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
Last Saturday, I pawed through a time capsule of sorts. Let’s call it “parenthood.”
The day before, my second son wheeled his carry-on through security, moving out of our home–to be fair, as we knew what happened when he was wrestled from my abdomen on an unseasonably warm January day 18 years ago. He finished high school in December. It’s time.
He’s moving in with my (truly wonderful) parents, where the cost of living is cheaper and he can get his first taste of adulthood.
The time capsule
But there I was, last Saturday, pawing beneath the remaining bed of our formerly-stacked double bunks. He’d done most of the heavy lifting, carrying out furniture and tying up a thousand and one loose ends. I wasn’t put out by the under-bed cleanup.
My kids might have cleaned around the edges, though I don’t know that this task had been executed with as much zeal since we moved back from Africa. He was in sixth grade then, his brother in eighth–the one who called me from Guam last week, his first deployment stop with the Marines.
That’s right; my nest is half-empty. Or is it half-full? At one point, I’d had four kids four and under. And just as fast as my house filled, it’s draining.
I’d opened the windows, welcoming the release of winter’s stranglehold on Colorado. And there on my hands and knees, I pulled out the inventory. Including these:
1 issue of Bon Appetit
3 (not 2, not 4) drumsticks, thankfully not the eating kind, yet
1 unopened (again, thankfully), expired can of tuna
1 hall pass
roughly 67 Nerf darts
1 mini-notebook of short story ideas in pencil
1 boot camp journal
4 borrowed DVD’s
5 birthday postcards from Christian summer camp counselors
2 Tinker Toys
1 Lincoln Log
2 K’nex
1 aerobie
1 car snow brush
1 Edelbrock auto air filter
1 coin from the United Arab Emirates
As I pulled out the battered Nerf sword they’d carted around Uganda and back to the States, vanquishing childhood foes, I wondered which was its unsuspecting final battle. All this crumpled school paperwork was no longer necessary with the boys’ diplomas in hand. I imagined the bed creaking as the boys rolled over in sleep, exhaling; its slats are quiet now.
The “after”
I was feeling, am feeling, sad.
(Recently spotted on my Pinterest feed: A meme longing for “a soundtrack on my life, so I can know what the heck is going on.”)
Because yes, it’s the end of an era; cue Stevie Nicks’ “Landslide.” But as perhaps seeping between the lines of my blog posts, you hear I’m grieving motherhood, and what I hoped it would be.
Sidled up beside the late-night talks leaning against kitchen counters, I expected less of the virtually inexplicable anger both of my sons would wrestle with in their later teen years, lobbed toward the closest person in their path (so often, me).
Tucked among the laughs around the table, I expected fewer searing sibling comments lobbed across the linoleum.
I expected more reflection on halcyon days, maybe less on a vague sense of failure.
My parenthood “for God”
It brings to mind the words of Sarah Condon, in Daily Grace. She writes of her Lenten plans:
I would be a more patient mother in the morning.
….This year I was going to get eight hours of sleep and be one of those mothers who bakes muffins in the freaking morning. Big plans. I had a vision of motherhood that included early morning yoga, perhaps some quiet time with the Lord, and constantly smiling at my progeny.
Her son, however, broke his arm on the second day of Lent. “And I realized that my Lent was going to consist of sleeping with a third grader to help him prop up his arm and praying to God he doesn’t accidentally whack me in the face with his cast in the middle of the night. Again.”
She concludes,
So I will not be the kind of mom I had planned on becoming. But God is positioning me firmly in his own kind of motherhood for me regardless.
We always come at Lent [–or parenthood–] like we are going to shape God. Like we are going to tell him about all our willpower and devotion to him…making Jesus an offer he can’t refuse.
Only, he does refuse. God takes our plans and pushes them further… He pulls them apart and pushes them back together.
God’s long game
Over dinner with friends tonight, as my husband spoke of following Christ at age 16, I realized he was the same age my daughter is right now.
If I would have seen him as a high-school student, I wouldn’t have anticipated the vice-president-of-a-missions-agency, the missionary, the church elder. Far more than who he is on paper, I wouldn’t have glimpsed the man who loves God with such an anchored hope, who loves people with intricate kindness. I met my husband at the age my son is now.
