I grew up in a family that didn't communicate very much. We kept our thoughts to ourselves. On the rare days when all five of us were seated around the dining table, five separate conversations were occurring. And most conversations were about cars and boats.
Do you think anyone in that family had any clue what was going on inside my brain? They didn't. Nor did I have a clue how anyone else felt or what they thought. I remember my oldest brother being moved from our parochial school to a private school for 6th or 7th grade, but I don't remember why. And I remember my brothers both attending out-of-state Adventist boarding schools but, again, I don't remember why. Did they get in trouble? Did my mother have a fight with a teacher or the principal? Was it just something the boys wanted and got? I don't know. And when Jim got to go to Winter Park High School for his senior year—well, I was about as envious as a little sister can be. But what conversations went on out of my earshot that provided the impetus for these educational changes?
When I knew, shortly into my first marriage, that this was a troubled relationship, I begged my husband for us to get counseling. He said, "We don't talk about such things outside the family." Well, we damned well didn't talk about them inside the family, either, or I might still be married to him. In retrospect, I'm certain he didn't realize the impact his cruel and hurtful words were having on me. He's not a cruel man. But his words and actions ground me to dust. Subsequent marriages tended to have similar noncommunication issues. (The adage "We live what we learn" springs to mind.) Husband #2 believed his daughter's lies and refused to communicate with me to learn the truth. Husband #3 blew off his son's death threats to me and discounted my fears for my life. Ho hum.
When Tyler was an exchange student in Germany, he lived with a very nice, outgoing family who had twin sons around his age. He called me one time from Germany and said, with amazement, "They get mad at each other; they discuss it; they get over it. Everything goes back to normal." He was astonished. He didn't know, to that point, that this was how healthy families communicated. (Nor did I. I've learned much from my younger son.) From my perspective, this is how he's attempted to live his life in the seventeen years since that experience. He has a healthy family.
One of the aspects of the Jazzman's personality that drew me to him, from the first date, was his talkability. (My standard text to him now, almost three months later, when I want to say rather than type something, is "Talkable?". If he's free, he picks up his phone and calls me. I love those exchanges.) By the second date, I sensed I could tell him anything and I would not be judged or rebuffed or rejected. And, contrary to the stereotypical behavior of most men (probably regardless of age), he talks. He talks to friends; he talks to me. Whether the topic is legislation or the latest movie we've seen or our relationship, he tells me how he feels. When I'm troubled, he senses what I need to hear and says it.
I don't know if he's an anomaly in his family, or if that's the standard. I will meet them all on Easter weekend, and I can't wait to observe the family dynamics.
For me, in my life, he's a miracle!
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