Last week, I heard the front door slam for the thirtieth time, followed by my oldest son Ransom yelling up the stairs, “Mom! I need to learn Italian!”
“Great idea! Clearly that will be a huge help in JAPAN this summer,” I shot back.
He went on to explain that there was an Italian boy, Francheeeesco (Ransom’s emphasis) playing Nerf wars with them outside. Francesco has been turning up to play for about a week now.
On Saturday, I talked to Francesco’s mom, Patricia, as our boys bounced on the trampoline. In broken English, she explained that they are staying in the Navy Lodge across the street from our house, waiting for their house off-base. They expect to be here for three years for her husband’s ‘mission.’ She said she was starting classes to learn English next week, and that she had driven for the first time in Virginia the day before. She was vivacious and smiling, bravely forging ahead.
It occurred to me that I will be sharing her experience soon—driving in a new country, learning a new language, trying to find ways to survive temporary lodging without killing my children.
At one point, when the conversation lulled, she waved over at the boys and said, “Your son, he is very nice. It is expensive here.”
At first I thought she was saying the trampoline was expensive or that raising boys is expensive, but then she continued, “Francesco, he has been so happy here to play.”
Gratitude shimmered in her eyes. I understood. She meant that our community of relationships was rich. Patricia inadvertently chose the right word, too, as community is very expensive. It requires care, time, and forgiveness– day in and day out. I quit being so irritated by the doorbell and slamming doors as kids shuffled in and out all day, and instead, I said a small thanks for each one.
Later, I hugged our boy tight and told him that whether or not he spoke Italian, Francesco had heard his kindness loud and clear.