We Think We’re Immune, Until We’re Not

If I close my eyes, maybe squint a little, and try real hard, I can think about the thousands of people who told me as I ran after my blond-haired, blue-eyed little son that, “You’re gonna blink, and before you know it, he’ll be in college.” Oh, if I had a dollar for every person who said it, maybe I’d be able to afford that college…

Part of growing up and being young is having a swagger, a little bit of an edge and a chip on your shoulder, inwardly laughing when you hear such promises from people. “Ha! What do they know!” It doesn’t matter that they’ve already been through it. It doesn’t matter that their experience has told them that it was inevitable. It doesn’t matter that they themselves had blinked and found themselves driving down the highway with a packed car, ready to move their firstborn into a dormitory as they embarked on the next chapter of their lives. None of that mattered, because it wouldn’t happen to me.

There’s something about thinking that we will somehow be the generation that gets it right, that doesn’t make the same mistakes as our forebears. If we really knew that we would follow in those same steps, who knows how hard we would try to avoid them.

We try and we promise ourselves that things will be different for us. Some of us don’t just say it, but we actually head down that road, changing a few things along the way. Work might take up some of our time, or even a lot of our time, but it doesn’t consume us the way that it did our parents. We promise we won’t react to things the way our parents reacted, and we do a fair job with that, until our kid finally does the one thing that we categorized the “unpardonable sin” somewhere deep within our psyche, and we lose our ever-loving mind.

Youth is wasted on the young, isn’t that the saying? How novel it would be to start out with the wisdom of the ages instead of having to earn it through the blood, sweat, and tears of life. To plug in the module and download it to our brains without actually having to learn it the hard way, wouldn’t that be nice?

The thing is, we aren’t immune to mistakes. We will most likely make some of the same mistakes our parents made, and if not their mistakes, there will be plenty of mistakes of our own that we will find along the way. We will promise ourselves that, “I will never…” and we’ll fill in the blank with things that will be committed, sometimes as those words are still lingering in the air around us.

Here’s what I’m finding though: it doesn’t really matter. My kids know what my upbringing was like. I’m not too sure that they care much about it, but they’ve heard the stories, gotten the t-shirts, and lived to tell about it, just as I have. What happened to me is not nearly as inconsequential as what happens to them, at least not at this stage in their lives. They may care about it one day, but today isn’t the day, and tomorrow isn’t looking so good either.

At the end of the day, I’ve always told people that there’s a pecking order of people that I don’t want to piss off: God, my wife, my kids, my family, my friends, and then everyone else. By the time I finish the first one, two, or three, I’ll be honest, I really don’t care a whole heck of a lot what happens after that.

in the words of Freddie Mercury, “And bad mistakes, I’ve made a few. I’ve had my share of sand kicked in my face but I’ve come through.” Mistakes happen. Sometimes the harder we try to avoid them, the more inevitable they become. We’re going to make them, accept it, but don’t dwell on them.

We are not immune to the mistakes of the past. We will not be the generation that somehow manages to win the gold medal in Mistake Free Living. After all, what would our kids really say if we were getting it right all the time? Then they wouldn’t have anything to whine and complain about, right?

We make mistakes. We admit it. We learn from them. We’re honest about them. And sometimes…our kids might actually learn something from our mistakes as well. If not, at least they’ll live under the delusion, at least for a while, that they’ll somehow manage to skate through life without making mistakes of their own. All we can hope for is that we live long enough to see those mistakes and then we’ll do our best to hold our tongues, to smile and nod, and show some compassion when they come to us and say, “Wow! This is way harder than I thought!”

Seasons of Sorrow – A Book Review

On November 3, 2020, Nick Challies, eldest child and only son of Tim and Aileen Challies, collapsed while playing games with his fiancee and friends, never to regain consciousness. Tim, a pastor, speaker, author, and blogger, began a written journey at that point to chronicle his year of firsts, candidly sharing some of his most raw feelings along the way.

Someone anonymously sent me this book after the sudden death of a close friend. I was not sure what I was going to think about it. As a pastor myself, I have found myself frustrated with how the Church deals with grief. The Church has excelled in triage but walking with people through their year of firsts has been one of the greatest challenges. Once the funeral service is over and the last casserole is delivered, most people just go on living their lives, at least unless you’re the one who has lost someone.

