One of my children recently didn’t achieve the teacher recommendation they needed for another year on student council.
And I felt the tug-of-war in my innards. Part of me ached for the rejection they felt, particularly coming from a teacher who siblings confirmed was particularly difficult. I sought to turn off the ignition to my inner snowplow, shaking off the urge to appeal.
But words from a friend, maybe a decade ago now, bubbled to the surface of my brain. Can getting caught–or discipline itself–be a mercy?
Getting caught: A severe mercy
In my mind, the answer’s a resounding yes.read more
A friend asked me a good question in a roundabout way. Let’s say my child is in one of those seasons when they’re hard to love.
…Or even being a jerk.
Um, I thought. Definitely a strong possibility in the lifecycle of a parent.
How important is it that I show them they make me happy?
Maybe you’re smack dab in the middle of your child causing you a lot of heartache. (Along with deep happiness and gratitude–kids do bring a lot of pain.)
You might think things like, This is not the kind of kid I’m raising you to be. Or, They didn’t really tell me about this part at the baby shower.
Perhaps you wonder–like I have–if acting like you enjoy them right now would just encourage bad behavior. Or would be kind of like lying to them.
Maybe your child’s running hard from God, or hasn’t really shown much interest in the first place. Maybe you’re still working through that behavioral diagnosis, or in a season where your child embarrasses you at playdates or in public.
I can relate.
And I think God can, too. I’m thinking of places in the Bible like the book of Hosea (i.e. “the way Israel loves me is kind of like being married to a prostitute”). Or the story of the prodigal son. Or God’s newly-freed-from-400-years-of-slavery kids complaining in the desert and saying he’s not worthy of their trust.
God knows that to love people, especially immature ones, often leads to a whole lotta grief.
Delight, when it’s tough
A friend told me recently that from some major caregivers in their life, they felt like those caregivers were obligated to love them.
That struck me as really hard. Does any of us want to feel like the people “in charge” of loving us are doing it because they have to?
I understand this, too, from a season as an adult where I felt alienated and misunderstood by the world at large. (Forgive me; I’ve mentioned this once before.)
Later on in that time, I picked up the yellowed album of childhood photos of me, tears blurred my vision when I saw a black-and-white photo tucked inside. My mom wears a hospital gown, and I am newly born, naked on her chest.
And the look on my mom’s face is wonder.
Her mouth is slightly open, perhaps speaking to my raisined face. She maybe even looks besotted (and my mom, a thinker, is not usually the openly besotted type).
On that day, looking at that photo, I needed to be reminded I brought delight to someone when I could give nothing.
In our kids’ hardest seasons–as well as their youngest and it’s-a-normal-Thursday days–we carry a unique position as their parents to express our delight in them.
I think there’s a certain extent to which God shows us delight isn’t always earned.
Why enjoying our kids (right now) matters
I see a mom, say, who’s baby’s been born with a deformity, choosing delight in her child. Some delight is natural. But at least for my friend whose child was born with a cleft palate, there was some loss they needed to look past.
Loss they chose to look past, surpassed by no-matter-what love for their child.
Marriage, too ideally reflects God’s covenant love: in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, for better or for worse, as long as they both shall live.
Even on your child’s hellion days (or in their hellion seasons), they need delight.
But to get there, they may need you to find it. To look for places where it genuinely can be cultivated.
Covenant love looks for delight when delight is hard.
And that’s ultimately what Jesus did, I think. When we’d chosen to be his enemies (Romans 5:8), he chose to endure coming toward us “for the joy set before him” (Hebrews 12:2). He chose to see value despite our attitudes and rebellion and blindness.
PositivePsychology.com also points out that in acts of kindness, “Whether you are recipient or giver or merely just a witness you can feel the benefits of an increase in oxytocin”–the bonding chemical dubbed the “love hormone” (also released after nursing or sex).
Acts of kindness, they continue, can even decrease your anxiety and/or depression, increase your endorphins, lower your blood pressure, and create emotional warmth. (Check out all 22+ benefits listed!)
