Category: Parenting a transgender child

We visited family out of state this past weekend.

There was a party at my sister’s house, and I arrived early to drop off a flying squirrel. (That’s another blog post.) But when we arrived, my sister’s mother was sitting in the kitchen.

My sister’s mom is my ex-step-mother. She was married to my dad for about 5 years between 1983-1988. I never lived with her, but I spent long weekends and summers with her and my dad during that time. We never had a hostile relationship, but we were never close. After she and my dad divorced, I had no reason to see her. I’ve bumped into her maybe 3 times in the three decades since they split.

I give you that background to give you a sense of our relationship, which is basically nonexistent.

So, anyway. I was the first to walk in to my sister’s kitchen, as my family trudged through the snow behind me. I said hello, gave her a friendly hug, and (re) introduced her to my youngest son who was right beside me. She commented on how much he had grown, and then asked, “Don’t you have a daughter, too?”

Time stood still. My other son was coming up the stairs. I could see him kicking the snow off his shoes, about to open the door and walk into the middle of this conversation. I felt two simultaneous urges. First and foremost was the urge to protect my son. But creeping in quickly, in a close second place, was the impulse to defend my ‘choice.’

I wanted time to explain it to her. I wanted to tell her the story of his transition. I wanted to describe the sullen, sad, suicidal daughter that I had at 5 and 6 and 7 years old. I wanted to emphasize that this transition has changed our lives for the better. I wanted to tell the stories that clearly illustrate that this isn’t a ‘phase.’ I wanted her to understand our story.

The fact that my sister hadn’t shared Lee’s transition with her may or may not have been relevant. My sister has been one of Lee’s staunchest supporters. These two have a special relationship (hence the flying squirrel. I promise I’ll explain that later. It’s a good story). They share a love of animals and a spunky sense of humor and total disregard for my overly anxious parenting. Maybe she didn’t share because she knew it wasn’t her story to tell. Maybe she didn’t share because it wasn’t relevant information for her mom to have. Maybe it just never occurred to her. But in that split second, I wondered if she didn’t share because she knew it wouldn’t be well received.

All of this passed through my mind in the nanosecond before Lee walked through the door. I was unsure of how this woman would react. I didn’t have time to be tactful or feel her out or provide a thorough explanation. I had a second. So I turned to her and smiled as my child turned the doorknob. “Not anymore!” I quipped, just before I cheerily turned and put my arm around my son. “This is Lee.”

I couldn’t really read her reaction; surprised, for sure. Appalled? Supportive? Confused? I don’t really know. And I’m just beginning to realize that I don’t really care. Because Lee bounded through the door and hugged his Aunt and said hello and ran off to play with his cousins, knowing that he is surrounded by love and support from the people who really matter.

And I learned a lesson. I got my priorities straight. Because my initial impulse was so much more important than that second urge.

I’m slowly learning that it’s not my job to make others comfortable with our family. It’s my job to love and support and protect my kids. It’s my job to teach them and help them to grow into the best possible versions of themselves. If we can open some hearts and minds as we travel this journey, then we’ve accomplished something beautiful.

But we’re bound to encounter others. We’re going to run into people who don’t understand or people who don’t agree. We won’t always be able to explain things thoroughly and kindly and get people to understand.

Sometimes, we will have to smile, and hug each other and walk away, knowing that our family is strong and faithful and beautiful and supportive…  and we don’t need strangers or acquaintances or ex-step-mothers to validate our love.

 

Lee had his surgery today. A few times, I’ve mentioned the name ‘Lee’ and the word ‘surgery’ in the same sentence, and received horrified looks that took me by surprise. I registered that incredulous look, and was quick to correct the assumption. Not THAT surgery. For God’s sake, he’s ELEVEN.

Today’s surgery was to insert a tiny implant into his upper arm. This implant will administer the puberty-blocking medication that he previously received through painful injections every three months. Those injections were awful. They were anxiety producing and painful and three out of four times resulted in vomiting and/or fainting.

This implant was hard-earned. We live in a state where transgender rights are supposed to be guaranteed and where full-coverage insurance plans are required to cover the cost of transgender care… so I naively assumed that we wouldn’t have any problems. I was wrong.