Tim Challies writes this book as a grieving father. He also shares about his observations of his wife and daughters as they grieve as well. While he has lost a son, so has his wife, and his daughters have lost their big brother. The selfless prayer that he has for them is this, “I pray that they would remember their grief in the sense that it is now a part of their story and a part that has equipped them for more and better service to God.” This is a part of their story, and I completely understand that. My own grief actually set me up to walk with the family of my friend who died.

Challies shares about the visits to his son’s grave. This was a little surprising to me. I have struggled with my own visits to the grave of my parents, wondering if I should even share it with others. Although he knew his son was not there and would not hear him as he spoke, he still came back on significant days. There is comfort there, in a strange sort of way.

Christians, though, should grieve differently because of the hope of Jesus Christ. His resurrection points the way towards our own resurrection one day. It is in that resurrection that we place our hope, and in that resurrection that a grieving father also places his hope. As a sojourner and foreigner in this world, Challies admits in a letter that he writes to his son that, “God has used your death to help pry my finger off this world, to make me long for heaven in a whole new way.”

When we experience loss, whether we like it or not, grief comes as an unwanted and uninvited guest whom we can not remove or ask to leave, a guest who, Challies says, overstays their welcome. We would rather not get too familiar with grief, but we don’t have much of a choice.

I read this book differently than I read most books. I did not rush through it, I read it more like a devotional, reading a chapter or two a day. My heart, honestly, couldn’t have taken more than a few chapters per day. The depth of sharing that Challies does throughout this book is emotionally exhausting. There were countless times when I finished a chapter, closed the book, took a deep sigh, and had to just sit in that grief, both the grief that Challies shared and the grief that I was feeling inside.

I appreciate how Challies shares his ongoing journey in the aftermath of his son’s death. He writes, ““We journey to heaven working and weeping.” Life does not stop so that we can adequately process and overcome our grief. Instead, we press on, although it may seem that we only move mere inches at a time.

One of the greatest accomplishments of this book is Challies telling his story and giving others hope that they too can move through their own journey of grief, season of sorrow. I would not describe this as a good book, to describe it as such would cheapen its intent, I think. But it is a necessary book and a helpful book, if for no other reason than to hear from someone who is walking through their own grief with honesty and hope.

If you are in a season of sorrow, perhaps Tim Challies’ words might bring you comfort, peace, and hope.

Parent to Mentor to Friend

My family and I were hanging out with some friends the other night, friends who feel more like family to us. As we arrived, I quickly exited my car because of some absurdity that had been uttered by one of my kids. I walked towards my friend at the grill as he was preparing food, my eyes rolling and a look of disgust on my face.

His oldest child just went off to college and we talked about that transition. As he described how that was hitting them all as a family, he said something that will stick with me for a long time. He said, “How come when they finally become cool to hang out with, they have to go off and leave?” Enter the dagger right into my heart.

Life is about transitions. It seems we’re always moving to something else. We change schools. We change jobs. We change friends. We change hairstyles. We change roles. We change and we change and then we change some more. There’s no escaping it, although we all try.

My friend’s comment hit me right after I had gone to see a childhood movie favorite with my oldest. For better or worse, I’ve passed on my love of the movies to him. I’ve savored some moments lately where we’ve had the chance to go back and revisit some cinema classics together. Those are moments that I know are fleeting, so I’m doing my best to take advantage of them as they come.

The early years of parenting are hard. We endure little sleep, dirty diapers, temper tantrums, and a whole host of firsts, some that you never dreamed or imagined you would ever experience. From projectile vomiting to kids peeing on the changing table, they’re the moments that annoy you at the time but that grow into stories that evoke laughter in each retelling.

Kids get older and become teenagers. If you’re lucky, they don’t act like you did when you were their age. You do your best to remember those days in your own life, despite how much you and your therapist tried to finally put them to bed. You recall your teenage self and maybe grow a little grace and compassion as you realize you’re reaping what you’ve sown, witnessing a younger version of yourself from a totally different perspective.

Somewhere along the way, as you watch your own children transition in and out of these periods of growth and development, you realize that you haven’t only been a witness to this but you’ve been a part of it yourself. While you were watching and waiting, you were going through some changes of your own, and not just the kind that you notice every time you get a haircut.

My friend’s observation was so spot on to me. We transition from parents to mentors to friends. Sure, we will always be moms and dads, they may still come to us for advice and direction, but our strong influence on them begins to wane as the theoretical umbilical cord is cut. It’s in those moments that you begin to see just how successful you’ve been at this whole parenting thing.

