Ghosts of Halloween Past

 

Ghosts of Halloween Past

October 31, 2018

Most children love Halloween. What could be better than dressing up and getting candy? When we were young, my brothers and I made our own costumes — usually from cast-off clothing from our parents.On Halloween night, we dressed in our costumes and grabbed pillowcases to gather our loot. We planned to fill those cases to overflowing. 

Everyone knew the best houses to hit — the ones that gave big Hershey bars, the ones that gave caramel apples, even the ones that gave quarters (which was a lot of money in those days).  The mecca of our neighborhood was the house that gave out soft pretzels. These folks made their own and the supply was limited! Unfortunately, we never remembered just which house it was until it was too late. We had to settle for kettle corn.

Dragging our treat-laden pillowcases home, my brothers and I and removed our costumes, wiped off our make-up, and prepared for the climax of the night — trading our candy.

Each one of us used a sheet of newspaper to sort our haul. Piles of Hershey bars, Baby Ruths, pretzel sticks, Twizzlers and more grew before us.

As the oldest, with the most experience, I had the advantage in our trades. I regret to say that I was not the fairest of traders. I craved chocolate. Every year, I persuaded my brothers to part with their Hershey bars, M&Ms, and Three Musketeers. 

My brothers followed the “instant gratification” philosophy so they dived right in. I was more of a “delayed gratification” girl, so every year I put my ill-gotten chocolates into a paper bag, taped it shut, put the bag in a shoe box, taped that shut, covered the bag with brown paper, taped that shut and wrote, “This is Lisa’s candy. Do not eat!” all over it in black crayon. Then I hid the box way back in the freezer. For good measure, I locked the freezer door and put the key on top — too high for my brothers to reach.

A week later, with my mouth watering for chocolate, I’d reach into the freezer for my box. It was still taped shut but a little sloppily. The box felt a bit light. With steam pouring from my ears, I opened the box to find half — if not all — of my candy gone. Shouting my revenge, I looked for my brothers who were always suspiciously absent. My mother consoled me as I mourned the loss of my treats.

This happened every year. My threats never fazed them and I never caught them red-handed or chocolate-covered. The same charade played out at Easter and Christmas. I never learned.

Many Halloweens later, fate dealt me a blow. I became allergic to chocolate—justice for my avaricious ways. No more Hershey bars, M&Ms, or Three Musketeers for me.

I miss the chocolate but I still have those brothers — a far better treat than any ever stuffed into a pillowcase. Delayed gratification of the best kind.

A Lesson to Remember

A Lesson to Remember

Some years ago, we visited our daughter and her husband in their temporary home in Belgium. Our son, Rob, his wife, Ann, and our grandchildren Carson and Phillip traveled with us for a wonderful family gathering. Having the grandkids along added a rich dimension to our trip. Everywhere we went their questions and observations added to our wonder. We toured around Belgium, visited the medieval towns of Ghent and Bruges and spent a misty afternoon in a fairy tale village in Germany. Cathedrals and castles enchanted us. Priceless works of art enthralled us. City and country, this part of the world is stunning, especially for those of us coming from the very young country of America. But perhaps our most poignant moment was visiting an empty house in Amsterdam. 

During the two hour drive from Brussels to Amsterdam, we noted windmills, flat farm lands, and the straightest irrigation ditches ever carved into the earth. As we drove, Ann gave eight-year-old Phillip a history lesson. She told Phillip that once there was a man who decided that there were some people that he didn’t want around anymore. He and his followers took away the rights of these people. They weren’t allowed to go to school or work. They couldn’t travel or shop in stores. They wore a yellow star on their clothes so that everyone would know who they were. Many were arrested and sent away. Many went into hiding. Many did not survive.  

When we arrived in Amsterdam, we found a long line waiting to enter the empty house. As we stood in the wind and rain, Phillip giggled with his sister and amused the crowd around us. As we edged closer to the entrance, we reminded him that this place was sacred to many and that he would need to quiet down.   

The large, wet, and cold crowd entered the house in silence. We saw the posters forbidding entrance to shops and schools. We saw the gold stars. We ducked through a doorway hidden by a bookcase and climbed steep stairs to view empty rooms that resonated with the spirit of the eight people who had hidden there for more than two years.  

We stood in a room decorated with pictures torn from movie magazines and listened for the voice of the teen-aged girl who once lived there. We gazed up into the attic to see the one window open to the sky through which this girl viewed the world forbidden to her.  