I’m hearing that extending kindness toward our kids when our relationship is fraught can help heal us both.
So sometimes doing things that a delighted parent would do can help us cultivate delight in our kids. Maybe that’s
Celebrating your child on a special occasion.
Buying them their favorite Starbucks.
Inviting them on a trip with you.
Asking them about things that excite them right now: that new Lego creation, or Taylor Swift’s latest hit, or her latest art project.
Making their favorite snack on a bad day.
You don’t have to be an extrovert to express delight in your child.
It’s about communicating to our kids, You are more than what you do. There is hope to be had for you. Joy to be had about you.
Try this: “I love that you’re so ____. Who you are makes me happy.”
Hopefully, even when it’s hard to like our kids, we can see God’s beauty in them. The way he cheers them on and finds hope.
In that way, delight’s a great discipline for our own souls. And a great reminder of the mind-blowing quality of God’s love for us on our worst, undeserving days.
That day at the children’s hospital, my hands shook on behalf of my son, from his angst over drinking the chalky oral contrast, to the needles he dreaded. In fact, I comprehended far more than he did of what lay at stake.
My husband and I had of course taken off work. For our son to go it alone was never, ever an option.
I recalled Abraham with Isaac as we climbed the stairs to the test together, waiting for the rustling of a ram. And God, I believe, climbed with us.
This begs the question. In ordaining our suffering, could God be ordaining his own?
See, like the rest of humanity from David to Job to Jesus, I tend to experience suffering as forsakenness. Separation. My God, My God…
But is that reality?
I’m exploring this theme in my first article for Fathom magazine, a publication “with an eye for intellect, wonder, and story and a conviction that our beliefs have consequences for ourselves, our communities, and the world.”
Today, my oldest is headed for continued training with the Marines; the 1987 Nissan Z he’s been flipping–the one the still needs the muffler?–sits resignedly outside. My youngest, a delight and a straight-up handful, is with extended family. And thanks to this past year’s new puppy, I’m up early.
So I’ve printed out my yearly prayer of Examen–my third year of a new personal tradition. Like the Israelites standing at the Jordan and choosing stones of remembrance (Joshua 4), I’m looking back at how I’ve seen God writing His story in and around me. And how his presence has met me there.
I’m peering ahead, too, choosing how I want to–in trust of him–walk forward.
In 2023, may you be hounded
Since holding my daughter on New Year’s Eve with her own emotions about the New Year, I’ve been chewing on the final verse of Psalm 23: “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”
The Hebrew word for “goodness” here is tov–the word God proclaims seven times over creation in Genesis 1. And the word translated “mercy” is actually hesed, a word I’ve explored on the blog before. It means “steadfast love” or “covenant love.” Paul Miller describes it as “love without an exit strategy.”
Like a radial line connecting across the circle of the psalm, the first and seventh cameos form a pair. When David names God as his shepherd, in whom he lacks nothing because of God’s protection (cameo 1), he is saying that God’s tov and hesed are why and how his deepest needs have been met (cameo 7).
When Jesus presents himself as the Good Shepherd in John 10, he deliberately traces himself into the literary circle of Psalm 23, with poetic prose in the same ring composition as the psalm.
But wait! There’s more.
Tov and hesed meet in Christ’s bones, breath, heart, and hands. Jesus speaks in concert with the deliberate parallelism rooted in David’s ancient song. Just as in Psalm 23, the first and seventh cameos in this scene form a pair, but here the literary climax comes when Christ says that the good shepherd gives his own life for the sheep.
….Our truest selves—the selves not bound by time and space or any scarcity—are seated with Christ where tov and hesed are already ours (Ephesians 2:6). And it is as witnesses of Christ’s costly love that we become witnesses of his life filling ours, bringing tov where there is chaos and offering hesed where there has been harm.*
But even more, in the word translated “follow,” “Radaph is the Hebrew word here, and it means to pursue, chase, and persecute…the goodness and love of God hound us.”