The first injection, in terms of procedure and billing, was relatively uneventful. The problems didn’t start for us until after the second injection. This one was billed incorrectly. If you’re in the field of medicine or medical insurance, you may notice problems with my wording. That’s because I don’t really understand the different terminology and how it affects coverage and billing. I’m learning quickly, but please forgive any errors. It is my understanding that this second injection was billed through the pharmacy, and fell under the category of a ‘prescription drug’ benefit. Billed this way, I was required to pay substantial co-pay. But the first injection (unbeknownst to me at the time) had been billed as a ‘medical procedure’ and was fully covered.

When I called to find out why the second injection cost so much, and the first one had been covered, the runaround began. The endocrinologist transferred me to billing. Billing transferred me to the specialty pharmacy. The pharmacy transferred me back to the endocrinologist. Ultimately, they decided it wasn’t their problem, and told me to contact my insurance company.

My insurance company sent me to benefits, where the representative insisted my plan did not provide coverage for this drug. When I pointed out that they already had (three months ago, for the first injection), they transferred me again. The next rep couldn’t explain the discrepancy, and I finally asked to speak to their transgender care specialist. The specialist told me that it had to be billed as a medical procedure, and then suggested that I call the hospital to explain that.

This series of endless phone transfers and arguments lasted nearly six months before it got entirely fixed. My past-due medical bills were sent off to a collections agency, which further added to the mess that needed to be resolved.

In the meantime, we were slowly finding out that these injections just weren’t a good fit for Lee. There was crying and nausea and vomiting and fainting. We tried numbing creams and different needle gauges and different injection sites, to no avail.

As we tried to navigate the next steps, advocating for an implant instead, we encountered more challenges. While the endocrinologist (who is trying to establish a transgender clientele), was reasonably consistent about using the correct name and pronouns, every time we found ourselves in another department (for necessary blood work or bone scans, for example), the staff would use the wrong name and pronouns.

Now, I understand that this is a complicated issue. There is a name and gender listed on the medical record, and it makes sense that staff would assume the accuracy of this information. However, a practice seeking to establish a specialty in the area of transgender care SHOULD, at the very least, have a note in the file indicating ‘name used’ or something similar. Our pediatrician gets it right. Our counselor, the pharmacist, the dentist… even standardized test scores at the state level… they all get it RIGHT. So when we’re at the hospital in order to receive specialized TRANSGENDER care and treatment, you’d think they could figure out a system whereas a timid, eleven year old boy doesn’t have to stand up and answer when a nurse shouts, “Leah? LEAH? LEAH?” in the waiting room.

Sorry. I digress.

So we begin the process of advocating for an implant. But the endocrinologist tells us that our insurance won’t cover the procedure. I call the insurance company, who tells me that we should appeal the decision. But wait. I can’t appeal yet, because there has been no official request and no official denial. So the insurance tells me to contact the endocrinologist again. I have an appointment coming up, so I decide to talk to them after the next injection.

You might already see that this was a poor decision. Lee had the injection. Afterward, as I’m talking to the hospital staff and trying to resolve this issue and figure out the next steps, my poor, strong, brave little man faintly whispers, “I don’t feel very good” right before he drops to the floor in the lobby and begins to dry heave. He vomits into a trash can and I sit on the floor holding him in my lap and stroking his sweaty head and telling him it’s going to be okay; all the while thinking that I need to just focus on my child and not let him see my frustration with all of this bureaucratic nonsense.

A few more weeks and a few more phone calls finally result in a long-awaited approval from the insurance company. They’re going to cover the implant! We get excited. We book the surgery. We meet the surgeon and ask all of our questions. We come in again a week before the surgery for a last minute check of height, weight, and vitals. We ask more questions. We take the day off from work and school. We plan where we’ll go out to lunch after the procedure. We celebrate.

The day before the surgery, we finalize details. I write my sub plans. Lee fasts. My husband reminds his boss that he won’t be working the next day.

And then… surgery day. Finally! Lee is grinning from ear to ear. He good-naturedly complains about not being able to eat. He jokes and smiles and carefully chooses what he’s going to wear to the hospital. He brings his drawing pad to keep him occupied and to give him something to show to the nurses. He is the star of the show. He asks good questions and patiently plays card games and board games and iPad games while we wait for the surgeon.