When we got to the end of the tour we saw the document that brought us here. The checkered diary lay beneath glass. We saw the careful handwriting and smiling photos. We found out what happened to the girl and her family. Our  grandchildren were quiet during the tour. We wondered what they must be thinking about the empty rooms and the story of the girl and her family. As the crowd shuffled out of the museum, Phillip asked a question. “Why did the man do this?” 

Why did one man, filled with hate and fear, want to kill a girl, filled with joy and life? A girl who, during two years living in hiding and in fear, filled a diary with her hopes and dreams, who felt that, after the war, she would find that people were still good.  

Why did the man do this? Why did other people allow him to do this? Why did Anne Frank and millions of others have to die? Why did her diary survive to inspire us? Why do thousands visit these empty rooms?  

The last exhibit in the museum asked us to make some decisions. Videos showed instances of hatred and bigotry across the world today. We were asked to express our opinions about these issues. Where do we stand? Do we follow the man who hated or the girl who hoped?  Are we the people who turned them in or the people who risked their own lives to help them? Will we remember and never let it happen again?  These rooms are empty to remind us that our hearts should not be.  

We will long remember our trip.  I hope we also remember what we learned from the children who traveled with us and the child who left us her diary. A lesson to never forget.  

Once more into the breach...

 

Once more into the breach...

Do you have a favorite president? We have had many great presidents. All have changed the course of our history, and the history of the world, through the actions and policies of their administrations.   

The responsibilities of the presidency are unbounded: leader, general, educator, philosopher, philanthropist, disciplinarian, prophet, parent, seeker, and guide. It’s a big job. It requires a big person and personality. So, for more than a year before the election, we are bombarded with the “good” and “bad” qualities of those running for office and asked to sift through all the spin, propaganda, accusations, policies, reputations, and speeches, and choose the right person to lead our country for four more years. It’s a big job for us too.

Abigail Adams, the wife of John Adams, our second president, and the man who followed the demigod, George Washington, wrote, “The task of President is very arduous, very perplexing, and very hazardous.”  She observed firsthand the power and pressure of holding the reins of government in the weak hands of a common man. She saw how George Washington set a precedent for all who would follow him, bringing dignity to the office, and how her husband, a very different type of leader, struggled to stand firm in the shoes that great man had left behind. 

Children, outside of the politician’s target group by age and experience, get caught up in the election frenzy nevertheless. I asked some children what advice they would offer to the President. 

        Be brave. 

        It takes a lot of courage to do the right thing. 

        Stand up tall and ask the people what they need. 

        Ask others to be nice. Tell the people not to hurt others. 

        Be happy. If you are sad, you might make everyone else sad. 

        Say hi to people. Be their friend. 

        Use kind words and actions. Say, “Please, thank you and you’re welcome.”  

        Be helpful. Give food to hungry people. 

        Be honest. Don’t lie. 

        Stand up tall when you give your speeches. Say the right thing.

        Respect everybody. 

Children expect a lot from a President. They also expect their parents to choose the right leader for our country. They trust us. What a responsibility this is -– to be worthy of the trust of a child.

This is a trust we must not betray. We must think long and hard about the kind of person we wish to lead our country, the country of our hearts and homes. We must study the issues and contemplate the state of the union and the world. We must consider not only our needs but the needs of others. We must think of the children; each with specific needs and hopes, pasts and futures, sorrows and joys, and pray that our choice will secure for them the country they deserve.  

We are all parents to the children of the world. Let’s take to heart their advice as we choose our next leader. Have courage. Do what is right. Stand up tall. Respect everybody. Choose wisely. 

A quotation of John Adams graces the mantelpiece of the State Dining Room in the White House: "I Pray Heaven Bestow the Best of Blessings on This House and All that shall hereafter inhabit it. May none but  [the] Honest and Wise … ever rule under this Roof."   

Let us join Mr. Adams in his prayer.  May we be blessed with the best President our children deserve.  

Consulting

 

Consulting

When my father retired, he started a consulting business. Using the skills he had honed during his career in quality control, he solved the problems of his clients — engineering and business firms. He was paid for his expertise and experience. 

When I retired from teaching, I also began a consulting career. Using the teaching skills I had honed, I solve the problems of my clients — six and seven-year-olds. I volunteer in first grade.

First-grade students need help with reading and math. I help them sound out words and understand what they are reading. We search pictures for context clues. We use counters and number lines to solve addition and subtraction problems and toy clocks to tell time. We draw pictures to explain concepts or help them remember words. Learning the skills they need to succeed in school is our first goal.