Goodness, this way
As your family flips the page to the unknowns of 2023, I hope you’re able to sift out God’s goodness, his attachment love hounding you. I hope you can intentionally choose the peace Jesus has already bought for us and our families.
And even if there’s a lot of fear for the next year?
Though I’m a little surprised this one made it in the best posts of 2022–it’s been awhile since I’ve underwhelmed you with an update on my family. Pull up a chair, and let’s share a cup o’ joe.
To dovetail with my first solo book, Permanent Markers: Spiritual Life Skills to Write On Your Kids’ Hearts (Harvest House), I created a boatload of printables to help kids learn to love Jesus. Though this wasn’t technically one of the best posts of 2022, sounds like it’s still a hit.
I sat with a friend recently, warming my hands over a fire pit as the nights here in Colorado begin to slide into fall. What she and her family have been through is nothing short of horrific, and it felt sacred to listen to her story in relative silence.
They’re on the other side of tragedy now–the side they weren’t sure they’d ever see. But because they made it through the trauma, she explained quietly, everyone thought they were okay now.
The bad is behind. They can get back to normal, no harm, no foul. Right?
But anyone who’s slogged through real-life trauma knows…it stains. Everyone thinks I’m okay.
In fact, it changes your eyesight. You no longer see the world the same way.
“Everyone thinks I’m okay”–but I’m different now
Think of Frodo Baggins at the end of The Return of the King. He managed to fulfill his life’s purpose, casting the Ring of Power into Mount Doom.
But after all he’s seen, after all he’s lost, he can’t go back to life in the Shire. His friends are raising steins of ale, but he’s subdued, removed.
Suffering inevitably has a sobering effect. We sink into the realities of Ecclesiastes:
All things are full of weariness; a man cannot utter it; the eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing.
Again I saw all the oppressions that are done under the sun. And behold, the tears of the oppressed, and they had no one to comfort them! On the side of their oppressors there was power, and there was no one to comfort them. And I thought the dead who are already dead more fortunate than the living who are still alive. (1:8, 4:1-2)
On the side of suffering creating wisdom, Tim Keller points out deep pain potentially
Transforms our attitude toward ourselves, humbling us and removing unrealistic self-regard and pride
Will profoundly change our relationship to the good things in our lives—things that have become too important. We rearrange priorities, investing more of our hope and meaning in God, family, and others.
Can strengthen our relationship to God as nothing else can—and fortify our relationships with other people
Makes us far more useful in compassion toward other people.
Makes us more resilient, wiser, and more realistic about life…or harden us.
But my friend on the other side of the fire that night isn’t the only friend who’s found themselves alone after the season of phone calls and casseroles.
So many women I’ve spoken to find themselves still reeling, scraping up their lives with the blades of their hands, following loss. And the rest of the world has moved on from them and their tragedy.
If you’re in this boat, you might believe there’s a shelf life to your grief and the resulting fear–and that yours is past its expiration date.
Your whole story matters
But far more than yanking yourself up by the bootstraps, you may find you can’t just tell yourself some version of the truth about God–“The Bible says to rejoice! Have a cookie”–and detach from your story.
When we deny the reality of our experiences, we don’t become more of who God designed us to be, but less.
There’s no way to have cohesive stories unless we truly embrace all of it: the good, the hard, the bittersweet, the sad, the joyful, the lonely, and the painful. It all counts. If we know something else to be true, it’s this: God is a curator and keeper of stories. Psalm 56:8 says, “You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book” (NLT). God is invested in the entire arc of our humanity.
…. I’ve watched this transformation take place in many people’s lives as they’ve become compassionate witnesses to the pain they’ve experienced or the parts of themselves that have felt too much.