Pop culture is full of references to parentings wins and parenting fails. Who isn’t familiar with Harry Chapin’s “Cat’s in the Cradle,” the story of a father and son as they move through the transitions of life? Cinema is littered with the stories of characters who have their Mommy or Daddy issues. The same can be said of literature. In those moments of transition, we wait to see if, “He’d grown up just like me. My boy was just like me.”

As much as I like to be prepared for every moment in my life, I just don’t know how one prepares for these kinds of moments. We do the best that we can given the gifts that we’ve been given. In looking back over my own upbringing, I’ve constantly had to remember that my own father lost his father’s influence, for good or bad, when he was fourteen years old. My mom’s father had a temper and was prone to outbursts for a good bit of her childhood. They both were imperfectly perfect, and I appreciate them both for how they managed to salvage the pieces of their own childhoods to raise two boys who are still going strong.

As my friend’s wife has said to me before as she wrestled through this transition herself, “This is what’s supposed to happen, right? They’re supposed to grow up and go fly on their own.” It was a statement that we both knew to be true but the truth of it didn’t take away the sting we felt in saying it and hearing it. We raise our kids to release them to the world in hopes that they can make it a better place.

There’s no doubt in my mind that the future will hold some counseling sessions for my kids as they work through all of the things that I didn’t get right. I’m hoping they’ll have some grace on me, realizing that I did the best I could with what I had been given. If I’m fortunate enough, we can laugh, cry, and simply sigh over a beer as we slowly make our way to that transition of becoming friends.

Letting Them Go/Grow

I’ve always wanted my children to have opportunities that were never given to me. Most parents I know have adopted a similar approach, hoping that their children might be given the chance to do things that they were never given or that were never available to them when they were growing up.

Neither of my parents were very athletic and they didn’t really watch sports on television. My dad grew up in the shadow of the Brooklyn Navy Yard and went to Ebbets Field as a boy, but he somehow never caught the baseball bug. Not sure how he couldn’t if he ever caught a glimpse of Jackie Robinson, which I expect he did.

As the son of a pastor, my parents had pretty strict limits on what we could do on Sundays. Their own lack of experience in certain things also helped them to create certain preconceived notions about things that were not necessarily grounded in truth but presumption. Some decisions were made based more on presumption than truth or reality in some cases.

In today’s sports culture, every parent thinks their kid is going to be the kid who gets a full ride athletic scholarship to college, the next kid drafted to a professional sports team, the next American Idol, or whatever specific golden ticket opportunity that exists for each and every talent or gift. As the cost of travel sports has crept quickly towards the sky, I think that the expectation of parents has gotten even more out of control.

My wife and I have always tried to have a realistic perspective to our children’s gifts. Recognize talent. Promote opportunity. Promote hard work. Have fun. See what happens. I’m not saying that I haven’t lost my head a time or two and gotten carried away with the dreams or wishes rather than the realities that stand before me, but we do our best.

My son had shown some talent in a particular sport and we decided to invest in a travel program. The first year was phenomenal. Great coach. Great team. Great families. We felt like connections took place and we settled in. But of course, life has a way of shaking things up.

The first season ended and in a flurry and rush of activity, we were told our coach would not have a team the following year. He graciously helped us find another landing spot which seemed like a good fit, at least at first glance. Like so many things in life, first impressions can be misleading, especially when people put their best foot forward and hold back the worst of who they are.

Sometime in the middle of that year, the cracks began to form. My son is not easy to coach. What can I say, he comes by it honestly because I’m not easy to coach either, especially as an adult. You need to earn my trust, don’t share your resume with me and expect unwavering allegiance, tell me and show me why I should trust you.

We were sputtering to the finish line of that season and I’m pretty sure that it took a toll on all of us, mostly my son. I’ve always said that teachers and coaches can make or break a kid’s love or hate for a particular subject or sport. I will stand by that until my dying day. Some may feel that it’s too much pressure to put on one person, but there is an accountability and an expectation of those who teach and coach. Especially at the level where my son was at, development is far more important than always coming out on top. After all, development usually means that you use the times when you come out in the middle or on the bottom to drive you to improve and eventually end up on top.