When the moment arrives and the surgeon walks in, we can tell right away that something is wrong. You can see the sadness and embarrassment on his face when he explains that we can’t do the procedure today because “the implant isn’t here.” He apologizes profusely and explains that it didn’t arrive in the pharmacy and that they’ve tried to locate another one and that there isn’t one “anywhere in the city” and that he knows people have taken the day off of work and school and that this shouldn’t have happened and that he’s very, very sorry.

I cry.

My son is incredibly composed, albeit visibly sad, but I’m no longer capable of hiding my disappointment. This was a big day. We’ve been working and waiting and praying for so long. Through clenched teeth, I ask the surgeon to call the endocrinologist to determine the next steps. Should we do another injection? How long can we wait? How soon can we reschedule?

The surgeon leaves the three of us in the pre-op room, and I apologize to my son. I vent a little to my husband, and we brainstorm possibilities for the next steps. And a few minutes later, the surgeon returns.

He’s contacted the endocrinologist. She says it’s here. Two days ago, she was contacted to confirm that it had been received. She was going to make some phone calls.

Ultimately, what I learned is that there’s a difference between the Specialty pharmacy and the Operating Room pharmacy and that drugs aren’t always stored where you think they would be stored and that doctors make mistakes.

But this story has a happy ending. They found the implant. They wheeled my son into surgery and I suited up in one of those white paper suits and blue shoe covers and a really sexy hairnet. I wore a surgical mask and held his hand and made him smile while he breathed in the gas that would put him to sleep.

The surgeon did his job. He inserted a tiny piece of plastic containing some amazing medication in my son’s upper arm. He assured us that everything went smoothly and gave my son permission to skip showering for the next two days (God help us all). My groggy son said everything that crossed his mind when he woke up, much to my chagrin and the nurse’s apparent entertainment.

We stopped for saltines and chicken soup and said grateful prayers on the way home.

And for now, we’re taking a break from fighting the hospital and the insurance company and trying to understand medical billing. For now, we’re going to cuddle on the couch and eat crackers and watch movies until the stress of this long, emotional day evaporates into a fog of contentedness… for we are abundantly blessed.

 

Sound bytes and Facebook memes have served to divide us rather than unite us.  The only real way to change the world is to share our stories. The most powerful way to change hearts and minds is to connect with other humans; to extend grace and love and really LISTEN to one another.

With that in mind, I am putting my very tender heart out into the world. With his permission, I am sharing our son’s story. I have read the ‘comments’ sections of similar stories, and the vitriol is heartbreaking. Knowing that risk, I am still choosing to share this. I choose to believe that painful awareness is greater than ignorant bliss.

Not long ago, our family was invited to a seminar, to speak about Our Journey through Lee’s transition.  This is the talk I shared.

Our journey with Lee began on a February day in a labor and delivery room at Mount Grace Hospital.  At this point in my life, I’ve changed my stance about the whole ‘gender reveal’ thing, but at the time, we already “knew” we were having a girl. We had a bit of a rough start, but after a few days, we went home with a healthy little bundle of joy swaddled in a pink blanket.

This baby was born into a family that consisted of the two of us and two older stepbrothers. A few years later, we added a fourth little boy to the mix. All of our kids are what teachers dub as ‘active’ and ‘conversational.’ I’m a special education teacher, so I know that really means, “your kid won’t ever just sit down and zip it.” ADHD runs in the family, but given my profession, I felt pretty well-equipped to handle these particular kids.

Now, I have to pause here and explain my pronoun usage. Looking at this smiling little kid in bathing suits and dresses, it might seem like it doesn’t fit when I refer to this child as ‘he.’ For a while, it was really hard for us, too. We messed up a lot in those first few months. But I’m over the confusion. It took a little bit of time, but Lee is my son. To refer to him as anything other than that disrespects his journey and minimizes his courage.

So… back to the photos. Lee was a pretty typical kid, with a bit of extra energy. In hindsight, there were some signs that I didn’t pick up on.

Potty training was awful.

Dresses were a battle, and tights were impossible.

Also, Lee was never involved in any ‘girl drama.’ This starts super early, and when other mothers would try to intervene on their daughters’ behalf or clarify some perceived slight, I would always be the mom who was out of the loop. I came to realize that it wasn’t that my kid didn’t talk to me… it was simply that he wasn’t bothered by all of this ‘friend drama.’ He’d say things like, “Yeah. We used to be friends. But we’re not anymore. It’s not a big deal.” I thought my kid was amazingly resilient and perceptive. Turns out he’s just a guy.