When you’re just making it through
Kolber, a trauma therapist, knows the realities of “everyone thinks I’m okay.” She writes that we may be “white-knuckling” through pain when we
ignore signs of pain, hunger, or exhaustion; minimize our emotions (“Oh, it’s not that bad”)
find ourselves overwhelmed by big emotions we’ve ignored too long
numb our emotions (food, TV…)
say yes when we mean no
bounce between feeling motivated by and then overwhelmed by adrenaline
go through seasons of profound exhaustion, depression, or numbness because we’ve been overfunctioning
There’s a need for us as image-bearers of God to be unified people, where everything’s connected and all the parts of us are talking to each other (see, too, Ephesians 4:25 for how this applies socially). This brings to mind the shemah in the Old Testament: “Hear O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one.”
He holds all things together (Colossians 1:17), making our stories and selves cohesive, whole, and eventually, unbroken. So the need you’re feeling to bring your emotions and soul along is godly, in my mind, even if this takes years.
Ideas: if you or a friend are still not okay
This is going to sound counterintuitive, but I believe healing involves leaning into all of it. Not away.
Speaking with another friend recently who was processing severe health concerns, she acknowledged her typical strategy to deal with these hard emotions is to keep going.
But I had to reflect on some of the places that have brought me into the heart of God.
I wanted to tell her, Lean in. Lean into this, because entering in during this season is where you will meet God like you’ve never met him before.
Otherwise, this part in us can atrophy as it loses mobility and emotional blood supply. We can lose the ability to interact with God on this level.
Author Ruth Haley Barton mentions a spiritual director’s words to her–that she was like a jar of river water, which needed to settle in order to see what’s really there.
Consider these few ideas.
I could go on for days on this topic. But consider these.
Relentlessly orchestrate space to listen to God: to be quiet, thoughtful, and meditative about how he responds to each of your griefs, angers, fears, and sources of shame. Don’t be duplicitous in being with him. Bring in all your questions.
Prayerfully identify a few safe relationships that will help you unpack all that’s happened. Request that they ask you questions, and specifically tell them you need help processing over the next several months. Invite them into the most unkempt areas of your life.
Journal like the dickens, perhaps even with a guided journal. Understand that grief and trauma will toss up new losses, questions, and emotions by the day. As I ask a friend who lost her husband, What are you missing this week?
Create art, poetry, or music to express your emotion.
Memorize, post in your home, meditate on, and rehearse verses that reinforce God as a refuge for pouring out your heart (like Psalm 22:4-5, 42:4, 62:8, 142:2; Philippians 4:6-7).
Slow down or say “no” to an activity in daily life, so you have space to process my emotions with God.
The good news: God still defines himself by resurrection, by redemption.
You may not be okay now. But on this planet or in eternity–hope’s a’comin.
Lord, we pray we never find ourselves without hope, without a glimpse of the empty tomb each time we happen upon a cross. Help us begin our daily journey expecting both crosses and empty tombs and rejoicing when we encounter either because we know you are with us.
This is one of those posts where I’m not an expert, just a mom. (Um, most of my posts?!)
But maybe these small ideas will help. And if I’m smart, I’ll keep this short, right?
I sat with one of my teens a couple of weeks ago as they expressed yet another issue where they felt intense anger with the church at large: namely, purity culture. (See “Purity Culture: Lose the Lies, Keep Your Faith.”)
Having four opinionated kids (not to mention adult friends) who my husband and I are attempting to meet with toward emotionally healthy spirituality–this isn’t my first rodeo with church hurt.
I’m willing to bet all of us can resonate with people in the Church being unhealthy, harmful, and downright evil.
Because the church is full of, hello, humans. And despite us being redeemed, new creations (2 Corinthians 5:17), despite the clear beauty of God’s Bride?
Here on earth, we can do a lot of damage in the name of Jesus. (That could be an entire website on its own. Probably is.)
But in this podcast, I was reminded most people who walk away from the Church do so because of emotional or personal trauma.
So I’m mashing together what does work…in a world of church hurt.
First: Listen
My kids’ issues with the Church (big C) have ranged from the less-consequential (“the worship music style drives me nuts”) to the legit (“Why didn’t that sermon on divorce even touch on the abuse of women?”) to the deeply personal and hurtful.