Although my son returned to a team with his original coach, I think the damage had already been done. We could see the mental impact of that one year and try as we did, we just couldn’t seem to shake that impact. The love and passion had died.

There may have been many other factors that influenced my son. It’s not fair for me to put everything on his second year coach, but I’m sure that it didn’t hurt. He may have eventually come to the same conclusion regardless of whether or not he had that second year and the sour taste that it left in his mouth, but I can assure you that it made a much greater than impact than that coach would admit.

So we bowed out. I guess it was really just my son who bowed out, we were only along for the ride. I’d prompted his coach months earlier to let him know what was going on in my son’s head and heart. He’s no dummy, he’s coached a ton of kids at various ages and he could tell all was not well.

I’ll be honest, it was among the most difficult things that I’ve done as a parent to sit back and let my son make his own decision. He had earned our trust. He’d given it time, convincing us that it wasn’t an impulsive decision but well thought out, like many of the things that he does. He’s not prone to impulse, surprising for a young teenager.

When the decision was made, I confess, it was hard for me. Pretty sure it was hard for my wife as well. She was actually the one who would make comments as each subsequent tournament would take place, letting me know that we only had a few left before we put this all behind us. Every one of those comments felt like a little dagger in my heart and I know that they felt the same way for her. Both of us were far more invested in this than we probably imagined we would be.

Letting go of it was a loss. There would be a grieving of sorts that would take place as we adjusted to the new normal. Placing that phone call to the coach required some mental preparation for me as well. While I had wanted to have a face to face conversation, life often doesn’t afford us the luxuries we’re looking for. I had to settle for a phone call and although I had wanted my son to be part of that conversation, asking a teenager to make that kind of phone call is asking too much, in my opinion.

The coach was gracious, we’d become friends over the years. Having kids the same age as my two oldest, he understood. For that, I was grateful. As I hung up the phone, the weight of it all lifted a little off my shoulders, but like I had experienced before with weighty things, I wasn’t ready to talk about it, to write about it, to even name it. Naming things and talking about them somehow makes them more real. There’s no more hiding the truth once you’ve actually named it.

So here I am, not even a week since that phone call and I’m still trying to process it. There’s a sadness in me with hope for whatever is next. Through the tumult of the situation, I’ve got a ton of other feelings and emotions. I’m proud of my son for being thoughtful and taking initiative. I’m a little more prepared for the next situation like this that will inevitably come along with any one of the three of my kids.

I’ve heard it said by some who have gone before me that every stage of parenting has its own challenges. Those challenges don’t get easier, they’re just different. It’s hard to pull back and allow your kids to make decisions for themselves, especially when you have the experience to see some of the potential pitfalls that they may face. All you can do is share the insights and hope that they listen.

There are countless times as my children have gotten older that I’ve longed to pick up the phone and have a conversation with my parents. While I wasn’t a horrible teenager, I know that I gave both of them some challenges here and there. To have their insights and wisdom and, more importantly, to have them remind me of some of the bone-headed decisions that I made would be helpful.

As I think about my own children as they grow up and come into their own, I can’t help but think about God watching his children grow and make decisions of their own. He won’t interfere or intervene, which has got to be pretty hard considering how short-sighted so many of us can be.

My hope and prayer is that my wife and I have given our kids the tools to make good decisions. We know that there will inevitably be bad decisions that will be made, we just hope and pray that the end results of those decisions will have a minimal impact.

Grab It and Hold It

My oldest son and I took a trip to the place where he was born. He was the only one of our children born here and since he can sometimes get overshadowed by all the activities of his brother and sister, I try to carve out one on one time with him to make sure that he isn’t feeling completely abandoned.

My wife and I have both found that one on one times in the car with our children are among the sweetest times that we’ve had with them. Some of the awkwardness of conversation is swept away as all eyes face forward and we are focused on what’s ahead. Even after COVID, my wife has enjoyed the times with our boys driving them to school and picking them up. To hear about the upcoming day and what’s in store or to hear about everything that transpired, those moments are fleeting and need to be grasped.

While we were here, we visited a friend of mine who is the dean of spiritual formation at a small Christian college here in the mountains. My wife and I spent some time at the college for events while we lived here and I’ve since attended some meetings there over the years since we’ve been gone. Although my son isn’t quite at the point where he is making college visits, I figured we could chalk it up as one while we were here.

