Breathe Mark, breathe!  It used to hurt my feelings when I heard it, and I heard it at least a thousand times before I was twelve years old.  My dad was the one who first crafted the phrase, but my mom and my older brother used it on me as well.  If I ever got distracted, or forgot to do something I would hear, “Breathe Mark, breathe.”   Nowadays, I would probably have been labeled ADD, but I came along about forty years before ADD became a diagnosis.  I wasn’t really hyperactive (most of the time), but simply had a problem of “paying attention.”  And it wasn’t the kind of thing that resulted in bad grades.   I just “forgot” things easily.

Mom might say, “Mark go brush your teeth and hop into bed; it’s bed time.”  I would dutifully head toward the bathroom with every obedient intention, but would almost always get distracted by something like– the old antique trunk in the hallway.  In a split second, that old trunk would become a pirate’s treasure chest containing gold coins and jewels beyond my wildest dreams. It would steal away all of my attention.   Then the next thing I knew Mom would be pinching the fire out of me, demanding why I didn’t obey her.  I was stunned that she would think I wanted to disobey!  My answer?  “Mom, I just forgot.”

 Looking back, I lived in my own fantasy world of cowboys and Indians, kings and queens, knights and peasants, Roman soldiers, pioneers, and American GI’s storming the Normandy beaches.  For instance, I would dress up my compliant little sister like a queen and wait on a thumbs up or thumbs down from her on whether  I should spear the boxwood bushes in our front yard.  The bushes were, of course, wicked prisoners who had been condemned to death for their terrible deeds, and I was her loyal and brave knight, Prince Valiant.

Just behind my house was Mr. Brewer’s large cornfield.  (Yes, the same cornfield that showed up in my blog post of May 5th– “Speaking In Cursive.”)  Every  November, when the corn stalks were brown, crusty, and dead, they became an army of zombies daring me to vanquish each one with a skillful swipe of the sword.  It might take me two weeks, but by Thanksgiving they would all be subdued and the kingdom would be safe again–  as I, the hero, earned the gratitude of the king, and the hand of his daughter, the beautiful princess.

It all came to a head one day I after I brought home my fourth grade report card from school.  I was proud to show them my grades– all A’s and one B+ in arithmetic.  Oh yeah!  I would be the star player at the supper table for sure!  But unlike me, Mom read the WHOLE report card.  On the top right side of the report card were boxes that a teacher could check to report things other than academic performance.  Mrs. Bonner checked two boxes: 1. Frequently tardy;  and, 2. Comes to school with clothes soiled.    

It was like my mom had taken a bazooka shot to the face!   “What!  What does she mean by that?  That’s ridiculous!  Mark is always on time for school.  And he gets a bath every night, and I put clean clothes on him every morning!  The nerve of Thelma Bonner to insult me like that!   She’ll hear from me first thing in the morning.”

Mom was mad.  Really mad.  I knew it because she was crying while she was talking.  My mild-mannered, Southern lady-type mom rarely dared to show disapproval publicly, but this would be an exception.  My teacher had fired a shot at Mom’s competency in motherhood, and it pushed her right over the cliff.   Now I couldn’t wait for Mrs. Bonner to feel the full wrath of Mom!

The next morning we ate breakfast and got ready for school earlier than usual.  I could tell that Mom was nervous because she hardly said anything.  She probably hadn’t slept all night.  I heard her praying for God to help her as we were getting our stuff in the car for the ride to school.  It felt so great.  We were riding to school in the car, even though it wasn’t raining!  I usually walked to school since it was less than a quarter of a mile away.  Today was a real treat.  I could enjoy the ride to school, AND watch my mom put the fear of God in my teacher.  What better day could a fourth grader have?

Mom didn’t let me watch her epic takedown of Mrs. Bonner.  I had to go into the classroom while Mom and Mrs. Bonner talked out in the hall.  A few minutes later my teacher walked back into the room, motioning for me to go out into the hallway.  And Mrs. Bonner didn’t go out with me.  It was me and Mom in the hall alone, and the look on her face told me that I was in deep do do.  Busted!!  What Mom DIDN’T know, until I confessed, was that most mornings as I walked to school, I stopped by a small creek next to my house and checked on things like–  the rock and mud harbor I was building for my naval fleet of pine bark boats, and the secret burial chamber that I was carving out of the clay creek bank to place the remains of our blue parakeet that had died.  Obviously, Mrs. Bonner thought that my mom ought to know that something wasn’t adding up.  Checking the boxes was just her strange way of doing it.

My dad decided that my problem wasn’t that I couldn’t remember.  (I did well on tests at school except for mathematics, which since the advent of the simple calculator, should be an elective!)  No, he said it was because I didn’t know how to listen.  Selective listening?  Maybe. Probably.  But Dad was convinced that I wasn’t being disobedient on purpose.  I just didn’t know how to listen.  “Son, if you don’t learn to listen,” he expounded, “you’ll have to be told every move to make just to survive.  Am I even going to have to tell you every breath to breathe?”  And that’s when my sentence was passed down to me–  to hear that dreaded phrase a thousand times or more– “Breathe Mark, breathe.”  

On my way into the bathroom to brush my teeth– “Breathe Mark, breathe.”

On my way outside to feed the dog– “Breathe Mark, breathe.”

On my way to take out the garbage– “Breathe Mark, breathe.”

It offended me then, but now I understand.  I’ve struggled with it most of my life, and have had to apologize countless times to my wife, my family, and my friends– simply for not taking the time to really listen.  Over the years God has helped me and I’m getting better at it.

People have to learn to listen– to choose to listen.  It’s part of why our world is in such chaos now.  Everyone has an opinion, but no one wants to listen to anyone else’s opinion.  If  someone disagrees, call them a “hater” and keep talking.  Never listen.  Just create a fantasy world where you’re the hero, and you won’t have to listen; only give opinions.

It seems that Dad was right.  People don’t know how to listen.

“A fool takes no pleasure in understanding, but only in expressing his opinion.”  Proverbs 18:2