And as a parent who loves Jesus’ Bride with all her warts and loves my own little-C church, this feels personal. Note: My kids’ thoughts are rarely expressed with gentleness and graciousness.
So these often feel like personal attacks. I’m a part of the church.
My kids have the capacity to be a part of change. And I can help cast that vision.
But first, I need to understand why their pain connects so personally with their story.
I believe firmly that empathy and active listening are some of our best apologetics. But our kids may not be getting that vibe from the pulpit or the youth pastor.
So do all the active listening things (please see these 10 tips on being an emotionally safe place–which help with anybody). Leave at least three seconds after they pause, to see what they fill the space with. Show them your care with your face and appropriate silence.
And of course, nix defensiveness.
Ask 3 Levels of Why
To understand kids’ current anger or pain, I’ve had to consider–if not ask them directly–about what’s beneath their frustration.
Remember: Anger is a secondary emotion, following disappointment, rejection, hurt, fear.
So rather than taking personal offense, it’s my chance to enter into their experience. To dig into the why’s, and sometimes the whys beneath those. To really understand, rather than judge or let a theological issue trump my ability to love them well and hear their hurt.
(Again, if I don’t, I lose that privilege to walk with them in intimate spaces like God walks with me in my pain and doubt.)
What feels valuable to them that’s been stepped on?
For some of my kids, social justice is at stake–loving all people well.
For another, it’s issues of relevance. Can the church keep pace with my kids’ world and the weight of its questions? Does anyone care about their experience as a teen in the church?
Author and pastor Tim Keller has written, “A faith without some doubts is like a human body without antibodies. =&0=&.”
So consider these conversations as opportunities to strengthen your kids’ faith from within. And maybe your own.
Do I Make Them Go to Youth Group?
If you’re wondering if you should make your bruised or angry kids go to youth group–in my (again, un-expert) opinion, this varies vastly by the child.
So pray about this. Ask God for insight about your kid’s unique heart.
In my mind, youth group is largely about
discipleship
fellowship and authentic community
worship in ways that resonate with teens
spiritual disciplines of gathering together (Hebrews 10:25)
learning to persevere in loving well when people aren’t like us, or are even irritating or wrong (#mindblown)
Does your youth group meet these needs for your child? Do you need to supplement a way it’s weak–or continue to download and dialogue about an area of weakness? Do you need to help with someconflict coaching?
If youth group would only make your child feel more alienated, can those needs be met in part by
communal worship on Sundays,
regular personal time in God’s Word,
a Christian mentor,
summer camp,
an on-campus group, or
a Bible study that meets in someone’s home–maybe yours?
This is a time to talk with your teen about the values underneath youth group. Maybe this is a season to muscle through, and debrief after youth group together. Or maybe you’ll agree to forgo youth group (…yes, I just said that out loud) if your teen willingly seeks out a mentor or a Bible study.
“What Happened to You?”
I’m reminded of a school superintendent who used to be a teacher. He told me he used to look at troubled kids and think, “What’s wrong with you?”
But he learned to start asking, “What happened to you?”
His words bring to mind the parable of the Good Samaritan. An Israelite–someone you could say was in “the church”–when leaving Jerusalem, the Holy City was robbed and left half-dead. But church people tended to walk to the other side of the road when they saw him.
Sure, maybe the robbed man could’ve taken more precautions. And the story doesn’t mention him lashing out like a bear in a trap.
Yet what can we do, like the good Samaritan, to apply oil to the wounds of those feeling hurt and robbed along their journey? Those who associate the Church with grief, loss, and Do you even see me?
May God give you the patience, compassion, and wisdom as you care this week.
But for the last few days, I’d been sifting through a few emotions about 2022. A new year comes with some gravity–especially after a tough 2021 for my family.
Recently I completed a yearly prayer of Examen–my second year of a new personal tradition. Like the Israelites standing at the Jordan and choosing stones of remembrance (Joshua 4), I’m looking back at how I’ve seen God writing His story in and around me. And how his presence has met me there.
