Ownership and Empowerment

I usually get out of bed with a positive attitude for the day ahead. Even if that attitude is positively convinced the day will be a wash-out, I am totally confident of getting through it somehow.

Usually Husband awakes highly dubious of how the day will unfold for him.

I am talking about total opposites.

The other day, after several minutes attempt to get him awake and out of bed, I turned on my heel and left the room muttering all the way to the kitchen.

Later, I returned with his coffee and found him sitting in his chair in our bedroom.

“Good morning,” I chirped. “I’m glad to see you up and going.”

OK, so I exaggerated a bit as he sat there in his robe with hair disheveled, two days’ beard growth, looking suspiciously at me.

“Is it?” he managed to growl. I knew he was taking aim at my statement about the morning being a good one.

“I think so,” while telling myself to back away from the challenge. “Hear the birds singing?  Corrie Tenboom said birds chirp in the morning because they sing praises to God.”

“Hmm. Who is Corrie Tenboom? Oh, wait, I know. She was that Dutch woman who hid Jewish people from the Nazis during World War II.”

“What are you thinking about?” I could see how long and tired his face looked.

“I feel sad this morning. I don’t know why.” He knew that by saying this, he had my full attention.

“Sad? Is there something in particular that makes you sad?”

“ No,” as he shook his head. “I don’t know what it is. I had busy dreams and thought about being in elementary school again.”

“Yep,”   I thought.  “Reflection about elementary school and high school would make me quite sad.”

He continued, “You were talking yesterday about children with ADHD who struggle in school with motivation and organization. You said something about them needing to feel a sense of ownership in their studies and empowered to complete their tasks.

“Well, I never felt either of those things. Ownership and empowerment did not exist for me when I was a child. Neither did support.”

“You made good grades,” I reminded him.

“I struggled,” he said as he almost spat the words at me. “I had difficulty getting started and staying on task. It was hard to remember what I needed to do. It made me tired and discouraged. I was afraid of Mom and Dad, so I did the best I could.”

“What did you dream?”

“I kept running through the halls of Funston School chasing the cats from room to room. I got exhausted. How is that for weird?”

“It only sounds busy to me. Cats make sense; you had dozens growing up.”

“Well, I was the weirdo growing up. Those in the family never forgot it. They took advantage of allowing me to never forget it, either.  I cried a lot.”

“I am sorry you were hurt so badly. I like how you turned out, and many other people tell me how much they like you.”

His hair was still messy, and the beard still prickly, but a small light of hope shone in the corner of his eye. It was almost minuscule, but it was enough.

He brushed his hand through his hair and stood. “I am going to shower. Where do you want to go for breakfast?  I don’t feel like cooking.”