As we drove the six hour drive, we talked some, we listened to music, he slept. As I looked over at my manchild, I realized how fleeting these moments are. Two more years and he will be off to pursue further endeavors. My influence will be one of many, as it has already become.

He isn’t the one who is going to overshare and give us the blow-by-blow of the day, unless something extraordinary happens. But when he has found the thing that he loves, he doesn’t hesitate to vamp on it for a while. That helps my wife and I know just how much of an impact something had on him.

The other day, my son wrote a review for a film that I recently did a podcast for. He had been wanting to watch it but wasn’t around when the rest of us had watched it. I read his review and was so proud of his thoughtfulness.

One of the things he said, which I had thought he had come up with on his own. It was the opening line of his review, “A while back I read somewhere that in order for a film to really be able to bring a viewer to sadness, it first needs to show them the opposite – joy.” The review goes on to give a well thought out perspective of the film.

As parents, all of us have different goals, but many are similar. I would think that most parents want their children to be decent human beings, to add to the well-being and welfare of those around us. For me, as a follower of Jesus Christ, I want my children to see what I see in faith, but I also do my best to not shove it down their throats. I try to let them see my flaws and faults and not hide them. I’ve had to apologize to them on countless occasions and I try my best to be as humble as I can be.

This trip, for me, has felt like a transition, a letting go, a directing. Life feels like a transition, things are constantly changing. Some people try desperately to hold on to what was and even prevent change and transition much to the chagrin of those around them, especially those closest to them. I don’t want to do that. While some changes are not what I want, I think we can all grow through them.

At the end of the review that my son wrote, his words spoke to me in such a profound way. It was one of those moments where I felt proud of my wife for our investment in him. I think his words speak so much louder than my own and to close this, I want to share them for every parent who wonders what their kid is thinking, who wonders whether or not they are getting through, who may feel like a failure and a flawed vessel 99% of the time. I’ve been there before, I’ll be there again, but celebrating the moments when we realize that even in our failures, we’ve taught our children lessons is essential. God uses flawed and broken people to accomplish more than they could accomplish on their own. I’m sure my son’s words will give a hint about the movie he is talking about as well.

“Seizing the day might pay off, but it also might not. It may even result in punishment. But the point of carpe diem isn’t personal success, though that may be a nice bonus. It’s to encourage as many others as you possibly can to seize their own days, be it acting in a play, getting the girl of their dreams, or finding their voice. And just maybe, they’ll be inspired to do the same for others one day. That is success.”

Well said, my son. Well said.

Why Didn’t You Warn Me?

As the father of two teenagers (and one who sometimes acts like a teenager), I find myself reflecting a lot on my own teenage years. There are some years that hold some of my most cherished memories: first kisses, a summer spent at camp, learning who I was and what I could do, and more.

At the same time, there are also plenty of years that I’ve tried to squash down, hide, and erase from my mind. Fights. Heartaches. Emotions. Disappointments. Anxiety. The thing about these last moments is that I’m not sure that I fully understood the gravity of those until now. I think that I shoved them down into a hole deep inside me, hoping they would stay there and never rear their ugly head again.

But they inevitably rear those ugly heads of theirs…

In those moments, I want to reach for my phone and call my parents, but that’s not an option for me. I’d love to have a conversation with them and have them remind me that this has all been done before, that others have endured the same things, and that they’ve successfully arrived on the other side with little more than a few bumps, scrapes, and scars.

When you are a young couple expecting the arrival of a new baby, waiting to become new parents, everybody has advice for you. People come out of the woodwork to tell you how to do things, what you will face, and that everything will be okay. Why doesn’t this happen to parents who are on the brink of having teenagers?

Instead, it feels more like people just look at you with pity and that knowing look that says, “Good luck with this, you’re gonna need it!”

There should really be some kind of support group for people like me who have suppressed those teenage feelings of angst, confusion, and so many other emotions. I can imagine a group of us sitting down confessing to how triggered we’ve been when a day in the life of our kids feels more like a day looking in the mirror and reliving it all over again.

Before I started a brand new church, I sat down with some relatives who had done the same thing a number of times. They had difficulties and challenges along the way that impacted their entire family.

When I met with them, I wanted to hear about those challenges and even mistakes so that I could avoid them. I still remember their haunting words to me when I mentioned that. They said, “You might avoid our mistakes but you’ll have plenty of your own!”