But my second goal, and much more important, is helping my students blossom. Each student is a bud, full of potential, waiting for someone to tend to them. So the first thing I do, before we practice sight words, read any story, count, add, subtract, or review homework, is to ask each child, “How are you doing today? Tell me something new about you.” Then the smiles start. 

My brother got a new bicycle! He said that he would let me ride it sometimes.

My dad took me fishing this weekend. I almost caught three fish!

I learned a new joke. Do you want to hear it?

My aunt is getting married and I am the flower girl. I get to pick out my dress!

Tears sometimes sparkle.

  My mom had to go away. I miss her. 

Amy told me that she doesn’t want to be friends anymore. We’ve been friends since kindergarten.

My dog died. He was a good dog.

I helped Tommy look for his baseball glove. We didn’t find it. 

In the few minutes we spend sharing stories, we connect. I had a dog that died when I was young. My dad took me fishing too! I never was a flower girl. What do you have to do? Won’t your mom be happy to see you when she gets home? Sometimes being friends is hard work. We learn to trust one another and that makes learning — with its difficulties and mistakes — easier. The students teach me a lot too — to be open and willing to learn, to share joys and sorrows, to trust that others want to help you, to gather strength in weakness, and to blossom in the warmth of caring teachers and friends. Together, we grow. 

My biggest ally in my consulting life is the classroom teacher. When you teach many students, you may not have time to personally connect with each student every day — even when you try very hard. And believe me, teachers try VERY hard. Connecting with students helps them learn. Connection leads to understanding and respect. In first grade, understanding and respect lead to love. There is a lot of love flowing around first-grade classrooms. Lucky me, I scoop it up when it flows my way. 

So that’s how I get paid for my consulting, in dopey grins, glistening tears, silly jokes, sad stories, and love. When I walk into the classroom, the students light up and call my name. I am a celebrity. No rock star ever felt more loved.  I love them right back. How rich can you get? 

My father was glad that he could use his skills after he retired. He consulted for many years and solved many issues for his satisfied clients. He had earned his pay. I plan to consult for many more years. The problems vary, we may not solve them all, but the pay is outstanding.

 

I am grateful for my teaching skills and the opportunity to use them. Thanks to the teacher who trusts me with the students she loves. Thanks to the students who share their joys and sorrows with me. Together, we grow. 

Wanting to Think

Wanting to Think

Much criticism is being leveled at teachers these days. Just what are they teaching our kids? Are they teaching the personal worldview and opinions that I embrace or the worldview and opinions of others? What is the purpose of education today?

American students were once fed their education. Memorization and recitation predominated. Facts, such as time tables and the dates of important events, filled the curriculum. Education was a who, what, when, and where event. Advanced students studied the why and how, the last two “Ws,” making connections between events and dates and the reasons behind them. What happened depended on the how’s and why’s that preceded it. The Great Depression resulted from…. The Civil War was caused by ….  The Enlightenment (Renaissance, Dark Ages, Industrial Revolution) came about because …. Serious students looked behind the what, to the how and why of the world. 

The ancient Greek teacher Socrates pushed his students beyond how and why. His teaching style encouraged critical thinking — asking questions and answering them — reflection — thinking about what you have learned in relation to who you are and the state of the world — and independent research — going beyond the classroom, reevaluating old ideas to ignite new areas of inquiry. Socrates wanted his students to know more than who, what, when, where, why and how. He challenged them to want to think. 

Memorization and recitation require effort. Making connections requires energy. Thinking for yourself requires exertion. Many people today want to be fed. They watch the news that feeds their appetites, swallowing it whole, but don’t digest it. Dining solely on the newsfeed that satisfies their own worldview, opinions, or aspirations, they gobble up the what to think without processing the why’s and how’s behind it. If this politician who inflames my emotions or that celebrity who entertains me believes it, that’s good enough for me. Why think for myself when I can let others do it for me? Effort? Energy? Exertion? Not for me! 

Are we stuck in a who, what, when, and where world? Do we inquire how and why? Do we want to think?  One of the best reasons for learning to read is that you can find out for yourself. You don’t have to believe what other people tell you. When you can read, the world is open to you. But even with an open world, the reader must open his mind to new ideas which might challenge or oppose his own. Who, what, when, where, why and how are important but we must add a sixth W — we must want to think. 