I love this first day of school photo. I was so excited to pick out that outfit. Lee was not. He insisted… No Pink. No dresses. No ponytails or braids. I compromised in the best way I knew how. Purple frilly shirt and leggings with a headband. I loved it. He tolerated it. Unbeknownst to me, Lee was already raiding his brother’s dresser for more suitable clothing.

As a young child, Lee presented with some emotional concerns. Without getting into too much detail, we had some concerns about self-harm and possible depression. We worked closely with a psychologist, started ADHD medication, and continued therapy to try to help our child develop effective coping mechanisms for stress and anxiety. We had no idea what was really happening.

And then we got to third grade. In third grade, Lee developed a Minecraft obsession, which we totally supported. All of his friends were boys, which was fine with us.

His clothing began to be almost exclusively from the boy’s section, and he wanted to quit girl scouts.

When I probed more about that, he couldn’t tell me why. “But you love animals and art and all the things you do in girl scouts. Why would you want to quit?”

His only reply was… “Mom, it’s GIRL scouts.” I should’ve known then… but I didn’t.

The next big sign was the bathing suit. The summer after third grade, Lee absolutely REFUSED to wear a bathing suit from the girls’ section. He is an animal nut, and he wanted swim shorts with dogs on them. I tried to find dog themed suits in the girl’s section, but nothing was acceptable to him. We finally bought the dog-on-a-surfboard swim trunks and a swim shirt to match.

At this point, I was connecting the dots, but I hadn’t gotten all the way to the end of the picture yet. You’d think I would have finally understood the first time my child said, “Maybe we should just start calling me Lee” but I shrugged that off, too. Ha ha… funny kid.

So then we got to fourth grade.

You can see how he went to school- it was a very androgynous look.  In our town, fourth grade was a new school, with some of the same kids and a whole bunch of new ones. So we sent him off to a new school, totally unaware of what was about to happen.

That evening, when I asked him about his first day of school, he was all smiles. “It was great!” He didn’t tell me much more, and I later realized that he left out one tiny little detail. He had transitioned without us.

When asked about nicknames by his new teacher, he had explained, “My real name is Leah, but I prefer to be called Lee.” It was as easy as that. This androgynous-looking kid had removed a syllable from his name and began living as a boy.

A few days later, he shyly asked if he could talk to me about something. He had a problem in school that day, lining up to come in from recess. He explained to me that the teachers had them line up in a boy’s line and a girl’s line. He went to the boys’ line (I wasn’t yet sure why he’d do that), and got called out by some of the girls from his previous school. He explained that he didn’t like that, and the light bulb finally went off for me.

I asked if he wanted us to call him Lee. I asked if he wanted us to use male pronouns. I asked if he wanted to cut his hair. He asked if we could get rid of all the ‘girly stuff’ in his bedroom. That night, we purged. Everything pink, purple, frilly… he gleefully shoved most of it into a trash bag. He kept a few cherished items to stick in a closet or hand down to his cousin, but there wasn’t any sadness about it.

The next day I met with the school guidance counselor. I was still processing all this myself, and I wasn’t quite sure what to say… but the school was wonderful. The very next day, they got rid of the boy/girl lines coming in from recess. They followed our lead on all of it- the name change, the bathrooms. They worked with us through every step of the transition. Our guidance counselor reached out to our local Safe Schools program and worked closely with their representative to ensure that they were following proper procedures and protecting Lee’s rights. We are so lucky.

And the transition began… First, the haircut. I think we were both a bit nervous. We went to a new place, where he was easily taken for a boy. There were no explanations necessary. When we left, I was amazed at how much that simple thing changed who he appeared to be.

In the next months, he had his first ‘boy’ birthday party. I realized what amazing friends this kid has. He’s been so supported by kids who stick up for him, stand by him, and genuinely enjoy him.

We made an announcement on Facebook, as people do these days. This is actually my all-time most ‘liked’ Facebook post:

“I count my blessings every day. Every day, in subtle or not-so-subtle ways, I am reminded of how incredibly lucky I am. And the thing I am most grateful for is my family. I am blessed to have my husband, who is strength personified. I am blessed to have a home and extended family and friends and four beautiful children. One of those beautiful children came to me, not so long ago, and shared something delicate and heartfelt and beautiful. Leah asked me to start calling her ‘Lee’ and using male pronouns, because ‘she’ wanted to be ‘he.’

