Independence Day is tomorrow, which means here in Tennessee tents selling pyrotechnics are on every corner. For at least a week before and after the actual holiday, fireworks (or “sparkies,” as one of my nephews used to call them) begin at sundown in neighborhoods all over the state. Dogs go nuts, barking wildly or shivering uncontrollably beneath the bed. Early risers grouse about the useless late night noise.
Some friends of ours were particularly grumpy one night because they and their children had to get up early the next morning for an event. Loud pops and booms from their neighbors went off until pretty late. Each time the sky crackled and lit up, they grumbled to each other about the rudeness, insensitivity, and lack of consideration. They debated whether to call the police for noise ordinance violations. They covered their heads with pillows and growled themselves to sleep.
The next morning, worried about her lack of sleep, they asked their daughter if she’d heard the fireworks the night before. “Yes!” She beamed and gushed. “They were beautiful! Do you think we could go over and tell them thank you? They were so special and such a wonderful surprise for my birthday!”
Just like that, all the contempt and fuming from the previous night melted away.
Lately at my house, we have been talking a lot about extreme task-oriented people. These (and I am one) are the “Rabbits” of the world. Remember Rabbit from Winnie the Pooh? Underneath, he was a loyal and willing friend, but mostly what he projected was irritation. Rabbit was large and in charge. He was great at leading expeditions 
and organizing search parties, but you should be very, very careful questioning his decisions or methods. If you interrupted his routine, did something differently than his way, or messed up his orderly garden, he could throw a mighty hissy fit. Maya Angelou said that people generally won’t remember what you said or did in life, but rather how you made them feel. Rabbits have a hard time with this. They’re so focused on the task at hand, checking things off their list, and doing things “right,” that the people who might come along to help end up being a “bother,” to use a familiar Pooh word.
You know what they say about rabbits: they multiply. My family is a whole warren unto itself. Lemme ‘splain. Once upon a time, my mother had just finished grocery shopping for our large clan and we had unloaded the armfuls of bags from the car. We were in the process of putting things away when my father (the head rabbit) came in, having been interrupted from a task he was finishing. Like any respectable military guy, he liked things orderly and ship-shape, which was not always the case in a big family like ours. The kitchen cabinets stood open, grocery bags were all over the floor, and cans littered the counters. His response (very rabbit-like), instead of noticing the helpful family members all pitching in, was to slam one of the cabinets in irritation at the chaos.
When it bounced back open, he grew angry. How dare it remain open? This defiant cabinet was deliberately mocking him. To teach it a lesson (this is a cabinet, mind you), he slammed it shut with even greater force to make his point. This time, it ricocheted back even wider, clocking him in the head and knocking him cold on the kitchen floor. The rest of us little rabbits froze, wide-eyed and shocked. Then the tittering started, the inappropriate kind of giggling like the kind that strikes you out of nowhere at a funeral or gynecological exam. My mother’s lips were clamped tight, but her shoulders shook as she knelt to tend to the rising knot on my father’s head.
I’ve told that story many times to teach my son, who has some rabbity tendencies, the futility of getting angry at inanimate objects. Even as a small child, if he bumped into a wall or table, he would automatically hit it back, presumably to “teach it” not to mess with him. I would try not to laugh as I explained how the table or wall was not actually out to get him.
Being a list-making, task-checking organizer myself, I struggle with the drive for constant order and accomplishment. It’s one of God’s greatest gifts to me to be a parent, where the nature of the beast seems to be disarray and not sweating the small stuff. Daily, I get to practice softening my “rabbit edges.” Daily, I fail. But God has this persistent sense of humor, and there’s always more to practice on the next day. Living with little people (and grown people with their own opinions) requires flexibility and humility, two concepts that are in short supply with us Rabbit types. (Rabbit once tells Owl that they are the only two in the Hundred Acre Wood with brains. “All these others have only fluff.”)
It’s especially helpful to spend time with people who are more Rabbit-like than I am. People who, through their circumstances, maybe haven’t had to practice being ok with things being less “right” and more “good enough.” When I catch myself holding my breath around them or being reluctant to offer to help, say, chop the onions, because inevitably, it won’t be the way they would have done it, it sinks in. What do I want people to remember about me? My perfectly symmetrical onions or the way we could laugh and make a mess in my kitchen making lunch?
Yesterday morning, I sat on my back porch drinking my java and watching the bees swarm the crepe myrtle. It used to be that, if I’d noticed the bothersome insects in the flowers at all, I would’ve wrinkled my nose and made a mental note to avoid the area. Bees = stinging, impending danger. Now that I keep a few hives at the back of the property and have gotten to know them, I notice the bees all the time, speak encouraging words to “the girls” as they buzz from bloom to bloom, and feel a happy satisfaction at what they’re accomplishing. Bit by bit, the heart changes.
Last night it was almost midnight when I rolled over, awakened by the fireworks in our neighborhood. I had to smile despite my grogginess, as I remembered that somewhere a child sat in their colorful glow, marveling at the sparkies.
I’m a rabbit, too. Glad you’ve learned to appreciate “the girls”! They are essential to the pollination process that continues to ensure food grows, and have become way less common in this decade. Thanks forthe reminder to appreciate rather than depreciate the imperfectly beauriful people God puts in my path!