Calling any game at the first quarter isn’t done in any sport. There’s so much more to be done.
It’s why a call from my mom lifted my spirits yesterday.
This last week, my son opened a new bank account. Researched and purchased car insurance. Applied for health insurance. Nailed a job. Emptied the dishwasher of his own accord. Drove my parents around a new city, helping my dad after a surgery. He planted trees and flowers in with their landscaping, talked easily with their friends. Rumor has it he’s making his bed and his room is relatively neat.
Like my parenthood, like any child, like me, my kids are a mixed bag of sweeping wins and heart-rending losses. (What would he unearth from under my metaphorical bed?)
Today I’m thankful for a God able to place even the losses in the wins column. A God who brings everything he starts into completion.
And whether the close of this chapter of my life looks like a win for the protagonist or not, I’m grateful to know the Author of a breathtaking ending.
Join the conversation. In what ways has parenthood felt different than you expected?
Question. What’s the one thing you wish about your family that feels like it would make everything better? That finally, your parenting could really sing?
What’s your “if only”?
Maybe you’re dealing with a child’s behavior or learning disorder. You could be grappling with teens making choices that double you over in pain, or a child who’s so different from you, you don’t know where to go from here. Your child might have health issues that tear you awake in the middle of the night.
Currently, I have deep desires swirling around my kids’ character. They’re good desires; great ones, even. I mulled over my “if only”s while gazing at the perfect indigoes and cotton-candy pinks of a Colorado sunset the other night.
The passage in the Bible on my lap: Luke 19, right before Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem.
Jesus is looking over the Holy City. From the way the text reads, it seems he could view the crowds amassing, ripping down palm branches, shrugging off jackets; their shouts were gathering volume. It seems the party awaiting him wasn’t a surprise one.
This is one of those moments a screenwriter might drop in for its dramatic effect, because it’s completely different from what the reader would expect.
Jesus is crying.
He’s literally weeping over the city. And his words remain curious to me: “Would that you, even you, had known on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes.”
He then prophesies the destruction of Jerusalem, “you and your children within you.” The city will be utterly obliterated.
But catch the reason: “And they will not leave one stone upon another in you, because you did not know the time of your visitation.”
…You missed it
It’s odd to me, because the people are about to welcome him, at last, with even a fraction of the welcome he deserves. In fact, he’s glad of their praise, and replies to the Pharisees’ commands to rebuke them. “I tell you, if these were silent, the very stones would cry out.”
But he, being God and all, sees the crowd’s reason has very little to do with who he actually is.
The end of the week will betray them as fair-weather friends. They want a king who conquers their current oppressor, their current enemy.
Their current If Only.
What they thought were the “things that make for peace” were not, in fact, what would bring them peace. They didn’t know the Presence that was within their own walls, walking among them, drinking from their wells, waving in the market, listening to them and tearing a crusty loaf with them.
I’ll tell you what I want–what I really, really want
I thought of this there in the rosy Colorado light in 2023, surrounded by my If Only. I knew what I thought were the things that would make for peace. I knew what kind of King, what kind of Conqueror I wanted.
I scrawled a line down the center of a journal page. On one side, Things I think will make for peace.
On the other, What God says will make for peace.
What if I was ignoring the presence–and the peace–in my midst?
What if God wanted more than to answer my prayers? What if, in all this, he wanted to give me more of…him?
Does God care about my If Only?
I still believe my If Only to be legitimate. And legitimate in God’s eyes, too.
Jesus grew up under the boot of the Romans. He’d likely seen the fear in his mother’s eyes, the dread in his father’s of having enough to pay the tax collectors–and perhaps the food staples they went without. Perhaps the Roman soldiers roughed up a local girl. Surely the stories surrounding the genocide of toddler boys was recounted in his hearing.
I don’t think Jesus was saying their longing for a deliverer was a bad thing. God delivered his people with manna, the splitting waves of the Red Sea, a smooth stone to the temple of a behemoth bully.
But so often, we long for deliverance more than Deliverer.
(I know I do.)