Thinking requires effort, energy, and exertion. Children who want to think become adults who want to think. Adults who want to think see beyond what is fed to them, beyond data to causes, beyond causes to new questions and new answers. Wanting to think must be the purpose of education. 

Do I want to think or do I want others to think for me? Ask yourself this question. Answer with some questions of your own. Reflect on what you learn. Add information that leads to new questions and new answers. Open your mind. Want to think. 

 

The Stranger at Your Funeral

 

The Stranger at Your Funeral

2015

When I read the obituaries in the New York Times, I often feel a pang of envy. Not that I want to be dead, nor do I want the recognition these famous people have earned. I am awed by the many accomplishments listed in their life stories. Each (inventor, philanthropist, teacher, survivor, author, scientist, or artist) has left behind a lasting legacy. I stop and think, how will I be remembered? What have I accomplished? 

As an ordinary person, I don’t think I will ever be honored with an obituary in a large city newspaper. But, having attended many funerals, I am hoping that, when my time comes, at least one stranger will show up at my funeral. 

Some years ago, my sweet Uncle Val passed away unexpectedly. Val had served in the military and worked as an engineer. He loved his wife and three children and cooking. Still in shock at his funeral, we stood in line to comfort his family. My husband and I noticed a group of older folks, some with white canes and many with walkers, waiting in line behind us. We didn’t recognize them as family members, so we asked them how they knew my uncle. “Oh,” they said, “he was our driver.” 

When Uncle Val retired, he wanted to do something to keep busy. He took a part-time job driving the senior transport bus in his town. He took his job seriously and took good care of his riders, walking those frail to and from their doors, passing the time of day, learning names, and asking about ailments. He became their friend. He was a quiet man, so he never mentioned these things to his family, but the riders remembered. They came to honor this man who had loved them well. 

Every one of us has an opportunity to help someone, to be kind, to make a difference. Val might have just opened and closed the bus door. Taking time to speak to people, to listen to their needs, to lend a helping hand might slow you down, but the time is never wasted. Someone’s spirits will be lifted. Someone will feel valued. Someone will remember. 

When my father died, I stood in the family line welcoming friends and family to his funeral service. I was touched by so many who came to honor him. My brothers gave wonderful tributes about the kind of father he was. His friends spoke of his compassion and gentleness. His grandchildren honored his memory by singing his favorite Broadway show tunes. All these things warmed my heart. 

About a month after my father left us, after we had all gone home and back to our daily activities, a man showed up at the door of my parents’ home. He was the cab driver who had taken my father to his regularly scheduled doctors’ appointments. When he heard the sad news, the cabbie burst into tears. He hugged my mother and they wept together. 

This is the stranger at your funeral. The person who has been touched by your life in some way you may never imagine. While we are still here, let us gather these strangers. We won’t be there to meet them, they may never even know of our passing, but if we can enrich one life, we will never be forgotten. 

How Musicals Shaped My Life

 

How Musicals Shaped My Life

2015

I grew up in a Broadway musical. No, my parents were not actors or professional singers. Life was a musical for them. From my earliest days music filled the house. My father built his own stereo system and kept an extensive collection of albums — all Broadway musicals. He played them, we sang them, and sometimes, we lived them.

Most days were happy. Raindrops were on roses and whiskers were on kittens and life was good.  Sometimes dark shadows hovered over us and we would “Whistle a happy tune and every single time, the happiness in that tune” convinced us that we should not be afraid.

Our family kept expanding swelling our chorus to ten. When finances were tight, we sang “If I Were a Rich Man,” thankful that, although our family resembled his in size, we were much better off than Tevye of The Fiddler on the Roof. We knew that, “Wonder of Wonders, miracle of miracles,” we had a faith that would uphold and sustain us. 

My sister Maria was named after the song in West Side Story. Whenever the phone rang when she was a teenager, we sang out Mariiiia! Of course we also serenaded her with “How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?” from The Sound of Music. We threatened to have it played at her wedding. (We did not.)

We knew we could “Dream the Impossible Dream,” like Don Quixote and “Climb Every Mountain” to overcome any obstacle. Nothing would “Rain on Our Parade.” If ever there was “Trouble in River City:” we knew that, “The sun will come out tomorrow.” We believed in a magical place called “Camelot.” 

As we stepped out into the world and found romance, we dreamed big. “Tonight, tonight, I’ll see my love tonight, and for us stars will stop where they are.” We knew that, “Some Enchanted Evening” we would meet that “Wonderful Guy.” The first words my future husband said to me were “Shall We Dance?”

