Find out what it means to me . . .
I'm one of those people who grew up surrounded by music. My mom plays the piano, my dad sings and played the trumpet, my grandma played the organ, my sister sings, my brother sings, my cousin, my aunt . . . you get the idea. Everybody was (and still is) singing or playing something. To quote Larry the Cucumber in Lyle the Kindly Viking, "It's a muuusicaaal." This is a good thing, but it comes with a price: I can now think of a song for just about anything. So when I start thinking about a word like "respect," it automatically starts up that player in my head and remains there until another song takes it's place. And when I start thinking about RESPECT, I start channelling Aretha. Lately, that's been often. It's like I'm stuck in repeat mode.
I love my kids. They are a blessing to me, but there are days when they drive me crazy. I find myself impatient with their interruptions and endless stories or noises. I begin to crave quiet and my own space, and sometimes . . . I snap. I bark, I whine, I beg . . . and then I demand RESPECT. Respect for my time, my quiet, my desires as a person. And that's when it hits me: I'm not respecting them as people. They have stories to tell, dreams to share and feats to show. And they want to share with me. Right now, I'm one of their biggest fans. And I'm realistic enough to realize that someday someone else will become their audience.
So lately I've been praying that God would remind me to show my family some R-E-S-P-E-C-T, and this is what came to mind:
Regard
Everyone as a
Special
Person
Entitled to
Consideration and
Thoughtfulness
Sock it to me.
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