I wish someone had said that to me as I embarked on these teenage years with my kids. I wish that someone had told me that as hard as you try to undo the past, even your own past, and as hard as you try to give your kids the things that you never got from your parents and others during that time, you’re still gonna come up short. You’re still gonna miss the mark. You’ll still have plenty of mistakes and wonder which one of you is the teenager and which one is the parent. Why didn’t anyone ever warn me about those times?

Alas, here I stand, in the currents being tossed by the waves. Crying over what was or what is doesn’t really seem to be the most beneficial use of my time. I can’t go back and change it, all I can do is move on and face these moments as they come. They require love, humility, patience, and so much more. Sometimes you feel like you have those things, other times, you find yourself wanting of them.

On the brink of finishing up the elementary career of my third child, this is our eleventh year in that school. In my third year of having teenagers, I’ve still got another nine years to try to get it right, to learn as much as I can, and to hope for minimal damage (and therapy bills for all involved) along the way.

And when the calendar turns on that last child as they venture out of their teenage years, I’ll be facing a new set of challenges as they enter yet another new world for them and for me. While I didn’t necessarily feel well-prepared for what was to come, that doesn’t mean that I can’t help others who are facing a similar challenge by being open and honest about what I faced, both as a teenager and as the parent of three.

A Decade and a Half

A decade and a half. It sounds a little better than fifteen years, at least to me.

That’s how long ago I became a father.

I remember that Friday all those years ago, a Fall morning in the mountains of North Carolina. I ran to the store to get some things for my wife while she was at the doctor. She returned unable to get into the house. Not the best thing for a woman who had begun the process of labor with her first child.

That day seemed eternal. We had enlisted the help of a close friend and a doula. The doula joined us that afternoon and my wife did her best to labor at home for a good portion of the day. When it seemed like contractions were getting stronger, we headed to the hospital.

But the labor was far from over. We thought our baby would be born on the 13th, Friday the 13th. He was taking his sweet time though, finally making an appearance about 34 minutes past midnight. He’s kind of been like that since, casually strolling through life with no urgency whatsoever.

Of all the hats that I wear in my life, father may be one of the most rewarding and revealing. You celebrate your victories when your kids show signs of growth and maturity. That growth and maturity seems to be a reflection of all your hard work and advice. Of course, when they show signs of being a knucklehead, you kind of feel like that reflects on you as well.

If I had collected all the advice that was given to me prior to becoming a father, I could easily have filled a few notebooks. When all was said and done, I sifted through that advice, taking what I thought was useful and disregarding what I didn’t.

Every season of parenting seems like it may be the hardest. Infants make you wonder just how much sleep you can function on. Toddlers make you wonder just how much patience you have left. Tweens give you a taste of what’s coming when they become teens. Teens make you long for the toddler days again. And before you know it, you’re packing your kids’ stuff and sending them off to college.

Of all the things that I’ve learned in my life, I think a good portion of them have come from being a parent. I’ve had more self-reflective moments, prayed plenty of repentant and pleading prayers, and had to apologize a substantial amount of times as a parent. Parenting isn’t for the faint of heart, the arrogant and pompous, or the heartless and insensitive. Each of my children has sharpened (or sanded) a different part of my personality.

When couples celebrate a decade and a half (or fifteen years) together, the modern gift is a timepiece or watch, representing the hours and minutes they’ve spent together. I’m afraid that if I rewarded myself with a watch or timepiece after fifteen years of parenting, I might break down in tears as I look at this giant standing next to me whom I once held in one arm.

Instead, I’ll just look him in the eyes and appreciate all that he has become and pray that I can continue to help him on his path of becoming all that he can be.

Passing It On

This past weekend, my family celebrated the 90th birthday of my wife’s grandmother.

90 years. That’s a long time and an age that I don’t expect to get to myself. What an accomplishment and achievement. Not just the milestone age, but the things that we celebrate about her.

This matriarch lost her husband almost 20 years ago fairly suddenly. She has persisted, not survived, but thrived. She has been a source of encouragement to those in her family and so far beyond. She handwrites notes to people to let them know they are loved and they are being prayed for. She prays for her children, her children’s children, and her children’s children’s children. She has more than a quarter of her number of years in great-grandchildren. To say that a legacy has been left seems to be an understatement.