We continued to sing when we started our own families. “The Soliloquy” from Carousel came in very handy with “my little girl, pink and white as peaches and cream is she.  My little girl is half again as bright as girls were meant to be.” Maria sang ” Food Glorious Food” when she placed a tasty meal in front of her brood. My brother Joseph amused his boys with “Happy, Happy, Happy, Happy Talk” from South Pacific. Carla, who as a teen played Jesus Christ Superstar continuously on our eight-track player, asked her kids “What’s the buzz, tell me what’s a-happening?” Paul taught his children that “You’ve Gotta Have Heart” when striving for a goal. Michael reminded his kids that you never know when the “Wells Fargo Wagon” will bring “Something Wonderful” your way.  

They say that music hath charms to soothe the savage breast. Music gives joy, uplifts, perhaps even guides and protects you when you keep it in your heart  and remember to keep the people you share it with in your heart too. With music, and your family, in your heart you will “Never Walk Alone.”

Give Extra: Reap Much

 

Give Extra; Reap Much

Bus dismissal time in elementary school is frenetic. Students are packing backpacks and socializing while listening for their buses to be called. After most of the wriggling throng departed, a few kids waited for the late buses. Usually, those left behind in my second-grade class, yearning for after-school freedom, bounced off the walls. But one year, I was left with five little sweeties who gathered on the carpet to chat.

After some conversation, they decided. “We should make a club!”

Breaching the invisibility shield I had posted around my desk, they trooped over. “We want to make a club. What can we do while we wait for the bus?” 

Looking past their eager faces, I took in the chaos left behind by busy seven-year-olds. Paper and pencils littered the floor. Desks, once soldier-straight, zigzagged haphazardly across the room. Computer mice, like Petrie dishes, harbored legions of germs. Bookcases spilled out books and shelves dropped learning tools and games onto the floor.

“Well, ”I said, “Wouldn’t it be nice to straighten up the room to make it easier for Mr. J to clean?” Mr. J was our custodian. Every morning we started the day in an organized classroom and every afternoon, we left chaos for him to clean up.

“A cleaning club!” Their eyes lit up! Grabbing paper, they scurried back to the carpet to make a list of jobs. In minutes, they had delegated responsibilities and named their club — The Cleaning Crew. The club swept the floor, sharpened pencils, straightened desks, dusted chalk trays, organized shelves, and wielded disinfectant wipes to de-germ surfaces. In the five or ten minutes before their bus arrived, The Cleaning Crew cleared away and organized, brightening the classroom with their exuberance and their cleaning. Our classroom sparkled.

Custodians are nighttime angels, so I didn’t catch up with Mr. J until a few months later. The Cleaning Crew had left a thank-you note on the board for him (happy faces and hearts included). He wanted to thank them. He left a response on the board (happy faces but no hearts). What joy when the crew arrived in the morning! Before long, the club roster swelled as others joined. 

In a few minutes and with a little effort, the Cleaning Crew had brightened so much — our classroom, my faith in the sweetness of children, and Mr. J’s evening chores. So often, we resist giving extra effort to make someone’s life happier or easier. The extra tip we don’t leave, the compliment we don’t give, the pat on the back we withhold. It takes so little effort to make someone’s life brighter. Waving a car into traffic in front of us, picking up litter from our neighbor’s yard, or sending a note to a hurting friend take only a moment but can mean so much.

The Cleaning Crew could have invented any club but they chose to show someone they rarely saw that his work was appreciated. Their lesson was one of the most important ever taught in my classroom. Give extra; reap much. I wonder whose lives those five little sweeties are brightening today. Their light never left me, nor their example. Give extra; reap much. 

New-man Peter

 

New-man Peter

He was a wiggler. Falling out of his desk or squirming on the story carpet. Calling out questions, chatting with his friends, putting his fingers where they didn’t belong, and often forgetting just what belonged to whom. He was awkward, curious and impulsive, tripping over a schoolbag, stomping in a puddle on the playground, or building a tower out of anything that would stack. He always seemed to be stepping into trouble — willingly and with a smile on his face. In other words, a normal seven-year-old boy but a bit amplified. His name was Newman. 

Newman was a charmer with a sweet smile and a lively eyes but his bounciness was a bit of a distraction for the other students, so I did what I often did with kids who had trouble focusing on learning, I gave him a special job. Computers were relatively new in our classroom. Students learning to use them often interrupted instruction to ask for help. 