I don’t know what you think will make for peaceful parenting. Truly, I hope you find a more peaceful home. Heck, I hope I do.
But long with me, search for me, for the Prince of Peace more than the peace itself.
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.”
I paused on the stairs today, peering at this photo of my sons eating hot dogs in Halloween costumes at a Trunk or Treat.
The one on the left, in the fireman costume, is now a Marine in infantry training, rucking five kilometers this week with about forty pounds on his back.
The tiger on the right turns seventeen in two weeks. He’s a starting lineman for the football team.
It hurt a little to look at that photo. I was so very tired those years, but man, I miss those boys, those cheeks, those curls, those days with them tucked beneath my arms to read picture books.
With four kids under five (you read that right), a good portion of my younger adulthood resembled a baby wipes commercial. Because everything. Needed. Wiping.
It was that season of life where a gal might accidentally offer to cut her husband’s meat, or think of responding “sleep” when someone asks a hobby she’d like to pursue. Where life is punctuated by Goldfish crackers, Cheerios are wedged in baffling places, and one might glare at the dog when the dog wants out, because one carries no further capacity to keep something else alive.
When the SAHP Years = Lonely Years
They can also be very lonely years–because you’re just trying to brush your teeth or shower before someone dumps the Lincoln Logs, which would then skewer the feet of the hot-water heater repairperson (not to be confused with a hot repairperson. Wrong blog).
When someone attempts to hold an adult conversation with you,
your mind might suddenly go blank at how to speak in complete sentences without the intonation of a kindergarten teacher.
you might try to restrain the verbal waterfall from finally talking to someone over the age of six.
you might try to gather conversational topics not pertaining to potty training or car seat installation.
Or maybe you’re a homeschooling parent, like I was for years, where occasionally the four walls start pinching you in.
How can stay at home parents (SAHPs) surmount isolation?
I’ve got a few ideas–but first, keep this in mind.
Keep times with friends real.
Perhaps because I seriously struggle with craving others’ approval–I know being with friends ≠ feeling known and connected.
That is to say, SAHP or not, you can have lots of time with other adults and remain alarmingly alone.
So resist the urge to go into crazy cleaning mode when friends come over, or break into a sweat about the spit-up you discovered on your shirt two minutes before they arrive.
Our relationships tend to need more fingerprints on the wall, less mascara or macho.
Just like judging can beget judging, authenticity begets authenticity. So breathe easy when your child yells for you to wipe them during your attempt at a deep conversation at last.
The more unplugged you keep things, the easier it is to get together spontaneously. Because you don’t need the breakfast table cleaned up, the diaper pail emptied, or to wear something other than yoga pants or a stained T-shirt.
Keep it real, and communicate your friends can, too.
Remember isolation = spiritual dysfunction.
As I’ve previously confessed–at times, friendships for me have seemed a much bigger risk than being alone. But this flies in the face of God’s design for us to live as a Body.
(If your pancreas was just doing its thing outside of connection to the rest of your body, this would be a problem, no?) As 1 Corinthians 12 reminds us,
The eye cannot say to the hand, “I have no need of you,” nor again the head to the feet, “I have no need of you.” (v. 21)
If you struggle to want the risk of friendships, consider reading Who Needs Friendships?
Admit your need for help. Ask for it.
For some of these ideas, you may be like, um, hey. Who’s gonna watch the kids while I’m gallivanting around, finding a hobby (that’s not sleep) or whatnot?
Compared to past cultures, ours profoundly lacks methods of parenting in community. (If you’re a single parent, you may struggle with this more than most. )
We’re not harvesting or grinding grain together with kids playing at our feet. We’re not working in a woodshop while our kids learn a trade, with neighbors stopping in. Many of us aren’t living in the same home with our parents or grandparents or aunts or cousins. We’re not even walking to our next destination, chatting along the road.
Your life largely consists of you and your spouse behind closed doors and rolled-up vehicle windows.
As a young mom who associated her own needs with shame, I struggled to ask my husband for the relief my body pleaded for as a SAHP. I did, however, take my mom up on her offer to watch the kids one day a week. I chose to work outside of my home that day–and it unquestionably made me a better mom.