I’m peering ahead, too, choosing how I want to, in trust of him, walk forward.
I’m trying to think about how God responds to me here in a hard place. First, I get why you’re afraid.
And a bit after that: Looking back, what ways have you seen me take care of you in 2019?
Throughout Scripture, God follows up “Do not be afraid” with his best reason: for I am with you.
As your family flips the page from 2021 to the unknowns of 2022, I hope you’re able to find thanks, too, and to choose the peace Jesus has already bought for us and our families.
And even if there’s a lot of fear for the next year–may God’s presence meet you at every curve.
Here, the posts that most resonated with readers in 2021. Feel free to share!
When your “normal” isn’t a family who loves God, raising kids to do that can be straight-up intimidating.
A “Christian home” can sound like a lofty goal–like a label we work to deserve. But ultimately, a Christian home is one actively bathing itself in what Jesus has done for us, and letting it permeate every room, every convo in the bathroom or the kitchen, every nightmare and swimsuited run through the sprinkler.
Here’s one to bookmark for those days when kids are climbing up the walls. Grab over 60 ideas to make summer special with kids–but don’t forget what really makes memories.
I’ve heard “I just don’t understand” a lot lately, especially related to deeply-valued, strongly-held opinions. And now I’m wondering: What does it say if I just…can’t…get someone different from me?
A couple of weeks ago one of my teenagers was super-miffed with my husband and me.
On a car ride home from church, after explaining a biblical position we held on a touchy subject, this unnamed teenager maintained his shock and sudden anger.
Though they actually agreed with our thoughts on the subject, according to the child, we’d told them we were totally in a different place!
How could this be? Traitors! To arms!
My husband and I glanced at each other in one of those honed looks that 21 years of marriage can communicate in a millisecond. This one read something like, Really? I mean, we’ve grown in our understanding, but this is not a new thing. We’ve had so many discussions about this with this kid.
At least that particular discussion was easily (gently) resolved. But in raising older kids and talking with parents of adult kids, I didn’t anticipate how, on a bigger scale, there’s a lot of ways kids can rewrite the narrative in ways particularly painful and long-term.
In fact, they could stick to that narrative with their friends, their therapist, through all the healing they need to do…over some things that may not have happened that way, if memory serves.
Rewriting the Narrative: The Fallout
Can I just say? On a much larger scale than one misunderstood conversation: This hurts.
And sometimes it’s downright embarrassing. It creates potential gulfs of misunderstanding, misplaced blame and/or lack of personal responsibility, and loss, maybe after you’ve worked really hard to raise your kids in a loving, fair, godly way.
It can bring legit anger.
Because the truth does set us free. And it’s so painful when lies are told about us.
(At least we think so. Are we crazy? How could our stories be so different?)
All are rewriting the narrative and fall short of what actually happened.
See the Atlantic’s “How Many Of Your Memories are Fake?” In fact, the previously-considered “indelible” memories from traumatic experiences used in courtrooms are called into question due to scientific study. I’m fascinated by a phenomenon called “fade to gist”, where details fade, our brain fills in the gaps, and we only remember the general idea of what happened.
I find both refuge and a degree of fear in the reality that God is my judge.
Yes, his all-seeing-ness–represented in heaven by creatures covered in eyes (Revelation 4:2-8, also pictured in Ezekiel)–means he’s my truthful refuge.
But he’s also the possessor of mercy I need. Because my own memory is fallible, searingly limited in perspective, and partial to myself. I am not covered in eyes; I am not the impartial judge.
Perhaps more important than truth being told: Compassion for the perspective.
