this about the truth:
“There is a deep sense in which we are all ghost towns. We are all haunted by the memory of those we love, those with whom we feel we have unfinished business. While they may no longer be with us, a faint aroma of their presence remains, a presence that haunts us until we make our peace with them and let them go. The problem, however, is that we tend to spend a great deal of energy in attempting to avoid the truth. We construct an image of ourselves that seeks to shield us from a confrontation with our ghosts. Hence we often encounter them only late at night, in the corridors of our dreams.”
He says our ghosts can become poltergeists that haunt us forever. The ghost of truths never spoken, of feelings left unheard and promises left un-kept - they keep us up at night. They sweep across the room when our minds get quiet, their presence always looming.
Sam, you hate when people feel awkward. You would rather say something untrue than make someone feel exposed. And your compassion for others makes this so sweet and special. But you have to be willing to say the hard things when it's necessary. You hate to say no when it might cause someone pain.
"Mom!" you yelled as you jumped in the car after school. "I got a birthday invitation!!!" You're a new kid on campus this year, so this was a pretty big deal. Yes, there is a rule that all kids have to get an invite if they're given in class, but that wasn't the point. The point was you got one, and you beamed.
We got home, you tore open your backpack and marched in to the fridge. If it goes on the fridge in our house, it's big business. It's a commitment. I glanced at the date, then over to your soccer schedule and said, "Sorry, bud. It's a no. You've got a soccer game that day."
And your whole body sank. You then prepared your case: "Mom, I knew I had a soccer game. I just thought I could skip it. Because I have soccer every Saturday. And so I told my friends I'd just not go."
"Who'd ya say yes to first?" I asked. We locked eyes and you said, "Mom, this is important, though." And I agreed.
"But who did you say 'yes' to first?" I repeated.
You sighed. "My team." You paused and then your voiced quickened, "But my friends will be so mad at me. Because I said maybe I could go. And they'll think I lied. Because I can't go."
"You 'maybe'd' early, dude," I said. And I hugged you. "Your friends will understand, because they're not in charge at their houses, either. If you want, you can say your mom is making you go to soccer instead."
You looked me in the face and replied, "No. I won't do that. I'll tell them I have soccer, and it's a commitment. And I can't forget I said yes to my team first."
It probably seems so silly now, but this is a soft, easy moment to learn this lesson. To an adult, it's simple: this is a scheduling issue. But to a 9-year-old, this is a tough moment: it's a people issue. You knew that when you went to school the Monday after the party, everyone in your class would be talking about it without you. And you'd feel brand new all over again. You knew that these first feelings of friendship were precious to you, and you were so afraid to let them slip away. In this, you had to find a way to do what was right, even though it wasn't your first choice. And you knew your "maybe" misled your new tribe. Because in your mind, maybe meant yes.
This isn't just a 4th grade problem. It's a people problem.
We often forgo what is right for what will gain us power and influence or comfort. We shirk responsibilities and commitments the moment we're enticed by something shiny and new. But when we say yes to someone or something, our yes needs to stick (unless it's unhealthy, then we have to say no, even if it's hard and hurts).
Why are we so afraid to say the things we have to say when we need to say them? Because it's hard. Because it hurts. Because it means we have to live with a choice we've made.
But by not making choices, our choices get made for us anyway.
When I was a teenager, a dude I was dating asked me to marry him. Can you imagine? No high school diploma, but he had our futures all planned out. We would both get jobs, an apartment and (squeal) if I wanted, I could go to junior college. Now, there's nothing wrong with all of those things, except that sounded like death to my future before it even began.
I looked at his young, beautiful face, shining with a hope he'd imagined into a certainty, and shook my 17 year old head. No. Of course no. And we broke up. Because it wasn't just a no for now, it was a no for always. And I knew it. I couldn't drag him along with the hopes a maybe can bring when I knew he was just waitin' on a no.
No is powerful. And it leaves room for a whole bunch of yeses to come. When I look at our lives together, I know my yeses were the ones I'd keep.
So, may your yes be yes. And may your no be no. And may you have the courage and wisdom to speak truth, even if your voice shakes.