As I went for my early morning walk through my neighborhood, I contemplated all that our time with family had meant to me. A few nights before, the emotion of the week had caught up to me. It had been ten years since I had lost my mother. The stress of church planting had once again rendered me tired and worn out. The worries of tomorrow began to cast shadows that made them look far bigger than they are. 

As I sat on the edge of my bed, the tears began to flow and my crying became sobbing. While sadness was a part of it, I think there was joy in there somewhere as well. There was joy at saying that I was part of this family and knowing the legacy we are being handed.

There are certain passages of Scripture that draw me back time and time again. When the day comes and I finally meet Jesus face to face, I will be looking around for King David, having spent so many hours with his writings and reading of his life, I expect I’ll recognize him and may be waiting in line to discover whether or not we are kindred spirits.

David’s story starts in the Book of 1 Samuel. Not only am I reading through it on my own, but I am studying it together with one of my sons.

“Now the sons of Eli were worthless men. They did not know the Lord.” 1 Samuel 2:12 (ESV)

It’s hard for me to walk and read, so as I walked through my neighborhood, those words rang into my ear, through my brain, and into my innermost being. They struck me in a way that they had never struck me before.

Maybe it was having celebrated a life of faith and legacy. Maybe it was the seven hour car ride home, hearing some of the petty arguments behind me between my own children. Maybe it was the emotional avalanche that I had experienced over the past week. Regardless, those words struck me.

To say that someone is worthless is pretty harsh. Of course, if we read on, we discover just how worthless they were. Their behavior was hardly becoming of anyone, let alone the sons of a priest.

It made me think about the legacy that I am passing on. I pray that the day never comes when someone says of my children, “they are worthless.” While I won’t put the pressure solely on myself and my wife, I do believe that there is a responsibility and duty to raise up my children in such a way that they know that this faith to which we adhere to is not something that’s confined to Sunday mornings.

The thing about parenting is that it’s probably more out of our hands than we’d like it to be, yet more up to us than we may be willing to admit. The words of Solomon, “Start children off on the way they should go, and even when they are old they will not turn from it.” Like riding a bike for the first time, we have to guide our children towards this faith, but we’ve eventually got to let go and trust God to do the work that he has been doing all along. It’s not totally dependent on us.

Thank God for that. If it were entirely and totally up to me, we would all be in trouble. I am grateful for God’s grace that more than fills in for my own inadequacies. His mercies are new every morning, and Lord knows that I need them.

I’m trying to leave a legacy. It’s flawed and tainted. It probably looks more like a first grade art project than the masterpiece that I’d like it to look like, but God has a way of making beautiful things out of the dust.

How to Listen So Your Kids Will Talk – A Book Review

We’ve probably all heard the adages about parenting. Parenting isn’t for the faint of heart. Parenting isn’t for sissies. And on and on I could go. But aside from entering into parenthood with our eyes wide open, what are some practical ways that we can not just survive but thrive as parents? How do we successfully help our kids to grow and be a productive part of society? How do we do our best to ensure that they are as loved and well-adjusted as possible, needing as little therapy as possible? How do we listen so that our kids will talk and share with us?

Well, I’m not sure about the therapy part, but Becky Harling has some good tips in helping to accomplish at least part of it in her latest book, “How to Listen So Your Kids Will Talk.”

Harling reminds her readers regularly throughout the book is the need for extending grace to both yourself as well as your children. As she writes, “God was the perfect parent, and His kids sure messed up in the Garden.” It’s a reminder to all of us that kids are human and will make mistakes, we shouldn’t take it as hard as we so often do.

Each chapter ends with a section called Wisdom from God, a section called Wisdom for Self-Care,  and a section called Wisdom for the Ages.

The Wisdom from God section is meant for the reader to dig a little deeper into what the Bible says and how it applies to parenting. It includes Bible passages to look up and study as well as some follow-up questions to help the reader think and process through what they’ve read.

The Wisdom for Self-Care section has some questions for the reader to ask himself/herself. There are also some helpful tips for parents to be mindful of best practices and ask themselves questions to challenge and grow them.

The Wisdom for the Ages section is set up based on what age group children you have: Preschoolers, Grade Schoolers, Tweens, and Teens. The wisdom and advice in this section is specific for each of those age groups to be practically focused.

Harling writes in a very informal style making her readers feel like they’re just sitting down for coffee. I appreciate her sharing the good, the bad, and the ugly of her own parenting experiences. She doesn’t put herself up on a pedestal, sharing only her successes, but also shares willingly and openly of her own struggles and failures in parenting.