A few other ideas for SAHP childcare:
Arrange a childcare swap. Do you watch a friend’s kids one day a week while she watches yours?
Ask relatives.
Plan babysitting into your budget not just for date nights, but for your own relief on a regular basis.
Talk gently and openly with your spouse about needs in your workload. Rather than confronting your spouse in anger, calmly ask for what you need when you’re both in a good headspace.
Adjust your kids’ bedtime by half an hour–maybe just letting them calm themselves in bed by reading books, listening to audiobooks, or listening to music like Seeds Family Worship.
Swap a “night off” with your spouse.
That said–
Ideas for Stay at Home Parents (SAHPs) to Stay Connected
Do it: Go pursue that life-giving hobby that reminds you of the way you’re made. This is a great way, too, to meet people in your community who don’t yet follow Jesus.
Join a local MOPS group or Bible study, perhaps one with childcare.
Initiate a regular girls’ or guys’ night out.
Schedule a rotating playdate or homeschool co-op.
Create your own book club.
Capitalize on after-bedtime hours. Have coffee at a friend’s house (perhaps while one of your spouses is home, which mean no childcare is required). Create a game night, DIY spa night, football-watching night, craft night (These don’t have to be same-old. I saw a “DIY terrarium” party night on Pinterest). Establish the understanding that the house may be devolving into squalor, and everyone brings a super-easy snack. No impressing required (or desired).
Invite other parents to your regular or special outings, even last-minute–so other SAHPs feel comfortable with less-planned stuff, too. I’m talking inviting other parents and their kids to the zoo, maybe tacking on lunch at the park after. Maybe someone meets up for library storytime. Perhaps a friend can do a last-minute stroller walk, or come over and toss a football or make cookies or Christmas ornaments with you on the fly.
If you’re an early riser, invite a friend for that early-morning walk or jog, perhaps while your spouse is still home.
What about you? How have you combatted loneliness as a SAHP?
So–a lot of women I know are in that window of life where one’s body starts needing repair from growing, then expelling a human.
If you’re not there? Hey, super-fun stuff.
I’ve been reminded wombs, too, bear both the weight of joy and of the curse on this world. And maybe this carries a big exclamation point as I raise four teenagers.
Sometimes I think, Wow. I love this job. My heart could burst with how much I love these people, and how excited I am with the people they’re becoming.
And sometimes I think, Wow. Parenting really, really hurts.
Well. There went my dignity
I mean, parenthood can kind of sweep you into unspeakable joy in a single moment–and sweep away dignity with it, too, from the point that you start peeing on a stick.
Later you’re wearing a hospital gown that’s never stitched up the back, or kind of resigned to strangers seeing all you have to offer (but in one of the hardest, best moments of your life). Or you’re painfully paperwork-pregnant for an adoption.
Then, your toddler threw blocks at another kid in the nursery, but looks enraptured when they see your face.
Or you get a call (the good kind, then the bad kind) from a teacher.
Or your teen says “You’re the best!” and then decides to wear that to school.
When God says “In pain you shall bring forth children”?
Um. Yes. This, I feel.
(Interestingly, psychiatrist and author Curt Thompson makes a case that when God states the curse on Adam and Eve, he’s simply the only one still telling the true story. Thompson suggests that rather than God’s emphasis resting on punishment, God is telling how things will be, must be, because of sin and its shame. The death he told them would come has already begun.)
This part doesn’t really make the index cards of advice they hand out at all those pastel-colored baby showers: Sleep when he sleeps. It’s easy to make your own baby food!
This is going to gut you like a fish.
Greetings, You Who are Highly Favored/Pierced
I’ve thought about all this, though, as I think on Mary, who I may want to grab a latte with in heaven. Man, does that woman have a story.
Even with her carrying and delivering a perfect child, Simeon addresses her poetically, tragically in the temple: And a sword will pierce your own soul, too (Luke 2:35).
A few pages before, she’s hailed as blessed. Favored. It was exclaimed over Mary, too, “Blessed are you among women!” You are favored by God!
And throughout time, she’ll be remembered that way.
You, an unwed mother, will live in the shame of your community, and a near-divorce (Matthew 1:19).
