A Teeny Tiny Offense

Last Friday I took my kids to our favorite local bookstore. It’s a fantastic secondhand shop where the trade-in deals are unmatched. I’d brought in a large tote bag full of books, games, and puzzles we no longer used and swapped them for enough store credit to treat each of my kids to four books apiece. My children, like me, could spend hours in a bookstore. They took their time perusing the merchandise, wandering the aisles and settling into corners, crossed legged, flipping through book after book. After they’d finally settled on their choices, they followed me up to the register. As I exchanged small talk with the cashier, my kids happily examined all the little trinkets and bookmarks for sale around us. They soon took a keen interest in a tiny little notebook, smaller than the palm of my hand. It was bedazzled in colorful jewels and glitter. “It’s so cute and miniature!” they squealed. They didn’t ask to buy it and I thought nothing of it. I handed them each their bag of books and we walked to the car. On the drive home, Providence (P.J) and Justice were busy looking at their new books and reading pages aloud to each other. Justice started talking about the teeny tiny notebook they’d seen. “P.J, that notebook was SO cute! Don’t worry. I didn’t take it.” To which P.J responded, “Well ya, that’s good because we didn’t pay for it. But it was really cute.” I scrunched my brow, thinking how odd it was that my son made a point of saying he didn’t take the notebook. I shrugged the feeling off and drove the rest of the way home with the radio turned up. When we arrived home, my husband greeted the kids and they excitedly showed him their new finds. Justice told his dad all about the bedazzled miniature notebook he’d seen. I was reminded of a book called, Ruthie and the (Not So) Teeny Tiny Lie, about a little girl who loves to collect teeny tiny objects, so much so that she lied about a pocket-sized camera she’d found, claiming it belonged to her even though it didn’t. (If you can’t see all the foreshadowing by now, well…)

Yesterday while the kids were at school (four days after our book store trip), I was tidying up their playroom. I sat down at their art desk and began sorting their craft supplies when I discovered, (you guessed it), the teeny tiny bedazzled notebook, the price tag still on. It was tucked deep down into the bottom of a pencil cup, a place I’m sure Justice thought I’d never find it. I sat there, brokenhearted. My son has lied to us before. He’s broken house rules. He’s rebelled. He’s even been destructive. But he’s never shoplifted. This felt like a whole new level of misconduct. I was at a loss. That morning I’d finally returned his toys to his bedroom after a week of isolating them in my closet; a consequence of disobedience the week prior. Now I had to deal with this. For the last two years with our son, it’s felt like taking one step forward and two steps back. Just when we think we’re getting through to him and he’s making progress, he relapses, often even further than before.

I brought the notebook with me as I drove to pick up Justice from kindergarten. I carefully placed it on the center console between the front seats, knowing he’d see it as soon as he hopped into his booster seat. I still wasn’t sure how I was going to play it, but I figured I’d wait to see how he reacted and go from there. As I waited in the school pick-up line, I texted my husband: "Discovered that Justice shoplifted at the bookstore the other day. Pray for me as I deal with this.” My phone rang almost immediately. I gave Zach the story and asked him to pray for Justice’s heart, that it would be repentant and humble. I quickly hung up as I saw Justice’s class exit the school building. I opened the van door and greeted him warmly as he jumped in. As he buckled into his seat and settled in, his eyes rested on the notebook. “What is that?” he stammered. I put the car in drive. “Why don’t you tell me,” I said calmly. His voice got quiet. “I need to think about it,” he said in retreat. I steered the car in the direction of the bookstore.

“While you’re thinking, let me tell you what I know,” I said with a controlled breath. “I know you saw this at the bookstore last week. I know you liked it. I also know I didn’t pay for it. Did you pay for it?” He shook his head. I sighed, grateful he wasn’t denying it at least. “So if you didn’t pay for it, how did it get in our house?” He said he needed to keep thinking about it. As we pulled up to a red light, I turned around to look at him. “I’m going to say this one time. Telling me the truth is your only option. I will not tolerate being lied to. Is that understood?” He nodded solemnly and admitted, his voice barely audible, “I took it.” I closed my eyes and sent up a silent prayer of gratitude; Thank you Lord for stirring his little heart to humbly admit his sin the first time. Thank you for helping him resist the temptation to deny, lie or defend his choice. That, in and of itself, was a huge victory. I affirmed him for telling me the truth before proceeding to explain that taking something from a store without paying for it is called stealing, and it’s against the law. “If you get caught stealing, you can be sent to jail. Jail means you’d be separated from Mommy, Daddy, and P.J for a long time,” I said seriously. I desperately needed him to understand the severity of his actions. This was so much bigger than taking my lipstick from my bathroom and insisting the red stains on his face were from a bloody nose (just another glimpse into my life). “How can you make this right?” I asked him. “Take it back to the store?” he suggested. I nodded. “Yes. We’re going back to the store, and you’re going to return the notebook. But you’re not just going to put it back on the shelf. You’re going to find an employee, tell them you stole the notebook from their store, and apologize.” He burst into tears. (You may recall from previous stories, that making Justice apologize is the worst thing he can imagine when it comes to consequences.)