One of the things that I’ve often felt as a parent is that I’m the only one who has ever experienced some of the struggles that I’ve had. Reading this book, there are times when I’m comforted in knowing that, at the very least, Becky Harling can appreciate those struggles. She’s been there before and she’s lived to tell about it.

It’s not all sunshine and rainbows, just like parenting. Harling challenges parents to do the things that will best serve their kids, not the things that will make them best friends. Her focus is on growing healthy children, not creating future best friends for yourself. I appreciate her willingness to be a truth-teller throughout the book. She doesn’t pull any punches but her truth is always delivered with grace and love.

“How to Listen So Your Kids Will Talk” is a book for the beginner or seasoned parent and all parents in between. There are so many helpful tips that Harling shares here that can be so helpful for parents longing to make connections with their kids no matter what age. It’s not a long volume but she packs enough in there that any parent should be able to find some nuggets within.

If you’ve beat yourself up for your parenting failures or struggled to make connections, this book may be helpful for you. If you’ve felt like nothing you can do is right or you are just longing for some good practices and suggestions, check out this book. Harling has some words of wisdom to help move you towards a growing and healthy relationship with your kids.

(This review is based upon a copy of this book which was provided free of charge by Bethany House. These opinions are my own; I was not required to write a positive review, nor was I compensated for this review.)

Blink

My family is in the middle of birthday season, at least for 80% of us. I am the only one in my immediate family whose birthday isn’t in the Fall.

I’ve joked before that God knows how much I hate the Fall and that he must have a sense of humor for this to be the case. It’s kind of hard to dislike a season of the year when so many people you love came into being. So, I’ve warmed a little to the Fall, but I’m still not its number one fan.

It’s always a guessing game to figure out just how much to be involved in with your kids as things ramp up in the Fall. Do we sign up for this or do we sign up for that? Will this put us over the edge? What will be the thing that will exasperate us?

If those questions seem difficult during normal times, they become increasingly harder during a global pandemic. How do you keep moving forward with a healthy dose of activity and rest?

I’ve never been one who was good with time management. I’ve tried various efforts over the years to wrangle my time and be more productive. I had actually come to a pretty good place with it all before the Fall hit this year. As much as I come across as a change junkie, I can easily fall into routine and schedule. In fact, I think I’ve begun to appreciate just how helpful routine and schedule are for someone like me who hasn’t been gifted with focus the way others have.

Standing at my daughter’s softball game the other night, I looked out at the field to see my sweet little girl and had some sudden realizations. A week ago, we celebrated her birthday. Nine years. She hits double digits next year and I can honestly say that those ten years have flown faster with her than either of her older brothers.

Next year, I will have a kid in high school, a kid in middle school, and a kid in elementary school. And we thought life was busy now.

I always wonder how to savor every moment. When things are swirling, I need that reminder. I appreciate God’s order of the week with Sabbath coming every seventh day, although I am not always as good as I wish I was at practicing it. I’ve gotten so much better and have grown into the place where I currently find myself, being willing to just take a step back.

Just like Ferris Bueller said, “Life moves pretty fast, if you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” That quote becomes more poignant the longer I live. Blink. It’s gone. Blink. It’s gone. Stop and breathe it in.

I spent two days last week in a church planting cohort intensive. As I gathered with my cohort at the end of the two days to share what we felt was most impactful, I shared that the words that I had to keep reminding myself of were “slow” and “deliberate.”

Starting a new church and having that disrupted by a pandemic isn’t the easiest thing I’ve done in my life. Might not be the hardest, but it certainly ranks up there. It’s slow and deliberate work. I’ve had to ask myself, “What am I building?” over and over again to get myself back on track.

I’ve asked myself the same question when I’ve looked at my kids. There have been numerous times when I’ve looked at them and realized that I’ve probably dropped the ball, but just as church planting has been a slow and deliberate process, so is parenting. I’m not sprinting here, and if I try to run this like a sprint, I’ll be out of breath with no energy pretty fast.

So, I’ll just keep pressing on, moving forward, doing the best I can. God fills the gaps with his grace. It’s those gaps that keep me humble, reminding me of my dependence on him. When all is said and done, I pray that my focus on my kids and what’s most important will result in them growing up to be adults with character, faith, determination, and hope.

That moment will be here in the blink of an eye.