Real Families

I’ve been impressed of late with what an astounding quality kindness is. It used to sound like one of those wimpy virtues that were all about being nice. For anyone who wanted to make their mark in the world, kindness was more or less optional. It didn’t have pride of place like liberty and justice for all. It surely didn’t rank with loving enemies and waging peace.

But now I see things in a new light. Perhaps it’s because at this stage of life I know more about how I need other people to help me “walk the mile and bear the load.” Perhaps it’s because rudeness has achieved raucous prominence by radio and TV talk show hosts and increasingly in daily discourse. Perhaps it’s because selfishness seems more and more to be in the air and water all around us. For whatever multiplicity of reasons, I am blown away by simple acts of kindness.

One evening, with two young adult children home for our Saturday evening cheese fondue, we caught up with news on multiple fronts. Several of us who had been at the beach for the week missed the opening ceremonies for the Olympics. Our son regaled us with the story of the gigantic Chinese basketball star, Yao Ming, who led the Chinese team of athletes into the arena. Beside him, holding his hand was a tiny, second-grade boy—a survivor from the Sichuan quake zone. Not only had this little boy managed to crawl out of his collapsed school, he also helped carry out two of his classmates. Our son reported that when asked why, even though injured, he had gone back into the dangerous rubble to bring others out, the boy replied, “I was the hall monitor. It was my job to look after my schoolmates.”

After hearing this, we sat in stunned silence around the table. My eyes welled up. There’s something that makes the heart sing when a gesture of courageous kindness steals the show on such a grand occasion. The fireworks were nice. The kindness of that boy was stupendous.

But what of more mundane kindness? I remember something of its unraveling. There were acts of courtesy that had become pro forma, like guys opening doors for girls. Some of us scorned this gesture because we considered it a remnant of patriarchy. And in some ways it was. But now, when someone pushes through the door ahead of me and doesn’t even notice I’m there, I’m reminded of how such small gestures schooled us on a daily basis to look out for another’s interest above our own. Oh, you say, what an exaggerated extrapolation to make from something as simple as holding a door open. Well, perhaps. But I know that I now often hold doors open for others in large part because of the courtesy shown me by the men in my life who thoughtfully did so for me. There’s no need for this kindness to be gender based, but to lose it because of gender politics is a great loss.

And whatever happened to table manners? I remember little sayings: “Mabel, Mabel strong and able. Get your elbows off the table. This is not a horse’s stable.” And other formative instructions: Be on time so you don’t keep everyone else waiting. Wait to be seated until everyone has arrived. Bow your head for the table grace. Chew with your mouth closed. Wait to begin your dessert until everyone is served. Don’t interrupt when someone else is talking. Take only your fair share so there’s enough to go around. And carefully divide second helpings so everyone is taken into consideration.

Again, I know table etiquette can be painfully overdone. But consideration for others gathered around the table is evident in each of the illustrations above. Eating together can be a delightful communal experience, teaching us in small ways on a daily basis how to be respectful of others. As we share food with kind consideration for everyone around the table, mealtimes become profoundly formative in ways that extend far beyond the table.

John Witvliet of the Calvin Institute of Christian Worship talks about how we learn to say “please” and “thank you” and “I’m sorry” and “bless you.” We learn these around the table, and in holding doors open for each other, repeated over and over, first by our parents.

Eventually they become part of the way we navigate relationships. When they are left unpracticed, families break apart and marriages fail. Witvliet calls these “vertical habits” because they also teach us to worship—to say “thank you” and “I’m sorry” to God.

Why spend time on such mundane habits? How do they matter in the grand scheme of things? It is precisely with these little gestures that we train for the bigger things. With practice in ordinary routines, we may eventually learn to share food with the poor and welcome the outsider through the door. We may learn to share kindness on an Olympic scale.

Sara Wenger Shenk is an author and serves as associate dean and associate professor of Christian practices at Eastern Mennonite Seminary, Harrisonburg, Va