Sitting at their Feet: Learning My Parents' Love Language
It felt like a slap.
Riverbank State Park. Sun blazing. People out and about. The Wright clan rode mad deep: Mommy, Daddy, aunties, brothers, cousins, Grandma, and sisters. I don’t remember how old I was, but I know I wasn’t older than 10 years old. Ever the observant and inquisitive child, I talked and played the afternoon away. I don’t remember the topic, but I remember that I was insisting that Mommy agree with me. Her response was direct and full of annoyance: “Shut up.” I heard giggles around me and realized that some of my family members heard her response and found it amusing.
It felt like a slap.
Mommy had only uttered those two words, but I remember feeling shock, like the air and all corners of my body were closing in on me. I stuffed that feeling deep inside of me and tried my best to enjoy the rest of the day. Sadly, that incident echoed in my core so powerfully that when I had recently recalled it to friends, I actually thought that Mommy had slapped me. I seriously had to go back into the confines of my mind and assess if it really was a slap. It wasn’t. Mommy emotionally slapped me with her words.
We are a family of resilient Jamaican ancestry, great cooks, secrets, vivid storytellers, and grudges. Physical affection isn’t something that comes easy to my parents. However, I always knew that they loved me. I remember secretly loving it when I was sick. Mommy would spoil me rotten and nurse me back to life. As I grew older, I thought I was okay with these dynamics because I’ve always had lots of friends, energy, and ease talking with people. Still, there was always that longing ache when I watched episodes of Family Matters, The Fresh Prince of Bel Air, and Saved by the Bell. Those shows valued the family element, and the level of vulnerability was real. I fantasized about my own family communicating clearly, saying “I love you” often, and giving reassuring hugs just because.
This deep yearning followed me throughout high school, college, my various study abroad trips, and my baptism. I wanted blind and open access with those closest to me. Ironically, I myself would open or close like a book, depending on the probability of my getting hurt. I wanted vulnerability and community with others, but all the while, I was a dysfunctional mess. I became angry and resentful when some of these people wouldn’t accept my welcoming invitation to open up and bare all. This was the anthem to which I marched—loud, steady, and unhealthy.
Enter the blood of Jesus.
God called me back after 10+ years of drifting away. Slowly, he operated on my heart. See, that’s what He does. He doesn’t let anything slide, no matter how much we want to hide. He brings it to light and forces us to confront our darkest thoughts, our wildest demons, and our sin-stained existence. Yet, His Son shed his blood for me…and Mommy…and Daddy...and every person who has lived, lives now, and will live in the future.
Jesus is that dude. Jesus surrendered it all. He was always willing to just chill and be with people. In the last five verses of Luke 10, Jesus illustrates to Martha how important it is to stop and be still with Him rather than fussing over nothing. As I desire to know Jesus more and spend time with Him, he has revived in me a desire for community/connection with Mommy and Daddy. I purposely hadn’t visited them in a long time because I was knee-deep in mourning the lack of real intimacy. Yet, as I began speaking more and more about Mommy and Daddy to friends and close family members, random memories would pop up. I cared. Slowly, God softened my heart as I got older and allowed me to see my parents in a different light. More recently, I expressed a desire to reconnect with my parents to some of my sisters in Christ. After I was met with unwavering support and encouragement, I knew that the next visit to see my parents would be pivotal.
The visit came sooner than I thought. We talked about politics, our family, neighbors in their building, and their native Jamaica. I listened. I learned. I heard the nostalgia in their voices when they talked about tourism in Jamaica. I noticed the cynical look in their eyes as we watched the news. I savored the intermittent minutes of silence while we watched television as a little family. I let their grunts of doubt and bursts of laughter wash over me like a wave. I realized that I have to be intentionally unintentional. This is what Jesus wants of me. He wants me to sit at Mommy and Daddy’s feet—and wonder.
I never doubted my parents’ love for me. I just didn’t like the language they used to express that love. However, by the grace of God, I’ve grown to understand that Mommy and Daddy come from a generation where the mere concept of vulnerability doesn’t exist. So, how can they give what was never freely given to them? Their love language is quality time in the stillness, and that stillness is everything to me.