When we pulled into the parking spot in front of the bookstore, Justice was still sobbing. “What if they call the police and take me to jail? What if they’re really mad at me? What if they don’t let me come back to the bookstore?” he ranted. I assured him only one of those was a strong possibility. (“If you owned a store, would you allow someone who steals from you to keep shopping there? Probably not,” I said.) I’ve made my son apologize enough times to know that it could take him upwards of thirty minutes to gather the courage to get it over with. I was not in the mood for that this time and I made it abundantly clear. "You’re going to pull yourself together, march in there, and do exactly as I said. Right now. I’m not waiting around for you to draw this out into a whole scene,” I said sternly. He swallowed his sobs, inhaled deeply, and said, “Yes Mom.” He knew I meant business. I grabbed his hand and escorted him into the store. A clerk was sitting just inside the door. He greeted us and I said quickly, “My son has something he needs to do.” Justice shuffled forward, and through his tears, he said, “I stole this. I didn’t pay for it. Will you please forgive me?” He handed over the notebook. The clerk looked stunned. Then with a smile, he said, “Don’t worry about it.” I replied, “This won’t happen again. My son won’t be back in your store for a long time.” I gripped Justice’s hand and walked him back to the car. His little body leaned heavily on me as he let the tears fall.

When he’d buckled himself back into his seat, I looked him in the eyes and said gently, “Thank you for doing as you were told. I’m very proud of you for obeying me and making it right. Now I need to know you will never do this again. Because if I catch you shoplifting again, I will call the police myself.” I meant it. “I promise Mom. I’ll never do it again,” he blubbered. Then he turned to his sister (who had wisely stayed silent as the grave through the entire ordeal) and apologized for lying to her about taking the notebook. She forgave him easily but kindly asked that he not lie to her again because it hurt her heart. I could’ve kissed her. On the drive home I told Justice he wouldn’t be allowed into a store for the next month, as he’s shown he can’t be trusted. He seemed to think that was reasonable. By the time we got home, I was ready to clock out. I bribed my daughter with a dollar and an extra treat after dinner if she would sit and help Justice with his homework so I wouldn’t have to. She happily obliged. I messaged a group of fellow friends, admitting I’d just bribed my child. “You’re my hero,” one replied. I laughed. “Before you sing my praises you should know my son shoplifted this week. Super Mom I am most certainly not,” I sent back. “I’m sorry but I literally just LOLed,” came a text. “A pastor’s kid who breaks the law. That’s the makings of a reality show isn’t it?” I asked. I wondered if this was how the preacher’s daughter in Footloose had started, dabbling in petty theft before she donned her red boots and smoked joints with her abusive boyfriend. Lord, please be gracious.

Over dinner that night we talked about the alternative options to stealing. If you see something in a store that you want, what could you do that doesn’t involve committing a misdemeanor? (Turns out there are plenty of choices.) After the conversation had moved on, we broke out a box of family discussion questions. We usually like to answer at least one as we dine together each night. The question was, “What movie character inspires you most?” The kids and I shared our answers while my husband thought it over. Finally, he said, “Aladdin. Because he overcame big odds. He had nothing. He lived on the street. He had no family and no money. And then he ended up becoming a prince, the Sultan of his country.” I stared at him in disbelief. “You’re kidding, right? Aladdin also stole food. He was a pickpocket. He resisted arrest multiple times and he lied about being a prince just to be with a girl. THAT’S who inspires you?” I said incredulously as I glanced at my son, the makings of a thief himself. Well, at least if I wanted to blame someone for how Justice was turning out, I didn’t have to look internally. The father of my child was sitting right across the table, claiming a common street thief as his role model. Fantastic.

This morning on the drive to school, Justice found a project he’d made the day before, tucked behind his seat. “Mom, I forgot to show this to you,” he said as he passed it up to me. It was a kindergarten graduate, cut from construction paper. Underneath was a paper titled, ‘My Favorite Kindergarten Memory.’ In his neat but delinquent handwriting, Justice had written, “My favorite kindergarten memory is when we met the police.” I cringed at the irony. “Oh, buddy. You keep heading down the path you’re on and you’ll have a lot more run-ins with the police and it won’t be a thing like meeting them on ‘Community Helper Day’ at school,” I thought to myself.

When Justice was barely 2, I took him on a tour of a local police station. His favorite part was sitting in the back of police car. I should’ve known then.

Justice’s “Favorite Kindergarten Memory.”