The Bible confirms truth matters immensely. Consider, for example–
“When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth, for he will not speak on his own authority, but whatever he hears he will speak, and he will declare to you the things that are to come.” (John 16:13)
“Sanctify them in the truth; your word is truth.” (John 17:17)
“God is spirit, and those who worship him must worship in spirit and truth.” (John 4:24)
“Lying lips are an abomination to the Lord, but those who act faithfully are his delight.” (Proverbs 12:22)
“You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.” (…Including your parents. [Exodus 20:16])
We love best when we walk in the truth. Ephesians speaks of “speaking the truth in love” (4:15)–and Jesus came from God in both “grace and truth” (John 1:14). We get the idea from the whole of Scripture that truth without love isn’t the full truth; that grace and truth are two sides of the same coin.
But here’s something also truthful: When it comes to loving someone, an inaccurately perceived experience matters. The story they experienced is intensely personal and often very shaping to them.
So saying, “Well, that’s not how it happened”–based on what we know about our own infallible memories–can sidestep the need for someone to receive our hurt. To heal.
I am confident God does not confront me about every sin throughout the day, every way I’ve failed to see him clearly or act in that knowledge. It would overwhelm me–and overwhelm my ability to perceive his love, I’m afraid.
More important than ourselves being justified or perceived accurately or without blame is regaining connection and reconciliation. Sometimes a minor injustice can be absorbed in the name of unity; of coming back together.
We see this in a Jesus who temporarily submitted himself–of his own volition–to dozens of injustices in his own trial with fallible humans, to bring us close.
He’s patient for justice; has a bigger goal in mind.
God himself, at times, temporarily defers to us rewriting the narrative.
Rereading Luke 15 last week fascinated me. Remember the story of the prodigal son?
Catch the interchange between this Middle Eastern father, who’s just left his own party and lowers himself once again (after an unheard-of all-out run toward his repentant prodigal son as the son came home), deferring to his belligerent oldest son. I’m told the elder son had already defied tradition, foregoing the need to bring his younger brother back home.
Watch how the elder son mischaracterizes the father:
“Look! All these years I’ve been slaving for you and never disobeyed your orders. Yet you never gave me even a young goat so I could celebrate with my friends.But when this son of yours who has squandered your property with prostitutes comes home, you kill the fattened calf for him!” (vv. 29-30, NIV; emphasis added)
The ticked-off son says his father is a slave-master. He disassociates from his brother (“this son of yours”). His father’s scales of justice are off.
We could be together
But I’m equally amazed at the father’s response:
“‘My son,’ the father said, ‘you are always with me, and everything I have is yours.”
As in,
My son = You’re mine.
You’re always with me. = We have a relationship. We’re together. You’re missing out on our companionship.
Everything I have is yours. = We can share rule and enjoyment of this place together, if you choose.
I see a dad taking the hit here amidst his hurt, angry son, despite the father not committing wrong. Despite the father’s failure existing only in the son’s perspective, while his son’s rewriting the narrative. I see the dad lowering himself, gently correcting what he can, and extending an olive branch.
We could be together.
I know I’ve been on the mischaracterization side of him myself more times than I like to admit.
Maybe, like me, you feel a little backhanded by the misrepresentation of your child or even by a friend of yours–someone rewriting the narrative about a situation close to your heart, maybe with some blood, sweat, and tears mixed in.
Hope you find promise, like I do, in a God who consistently–temporarily–allows some misrepresentation for the sake of restoration.
So this past weekend was the community garage sale in my small town. Though I’m really aspiring to greater simplicity, a community garage sale is my kryptonite.
I was super-excited about a necklace I found. But when I paired the necklace with a bracelet I’d nabbed for $.50, my husband’s eyebrow cocked. Not a good sign.
“I just can’t get away from the superhero vibe,” he confessed.
What do you think?
…In response to which my friend texted me something like this:
She and I agreed: I should consider a pair of blue underwear with stars. (Maybe not a garage sale find for that one?)
But to bring this to my point: We all wish we could be world-changers. Stronger than we are. Men and women who move toward. It would be easy if this came in $.50 bracelet form, please.