You will flee the country from your son’s intended infanticide, but your friends won’t make it out (Matthew 2:16-18).
Your son will die of the sickest form of unjust capital punishment. But not before you wonder if He’s gone straight-up crazy (Mark 3:21).
Oh, and You will live in poverty, as will your son (Luke 2:24, Leviticus 5:7, Matthew 8:20). The government will execute your nephew unjustly (Matthew 14:1-12), and another one of your sons will also be (as far as we know) tortured to death.
In parenthood, and like nearly every righteous biblical character, Mary is both blessed and pierced.
Your wish list. Burned
Author Scott Erickson writes of her annunciation in Honest Advent(a book I’m currently loving and reading to my teens), “In any divine annunciation, you receive revelation as a gift, yet at the same time you receive notice that all that you had planned is ending. It’s all over. Everything will change–most of all you.”
Erickson continues,
Revelation is a hard gift to receive. You must give up everything else to receive it–like finding a treasure in a field and selling everything you have so you can get that treasure.
But then again, she who is willing to accept the cost of revelation finds herself in the deepest of stories. Stories that are so mysterious, divine, and human that we still tell them today.
May you receive the light of divine annunciation in the flames of your best-laid plans.
The One who wept first
But also, this: In raising children, perhaps especially in raising teens, I understand what God’s parenthood is like; what it is like for an infinite, perfect God to bear children. We hear both his exclamations of love, singing songs over his people–and his poetry of loss.
(God compares himself to women and mothers many times in Scripture, like in Isaiah 42:14, when he likens himself to a woman in labor.)
For God to create mankind was to invite on himself deep pain and sorrow. The metaphor of Mary’s life, and ours, are shadows of God’s own pain in loving and bringing forth life.
Think of the entire book of Hosea, where God tells Hosea to marry a prostitute. It’s a metaphor for God’s people turning from him.
Remember Jesus weeping over Jerusalem, who he wanted to gather under his wings like a hen, “but you were not willing (Matthew 23:37).
Or consider Jesus’ parable of the Prodigal Son; the waiting father there is an image of God.
God knows what it’s like to have children, to have them rip you apart (or perhaps pierce your hands and feet)–and to reiterate over and over again with your love, You are so worth it.
This Christmas, in those moments you’re elated or disappointed in your kids or even in palpable delight or pain–walk with me into worship.
God’s entrance into the world through a woman’s groaning, straining body reminds us his love goes that far; farther.
Something beautiful happened in my family last weekend.
This is me, in San Diego, with my husband–and my oldest son, who has your back. He is one of the United States’ newest marines.
I expected the weekend to be pure celebration, which it largely was. But my son had just graduated from fourteen weeks of boot camp (the Marines’ boot camp is twice the length of all the other branches).
He learned incredible skills like combat triage and land navigation, but also introduced us to new terms like “skull drags” and “kick tags,” which I will not horrify you with here. You can no doubt Google like the rest of us. My need to trust God with my son has ratcheted up to a whole new level.
The first morning after three months of not seeing him, I silently cried just at seeing him, because I am that kind of sappy right now. He is at least half an inch taller and 15 lbs. heavier. He could not speak to me or look at me; that would be “breaking his bearing.” Our arrival at 6:30 AM had nothing on his 4 AM daily wakeup call.
The 469 members of his battalion jogged in formation before us for three miles, followed by push-ups in sync, led by the drill instructor.
One.
Two!
Three.
Four!
This is what you asked–
For!
My son chose the hard to become part of, I am told, one of the world’s most elite fighting forces.
“Is this where I’m supposed to be?” Darkness, chosen (or not)
He wrote us in snail-mail letters, our only contact, about sensing God’s presence in some of these lowest moments of his life. At least once, he was close to calling it quits.
Any chance you’re in a season of life where you feel yourself growing stronger, but maybe you’ve made the wrong choice?
If you’ve followed this blog for awhile, perhaps it’s a huge secret that when my family decided to come back from Africa, I descended into a tailspin in a handful of (important) ways.
Yes, we’d fervently sought God’s face.
No, we did not have clear answers–other than those gained by trusting God for the wisdom we asked for and eliminating unwise options.
