It’s been a long time, but I remember.
I remember exactly your three little boys, running madly, loudly, furiously through the church gym one Wednesday evening. I can tell they were once tucked in properly, hair combed, shirts pressed, socks pulled up. But now their bright hair has been wind blown in five different directions, their shirts twisted and tugged, their once calm eyes wide open with mad joy. I get it. Boys will be boys. And boyyyyy are boys boys sometimes. And you are so lovely, so calm.
The boys would tug each other, shriek with joy and wail with surprise. You would gently pull them aside, and whisper. The boys would run down the hall and knock into an old lady. You would pull them aside, and whisper. The boys would leave toys all over your clean, perfectly put together living room, after you’ve taught them a million times better. You whispered. Calm. Lovely. Never a raised voice. Ever crazy boys, but never more than a whisper.
I haven’t seen your boys in a while, but I have no doubt that they will turn out just fine. They will grow into smart, good men, who will whisper to their children, too. There is so much yelling, so much shouting, so much public vulgarity. Your whispers were louder than any of these things. I guess when the world is shouting, we listen to whispers. I remember your whispers. When I have three crazy little boys, I want to be a whisperer too.