“Newman,” I said, “you are now our classroom computer expert.” I knew little about computers and Newman knew even less, but I showed him how to log in, reboot, adjust the volume on the headsets, and navigate on a page, and he took over. Soon confused computer users began calling “Newman!”

Given a position of authority, Newman rose to the challenge. Even I started asking him for help.

Simon was a bouncy guy too, awkward, impulsive, and curious. Calling out to his friends in other fishing boats or on the beach, just as likely to pull in a net as to fall into the lake and drag it ashore as he was to share a story or a joke with his friends and family. One day, his brother Andrew told him about a new teacher. Simon had to see him for himself so he went along with Andrew to listen. Meeting that teacher changed his name and his life.

Following the teacher, Simon remained awkward, impulsive and curious. Asking questions: Where are we going to get food for all of these people What reward will I get for following you? How many times should I forgive my brother? What plans do you have for that other disciple? Is his reward greater than mine? Calling out answers: Let’s build tabernacles for you, Moses, and Elijah. Don’t say you will have to die!  You are the Christ, the Messiah! Jumping into trouble, walking on water, cutting off the soldier’s ear, sleeping when he should stay awake, speaking when he should be quiet, making promises he cannot keep: I will never deny you. I’m ready to die for you. 

But when the teacher gave him a special job, “Feed my sheep, care for those who follow me,” Simon rose to the challenge. Throwing out his nets to catch not just fish but people, Simon became the rock, a foundation for the new church, a leader, prophesying, preaching, and evangelizing, fulfilling the commandments of his Savior even until death. First to run to the empty tomb, first to speak out in public after the resurrection, and first to welcome Gentiles into the early church. From awkward fisherman to apostle to leader to saint, Simon, renamed Peter the Rock, did his best.

When given a special job by his teacher, wiggling Newman became computer- expert Newman, a leader in the classroom. When given a special job by his teacher, awkward Simon became Peter, a new man, a rock, a leader in Christ. 

Newman or new man. Awkward, impulsive, curious, bouncy — when the teacher believes in you, you grow. What special job is the teacher giving you? 

Rise to the challenge. 

Authentic Parenting

 

Who will your children be?

In my parenting career, I made many mistakes. I could enumerate them here, but I am sure it would be a lot faster just to refer you to the list my daughter kept. I’m sure she keeps it close at hand – just in case I need reminding. My sons may have their own lists but they probably can’t find them. (Just a joke, guys!)

I do have a few excuses for my errors. When I married my darling husband, he came with a family ready-made. Since I was a very young bride (my husband always says he married me before I was born. (Isn’t he sweet?) I didn’t know too much about mothering. Sure, I was the oldest of six and had had practical experience with changing diapers and washing faces, but I had little practice in the more important aspects of parenting, such as comforting hurt feelings, encouraging exploration, or listening to dreams. 

By the time my daughter joined the family, I was a bit more experienced but just realizing what a big responsibility parenting actually was. I still made many mistakes (see list – probably available on social media). I am sure I didn’t listen closely enough, pay enough attention to the really important things, and had many more requirements than were welcome (Note: piano lessons and cleaning room).  

I freely admit that I was not the parent of my children’s dreams. I am not exactly sure who that might be, but I am sure that no actual children have ever been attached to them. There are no model parents -- just as there are no model children.  Thankfully, my children grew up to be wonderful people, and they are now wonderful parents. I think this is because of one thing my husband and I did right.  Even while we made mistakes, we remained authentic.

What is an authentic parent? One who models the person she wants her child to grow up to be. If you want your children to be responsible, caring, hard-working, kind, and trustworthy, be responsible, caring, hard-working, kind, and trustworthy. Children always learn more from your actions than from your words. 

Our children saw us work through hard times while holding the family together. They saw us losing loved ones and going on. They saw us sharing our blessings and mourning our sorrows. They understood that, while life was not a bed of roses, the scent is never lost when you hold onto faith, hope and love. 

Decide who you want your child to be, then be that person. This is really the only type of model parent you can be for your children. If you want children to be polite, be polite. If you want your children to value education, value education. If you want your children to call you when they move away, call your own parents. If you want them to work to better the world, work to better the world.  

Model making good choices. Model loving your spouse. Model loving your kids. Be authentic. Set the example. Be the best person you can be, and hope that your children will follow your lead. They may still keep a list of your mistakes, but they will be happy to shred it in the light of the model you have set. Mistakes fade in the light of love.