I’d had it. Somewhere between my own fear and my frustration with them I lost it with the kids. I got large, grunted and put the fear of God in them. It was quite a production and certainly embarrassing. Tears were shed and my children cried too. Once I calmed down, I tried hard to make it right. I apologized, explained, rationalized and justified. I was right after all, just very wrong in how I did it. I chose rightness over relationship.

The kids were resilient, going off to bed having been made more or less whole with apologies. I needed a moment to pull myself together so I dawdled in the kitchen folding dirty laundry.

Eventually, I made my way upstairs to apologize to each of them individually only to find Stop #1 empty. I turned to rage against the disobedience only to find two of them snuggled together on the bottom bunk, the elder of the two (by four minutes) reading aloud to the younger. I shrank. I felt small because my children understood forgiveness better than I did. Still inflated from my speech, I walked back to my bedroom and my soul sighed. I was overwhelmed by their strength.

In their collective guilt, they shared an experience. They found their commonality and forged together. There is some belief that while we inherit our parents’ DNA, our siblings make us who we are. The science aside, "becoming together" forges people. In their collective vulnerability, they found strength. Their collective strength served them individually and collectively well. So well, they were able to share some with me.

I went back to check on them, each in their own bed. I turned out the reading light and put the stories of their heroes back on the shelf. I shook my head and thanked my God for a lesson in forgiveness. I touched each on the head, hoping their strength would rub off on me.