I am a beginning for my kids, but I was never meant to be the end. I am a jumping off point, a place to come back to, and an observer of all within my view.
Our kids ought to know that they fill us with wonder and awe. They ought to know that they truly are God’s gift—not to the world, but to us, their parents.
To put it simply, it is my privilege to parent her well even when, even though, it may not come easily to me.
I felt the realness of my connection with my girl when I sat down to read to my kids that night before bed. Intimacy begets intimacy—what a profound principle to remember.
There is no pain so deep as pain endured alone.
Isn’t that, after all, what childhood really is? A marathon string of firsts tied together over years and years as our kids grow and encounter an ever more adult world?
To respect our boys—to admire them, be proud of them, esteem them for who they are and how they think and what makes them unique and stunning and brave and wise—this is a need stemming from the deepest parts of their souls.
Daring to be vulnerable, daring to love and ask others to love us, these are not undertakings for the faint of heart. Do them anyway.
Dispensing lessons to our kids about adult issues before they are mature enough to absorb them does not help them, it confuses them. It scares them.
Right now my kids are still so connected to me, so pliable, so gut wrenchingly transparent and forthright. What happens when someday they meet a friend who suggests to them that what they have with me can be found somewhere else?