We then hit some seriously hard stuff with our kids. Though I’ve written about some, like our son’s cancer scare, so much of what God has authored for me, I just can’t write about.
But deep within those, part of me has asked some serious questions of God, and spent some serious days in an inky blackness of waiting. Enduring.
It’s hard not to question God when you’ve asked for wisdom…but it leads you directly into pain. Do Not Pass Go, do not collect $200.
And part of me always seems to wonder with the next blow that lays me out.
Did we even do the right thing in moving here, after all that praying and looking for You? Is this some sort of something I deserve?
Is this where I’m supposed to be?
“Do not be afraid to go down to Egypt”
But as I wait here, resilience shredded, God showed me an interesting passage this week.
It takes place in the last chunks of Genesis, when Joseph’s brothers return to their dad, Jacob (aka Israel) and report, Hey, that brother we told you was eaten by wild animals (complete with stage props of blood-soaked fancy jacket)?
He’s alive. Oh, and he’s ruling Egypt. Crazy thing, that.
Jacob decides, at Joseph’s primo invitation, to uproot his whole life and move to Egypt.
And this is the part that fascinates me:
And God spoke to Israel in visions of the night and said, “Jacob, Jacob.” And he said, “Here I am.”
Then he said, “I am God, the God of your father. Do not be afraid to go down to Egypt, for there I will make you into a great nation.
I myself will go down with you to Egypt, and I will also bring you up again, and Joseph’s hand shall close your eyes.”
Genesis 46:2-4
Observations:
Jacob’s family, Israel, would be enslaved in Egypt a total of 400 years. Some of them would not know freedom, even freedom to worship God, in their lifetime (Exodus 3:18-20).
God promises to go with them into trouble.
God has plans to make them a great nation there.
(Does this remind me of boot camp?)
…And God knew
And God continues to see them: “God heard their groaning, and God remembered his covenant with Abraham, with Isaac, and with Jacob. God saw the people of Israel—and God knew” (Exodus 2:24-25).
I assume that if I obey what I think God is clearly placing on my heart, he will “reward” me somehow with happiness and not trouble. My very wise husband points out that this is very bad theology!
Abraham. David. Mary. John the Baptist. Peter. Job. Jeremiah. Isaiah.
Particularly, Jesus.
This is not the end
But for Jesus and for all the others, God had written not just death to themselves, but resurrection. Restoration. A graduation, you might say, of sorts.
Read God’s words through Moses to His people after 400 years of the hard:
And Moses said to the people, “Fear not, stand firm, and see the salvation of the Lord, which he will work for you today. For the Egyptians whom you see today, you shall never see again. The Lord will fight for you, and you have only to be silent.”
Exodus 14:13-14
At a graduation 800 miles from my home last week, I saw a young man poised, disciplined, thoughtful, and impressive. There had been an ordained end to the hard.
Up to that day, I slid a magnet across each day of his weekly schedule posted on our fridge. I wrote two letters a week, reminding him we were cheering him on, that God saw him and held up his arms.
Our family was leaning toward his graduation, praying for each day’s challenge pushing him to and beyond his limits. I couldn’t wait for the day I would hug his stronger, more capable body close to mine and tell him how proud I was.
Is there a picture there of how God–so much more–does this for me?
Dear readers–I’m pulling this one from the archives today for you…mostly because it was what I needed. -J.
Do you remember the first time you wondered if God really was good?
I can’t say I remember the first. But I have to admit to you that it’s a constant decision of mine: to choose truth and trust. It was Eve’s issue too, right? Questioning the purity of God’s motives; her created brain and heart tossing around a new idea about the one who walks with them in the cool of the idea, who spun them from dust for each other.
Like Jacob, it’s left parts of me dislocated now and again.
But there is too much evidence that this God is who he says. And there are too many parts of me starkly false, undeveloped, limited in sight: Let God be true and every man a liar (Romans 3:4).
I don’t know what prayers of yours feel unanswered, or in which you’ve received a flat-out no.
But as I continue to come back to my questions of unanswered prayer–things that I was so certain God would want too–I’m scrawling memos to anchor me.
Especially when I just want to lean on my own three-pound brain understanding of the world.