And while I can’t say I was surprised, I had to work a little to hold it together. In my head, I cried for the loss of my ‘little girl,’ while my arms held my child and assured him that HE gets to decide who he wants to be. Each of us has that right. I trust that God has made my child exactly as he is supposed to be; perfect in his complexity, in his joy, his intelligence, and his perceptiveness. I am blessed to be able to learn from these amazing kids every day. I am learning the importance of being who you are, of loving with your whole heart, and of being tender and trustworthy. I’m trusting my facebook friends and family to learn these lessons with me (or kindly and quietly ‘unfriend’). If you have any questions, feel free to message me or call. Love to you all.”

Our family and friends responded with love and support and some respectful questions.  We were blessed to have so many people willing to embark on this journey with us.

There was a lot of pronoun confusion in those first few months. We were constantly correcting ourselves and each other. It got to the point that every time I was about to use a pronoun (in reference to anyone), I paused just the slightest, to make sure I was correct.

Photos were hard for Lee. He wanted me to take down all his little girl pictures, and I fought it at first. “But you’re still the same person! Those are our memories!” I didn’t understand until one day, we had a new babysitter. Of course those photos had to come down.

He helped me choose more recent androgynous or boy pictures to replace the old pictures on the wall. It was a hard moment, but a good one.

The changes since transition have been drastic. He’s happier, he’s more outgoing, he’s willing to take risks. He has great friends, and he’s so much more confident.

Especially during the early phases of all this, we all needed a certain level of support. As parents, we were navigating totally unfamiliar territory. When I first found out, I reached out to a friend. She just happened to know another mom who had recently been through it. She asked if she could connect us, and I felt a wave of relief that I wasn’t alone. Our local PFLAG also has a parent support group that was invaluable to me in those first few months. I connected with parent groups on facebook, and we attended conferences, and Lee began to make friends with kids who were just like him. We weren’t alone. We found a great therapist, and learned about Camp Aranutiq. Lee’s time there has had a profound impact on him, and I can’t overstate how meaningful those weeks at camp have been.

Some things remain the same- Our kid is still our kid…

He’s still ‘active’ and ‘conversational.’ His teachers tell me all the time.

He’s still not an athlete, and he still loves theater and drama.

He’s always loved animals….

and our house has become a small zoo. We have two dogs, two turtles, a hedgehog, a guinea pig, and various fish… and on top of that, he spends his afternoons catching turtles and frogs and crayfish in the stream next to our house. He turns over rocks in the woods, looking for snakes and salamanders. He is full of curiosity and he’s the most observant, perceptive kid I’ve ever met.

I’m going to leave you with two photos that (I think) sum up the changes in Lee.

In the spring of 2014, we went Easter shopping at Target. No big deal. I just wanted to grab something decent to wear to church. My husband was there, too, and we were sincerely trying to get him what he wanted. No dresses. Nothing frilly. We just wanted him to grab decent pants and a sweater. Lee was distraught. Everything we showed him was met with disdain. “I’m not wearing that.” It was so frustrating! We wound up grabbing pants and a blue sweater.

I tried about a hundred times that Easter to get a good picture of the boys. This was the best of the bunch. My youngest is trying to get Lee to smile, but he wouldn’t. He was so obviously miserable the whole time he was wearing that outfit. He must’ve asked a hundred times when he could change. I just didn’t understand how clothing could make a person so unhappy. We all have to dress up sometimes. We don’t necessarily like it, but we DO it.

A year later, I finally understood. Easter 2015 was a whole different experience. Lee still doesn’t like to get ‘dressed up,’ but at least now, he’s not trying to be someone he’s not.

 

I had a dream last night. When I woke up, I had some thoughts brewing in my brain, but as I always do, I asked my son if he would allow me to write about his story.

I’m hyper aware that Lee’s story is not mine to tell. The topic is sensitive and personal, and while my son isn’t ‘stealth,’ there are times when he’d rather ‘just be a boy.’ As this is a luxury that eludes many trans people, I like to enable him to access it whenever he feels it’s necessary.

Anyway. It’s been over two years since I started parenting another son instead of the daughter I thought I knew. It’s been two years of seeking resources, finding support groups, researching legalities, and delving in to this community that I never knew existed.

