When my sons were in elementary school, they both participated in Taekwondo. Neither was a naturally gifted athlete, but my oldest son, David, decided in kindergarten that he wanted to be a ninja and my younger son just wanted to do whatever his big brother was doing, so they ended up in Taekwondo.
At one point either Chris or I were in the Taekwondo studio five nights a week, sitting in the bleachers, simultaneously watching and not watching, sometimes entertaining our daughters, sometimes chatting with other parents about school events and recommending to each other the tv shows our children watched that we disliked the least. This was also the place where I learned and practiced the crucial parenting skill of allowing my children to be in pain.
The first time David put on protective gear and participated in a sparring class, I pushed my tongue into the roof of my mouth and sat on my hands. Every instinct in my body yelled at me to run out onto the mats and end that kid who was kicking my son. But I didn’t. I considered that my own win.
I paid money for my sons to get hit and kicked in Taekwondo. I didn’t pay for it so they could grow up to get a college scholarship or so they could win trophies and boost their self-esteem. I did it so that they would know what it felt like to fall down, and, hopefully, they would develop the muscle memory of how to get back up. In my motherhood, my heart has nudged me often that failing well is one of the crucial lessons I want my children to learn.
I want my children to have the full experience of failure. Failure isn’t optional in life, but we have a tendency, born out of great love for our children, to bubble wrap childhood till no discomfort touches them. I’d like for them to have the relative safety of childhood to learn that the sucker punch of losing and the overwhelming sensation of pain don’t usually last. We have good to gain through our failures.
After several pretty easy belt tests and a year into a rather intense round of Taekwondo training, David needed to break two boards to receive his next belt. He got through the first board just fine, but he didn’t break the second board. He wasn’t even close. As they reset the floor and the boards to give him a second try, another parent leaned over to me and said, “If you get the instructor’s attention, he might work those boards a little right now. Give David an easier go at it, if you know what I mean.”
In that one moment all my resolve was tested as I watched my son, knowing he wouldn’t make it. I could choose to cheat. I could choose to give my son a hollow victory. I nodded at the other parent, but I kept my tongue glued to my palate. It turns out that my kids weren’t the only ones building muscle memory during Taekwondo, so was I.
I watched as David didn’t break the boards the second time. Everyone saw. He failed, and I held my breath rather than speak words of false comfort to coddle him in his sorrow, frustration, and shame. For failure to begin to mean something, our first feelings about it can’t be denied or minimized. If it’s worth trying, it’s worth feeling our failure when we don’t succeed.
The week after David failed, he got back out on the mats, I took my favorite seat in the bleachers (back corner where there was wall support), and he started over again. He re-learned the form, sparred on Fridays, and, when it was time, prepared for the board break again.
I watched intently during his first practice for the board break; I didn’t even try to pretend I was reading my book. Looked at him as he went through the motions, and suddenly it dawned on me what was wrong. It was his elbow.
Four years before, he’d broken that same elbow – in the same exact location where he needed to break the board. Without even realizing it, he was still protecting the old wound, hitting the board with less force out of fear of his prior pain.
As soon as I explained my theory, David’s entire training changed to help him work through the mental block around the old break. He learned that he had no reason to be afraid – he was stronger than he thought.
At the next belt testing, David exuded joy as he held his broken boards and bowed off the mat. He succeeded, and it meant so much more because he had failed.
This is the long game of parenting, where we reject what would make our lives easier right now in order to parent towards the adults we hope to raise. It’s the ultimate gamble. The day I sat in the bleachers and refused to ask the instructor to “help” David pass, I didn’t know if he ever would succeed. I didn’t know that the protective instinct he’d developed during his old elbow break held him back from reaching his goal. I acted from good motives but without knowing if it would work.
David’s failure turned out to be crucial in the full meaning of that word, both decisive and cross-shaped. It was crucial in my life, too. I carried my cross out of love for this child who also needs to know how to shoulder his own.
I understand Peter’s instinct in today’s Gospel reading. I, too, want so much to avoid anticipated pain. I, too, want my family’s life to be easy. Sometimes, we know about failure in advance in order to avoid it. But sometimes we know about failure in advance in order for us to choose it.
I didn’t know when I became a mother that some of the most virtue-building crosses of my life would be witnessing my children carry theirs. The sparring matches at Taekwondo prepared us both to handle the belt testing failure. At the time, it seemed like such a hard cross. Now, I see it was little – a little cross for my little boy. That little boy is now a senior in high school discerning his first steps into his adult life where he will be asked to carry much larger sufferings. By refusing to take the little crosses from him, we, both mother and child, prepare for him to carry the crosses that will sanctify his life.
Readings for the Twenty-fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time (Year B) on the USCCB Website
Beautiful! I’m going to remember the wisdom of this piece, I think it’s something we all need to hear!