If your child asks for bread, do you trick him with sawdust?
If he asks for fish, do you scare him with a live snake on his plate?read more
It’s become legend in my family–the night I went to see Hedda Gabler at my university as a freshman.
Somewhere in Act II, I think, my friend Paul came on stage wearing a painted-on black eye. And that’s when I promptly began to feel lightheaded. I was thinking, Janel. It’s makeup.
But try telling my body that. I had to leave the theater, sitting on the steps outside until I didn’t feel like fainting dead away. True story.
(I missed the rest of the play.)
Not enough: When the scrolling marquee of your life is not “Wow!”
Maybe you’d call it a strength, or maybe you’d call it a weakness. I firmly believe it’s both. But the volume of others in my ears, in my internal being, has always felt turned up abnormally high.
That visceral empathy allows me tremendous compassion, part of which propelled my family and me to Africa. The same compassion and the deep feels make me a better writer, a passionate worship leader (even though watching a video of me singing a couple of weeks ago, with all that emotion out in the open, made me want to evaporate into thin air).
But it also means it’s hard for me to turn down the volume of others’ voices in my mind, even when I’m alone. I am people-pleasing at a disgusting level.
I’m the mom of four teenagers and in carrying some other roles. Let’s just say the prevailing message of those voices is currently not Girl, you’re killin’ it!
Last night my overly-feeling self leaked out some more tears.
So often, I just feel not enough.
When your opponent is vastly superior
But this morning, I was revisiting Psalm 18. It’s crazy-saturated with images of strength, protection, battle, and force:
I love you, O Lord, my strength. The Lord is my rock and my fortress and my deliverer, my God, my rock, in whom I take refuge, my shield, and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold. I call upon the Lord, who is worthy to be praised, and I am savedfrom my enemies. (vv. 1-3)
Think of horns on an animal. (The author recommended looking up YouTube vids of “lion vs. buffalo”, even with the buffalo’s two small horns. In light of the Hedda Gabler debacle, I thought not.)
Animals lift up their horns as a show of strength before a battle. Horns are a symbol of strength, weaponry, defense, victory in battle, or as with biblical characters, to “give (God’s) people supernatural powers to prevail against a vastly superior opponent.”
But there’s this, too: that “horn” can be associated with plenty and anointing. And not in a “here’s a dot of olive oil on your forehead” way, but
incredibly obvious, cascading off the king’s head onto his shoulders, staining his clothes, and making his face shine. It would leave no doubt that this person has been smeared, anointed, with the power and abundance of Israel’s God and indeed with his very Spirit. And indeed, such is the picture of David’s anointing: “Then Samuel took the horn of oil and anointed him in the midst of his brothers. And the Spirit of the Lord rushed upon David from that day forward” (1 Sam. 16:13).
That is the image we draw on whenever we refer to Jesus as the Messiah. (The Hebrew word mashach means to “smear” or “anoint.”)
Because of him–you’ve got this
So at the risk of going all Pentecostal on you–I tried to imagine what roles God has anointed me for right now, precisely in this season of feeling not enough.
See, when I was first pregnant with my daughter–our second “surprise!” child, our third child in three years–I was feeling overwhelmed. (Huh. Duh.)
And I remember where I was, going over a speed bump in our neighborhood, when I imagined people standing in line to receive gifts from God.
In my arms, he placed a baby.
As a follower of Jesus, I have God’s Holy Spirit: “You have an anointing from the Holy One, and all of you know the truth … the anointing you received from him remains in you” (1 John 2:20, 27).
I am chosen. And chosen for the purposes He’s handed me. He has made no mistake in making me my kids’ mother, the owner of the projects in my lap.
So whose voice will be loudest?
Will I listen to the One who’s chosen me for the good works he’s prepared in advance for me to do (Ephesians 2:10)?
I don’t know what messages feel the loudest in your head right now.
But this week, may you sense God’s power and chosenness pouring over your shoulders.
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.
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.
Up to that day, I slid a magnet across each day of his weekly schedule posted on our fridge. I wrote two letters a week, reminding him we were cheering him on, that God saw him and held up his arms.
![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")