Recently an author pointed out to me an interesting line in the Mark 5 story of the man possessed by demons. It’s not as if the story doesn’t have enough interest:
He lived among the tombs. And no one could bind him anymore, not even with a chain,4 for he had often been bound with shackles and chains, but he wrenched the chains apart, and he broke the shackles in pieces. No one had the strength to subdue him.5 Night and day among the tombs and on the mountains he was always crying out and cutting himself with stones.
The interesting part?
Jesus is the only one mentioned getting out of the boat.
Now, perhaps this isn’t surprising. Imagine the twelve disciples playing rock-paper-scissors: Who wants to go confront the naked, possessed guy who howls at the moon?
Honestly: I wouldn’t have gotten out. No matter what bracelet I was wearing.
The Opposite of Moving Toward
The same author, Jan Johnson–in my newest-favorite devotional, Meeting God in Scripture: A Hands-On Guide to Lectio Divina–points out Jesus’ impetus for the three stories describing God–one who will move toward–which he tells in Luke 15 (the lost sheep, the lost coin, and the prodigal son).
Now the tax collectors and sinners were all drawing near to hear him.2 And the Pharisees and the scribes grumbled, saying, “This man receives sinners and eats with them.”
Johnson asks the reader about the difference between the attitude of the Pharisees and the heart of the shepherd, who goes after the lost sheep. What are they each eager to do?
Here’s what I’m seeing:
PHARISEES
SHEPHERD
disdain
responsible; “brother’s keeper”
status-upholding; separation from “sinners”
compassion
superiority
sacrifice
self-righteousness
protection
self-protection
joy in repentance
So that brings me to my question. Am I raising shepherds who get out of the boat and walk toward the scary others?
Author Pauses Over the Obvious Tricky Part
This is tough, as parents who rightly want to protect our kids. Do we send our kids directly into danger?
Well, we measure it.
Getting into a car = usually worth it
Eating sugar = worth it, in reasonable amounts
Going to public school = [gotcha! Depends on the parent]
Sending you to college = worth it
Placing a loaded weapon in the hands of your 4-year-old = stick with Nerf/water guns only
But you don’t send your toddler to college. You gradually raise a child who is, one hopes, ready to be launched into…well, all the things we remember about college in a little too much technicolor.
One mom once told me she wouldn’t send her kids to the homeless shelter to volunteer with their dad, because the kids might say something awkward, e.g. “You smell.”
This feels surmountable, and to me, worth the risk. You talk in the car beforehand: “What should we not say, that could hurt someone?”
Without the baby steps, we can’t get to kids who move toward.
Start Here: Raising Kids (not Superheroes) Who Move Toward
I’m saying this. In baby steps, move toward the kind of people some Christians/humans might find scary. Sinners. Or just different.
Have people different than your family over for dinner. (New to this? International students are a great place to start.)
Strike up a conversation with diverse members of your community: the cashier, the janitor, the immigrants with a child in your child’s class. (Try starting by thanking them for their work.)
Pray for opportunities (with your child, or on your own) for people who can increase your child’s heart to move toward the marginalized.
When your child is frustrated about a relationship at school, after taking time for empathy for your child, gently help them compassionately consider that person’s needs beneath the surface–and how your child could respond with kindness in the face of insult.
Ask your child, “Who’s most likely to be left out or struggling in your class?” Pray for that person by name, and for ways to help.
I'm totally #thatmom--the one diving into all the weirdness with my kids, sidestepping a few eyerolls.
Pull up a chair for practical ideas and discussions on the parenting, relationships, and spirituality we're all army-crawling through every day. After five and a half years in Uganda, my family and I returned to the U.S., where I write and speak professionally, and we continue to work on behalf of the poor. My first solo book, Permanent Markers: Spiritual Life Skills to Write on Your Kids' Hearts (Harvest House), released October 2021.
That day at the children’s hospital, my hands shook on behalf of my son, from his angst over drinking the chalky oral contrast, to the needles he dreaded. In fact, I comprehended far more than he did of what lay at stake.
![Now You're Speaking My [Love] Language](https://www.janelbreitenstein.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/love-languages-text-1.jpg "Now You're Speaking My [Love] Language")