Throughout our journey, we’ve encountered an amazing amount of support and love. Lee has shared his story with other kids, with teens, and with professionals who wanted to learn more about his transition. He has been welcomed and supported in school, in church, at camp, and in the wider community. We’ve been in this little bubble of support and love; for that, I am incredibly grateful.

We made our announcement to family just about two years ago, and I was raised very much in a, “If you don’t have anything nice to say… “ kind of environment. When I shared our experience on Facebook, I asked that our friends and family commit to learning on this journey with us or “quickly and quietly unfriend.” The urge to check was intense, but I never did look to see if anyone ‘unfriended’ me. I guess I didn’t really want to know.

But if I say I didn’t notice a change, I’d be lying. While many of our loved ones expressed support and concern, there were a number of others who responded with radio silence. I choose to interpret this silence as, “We love you. We don’t understand, but we’ll hang around to see how this plays out.” And I respect that. I certainly didn’t ‘get it’ at first. I had to do a lot of reading and a lot of research and a lot of reaching out to learn about the lived experience of others like my child.

Like so many others, I had other pressing issues. I had causes and concerns and fears and they didn’t include the fate or lived experience of transgender people. In all honesty, I don’t think I would’ve sought to educate myself until it became necessary. I don’t know that I would’ve been that concerned or interested in this unique life experience that didn’t seem to connect to my life. I’m ashamed to admit this, and I’m sorry to those who were inherently impacted by my indifference.

Last night, I dreamt I was sitting at a large oak dining table with the family members who have been silent about the topic. They were asking questions and I was so relieved. When people ask questions, they share a vulnerability. I have friends who acknowledge that, “I might say this wrong…” or family members who start an inquiry with, “I hope this question doesn’t offend you…” and I LOVE IT.

There is such a beautiful power to awkward conversations. Sometimes, we’re so afraid of offending people that we bite our tongues, or we hold our thoughts, and consequently, we miss the opportunity to connect with and understand each other. These connections are a blessing, and these awkward conversations are the conduit for them.

So back to my dream. I sat at the table, and I answered questions. I answered them honestly and vulnerably and, at times, I got angry. In this dream, these family members often referred to my child with the wrong pronouns, and I want to explain my reaction.

In the trans* community, there’s a lot of concern and conversation about ‘misgendering.’ When someone refers to another person using the wrong pronouns, parents filter our response through a hierarchy of intent. A supportive person who is legitimately trying and made a mistake is easily forgiven. A loved one who doesn’t quite understand and feels that the pronouns are ‘no big deal’ will likely get a talking to in private. Someone who is openly hostile and dismissive will most likely get the ‘we will not allow you to treat our child with such disrespect’ talk just before the ‘we don’t need that kind of negativity in our lives’ talk. Hell hath no fury like a parent protecting their child.

So, in my dream, I corrected their pronouns. I hoped that my passion and my love for my child would help them to understand the importance of getting this right. And then, in my dream, I endured a series of overtly personal questions. Questions about my child’s genitals. Questions about his sexuality. Questions about his hormones and his pubertal development and our medical decisions. Please, hear me out. I’m an over-sharer by nature. I understand and appreciate curiosity. So if you’re asking me private, personal, deeply emotionally-laden questions about my child’s adolescent development, I will do one of two things. If I trust your sincerity, if I’m convinced of your support; if I have no doubt about your intentions toward my child, I will answer honestly and openly.

If I question your sincerity, your support, or your intentions, and you ask a question about my child’s genitalia, please expect the answer to be, “Would you be comfortable talking with me about your child’s genitals? Would you ask about any other child’s sexual preferences?” If you are about to ask a question that would be inappropriate in the context of talking about any other child of the same age, then please assume it is doubly inappropriate to ask in regards to my transgender child.

This child is amazing. He is brave and strong and funny and smart. He is observant and loving and enthusiastic and positive. He is kind and loving. I have no doubt that this kid will change the world.

A unique life experience means that my child will always have to defend himself in ways that should be unnecessary. It is my hope that each one of these intensely personal, often inappropriate conversations will make him stronger and more self-aware. It is my hope that each of these conversations will provide him with an opportunity to define himself more clearly, to point out hypocrisy, and to demonstrate patience and kindness and love to those who may be hesitant to do the same for him.