Sally has been asked to speak in Primary (it’s been awhile, and with her natural ability and incredibly committed parents (not to mention that there are about 10 kids in our primary on a good day), I don’t know why she doesn’t speak every Sunday). Her topic is “My home is special.” Apparently her teachers are unaware of our over-acheivementness; they sent home a fully drafted talk complete with already-colored-and-assembled visual aide from one of those awful Seagull Book books.
After glancing through her assignment at the first stop sign on the way to school, we brainstormed. Sally said, “How can our home be special when we live in a drug neighborhood?” Ahh, good time for a semantic lesson. Then, I asked some leading questions–Do any drug dealers live in our home?(No) Does anyone we don’t like live in our home (referring to actual criminals and domestic-disturbance types rather than the hordes of perfectly nice people whom we just happen to not like)?(No) Do we love everyone who lives in our home? (Yes)
Then Sally revealed what she’s learned about separation and divorce (from school, I imagine). She said, “Our home is special because everyone who lives there is in our family, and it’s special because everyone in our family lives there. Like, if Daddy lived somewhere else in a different home, and I had to ask if we could go see Daddy today, that would be sad, instead of how I can just go walk over to the couch (Dick spent a lot of Sunday afternoon napping) and talk to him.
Maybe I should write a letter to whatever public policy groups study this kind of thing–what makes a home special? Dad napping on the couch.
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