The faith of our youth…
When my kids were little, I had visions of our shared future. I imagined myself surrounded each Sunday morning with a throng of kids and grandkids filling a couple of pews in my local church. My hope was not without precedent. I had seen extended families gathered, maybe not every week, but often for holidays like Easter and Christmas. I looked longingly when I saw families of multiple generations gathering to worship together in the pews of our little church, and hoped someday we might fill our pew with a gang of worshippers in their Sunday best.
The reality for my family, and many of the families who grew up between the pews in our little
Our kids grew up to be good humans. This is in no small part because of the formative years they spend under the little white steeple. They cut their teeth in the arms of volunteer nursery workers who rocked them, hushed them and taught them Bible stories.
They spent each Sunday morning of their childhood in Sunday school and children’s church. They fought for the center cup in the communion tray, held their cut-up pita bread carefully, and sang along to all the songs. They participated in Easter Cantatas, Christmas pageants, and Vacation Bible School every year of their young lives.
When they became teens, they gathered weekly with friends and trusted leaders for Youth Group, Young Life, and all the activities church kids are known for. They went to Battle Cry, Acquire the Fire, retreats, and trips. They didn’t go grudgingly, these were their friends, their people. This was their life.
Ten years later, I can see the fruit of all that love in their lives. Each of them is grounded and secure in their own life. They value kindness, generosity, hospitality, and good relationships. They have each grown strong and true in the things that matter, they have good character and live with integrity. And yet, none of these church kids have prioritized faith and community in any of the ways I envisioned. They, each in their own way, stumbled over the faith we handed them.
It was my hope that my faith would protect them from making decisions that would lead to pain and loss. They headed out in to the world with all we gave them, and they did their best. They stumbled and fell. They got up. Their lives got bumped and bruised. They healed. They made mistakes. They recovered. They made decisions I wish they hadn’t. They didn’t care. They grew up. I did too.
I’ve spent a lot of the past decade wringing my hands over their struggle. There have been sleepless nights, devastating losses, and pain that I never imagined. We have wrung each other out. I spent too much energy trying to fit them into boxes. They spent their energy kicking through the boundaries I so carefully set. Their struggles are not my story, but I can tell you that their struggles became my own in very real ways.
I blamed myself for much of their pain. I’ve cried tears they did not see, and plenty that they did. Somewhere along the way, I learned that my advice was neither welcomed or helpful. I learned to trust them to their own path, their own lives, and to see the beauty in that journey. As they have followed their unique paths forward, I have leaned into the One who holds my heart. I learned to let Him be Lord of both them and me.
At this point in our life together, I wouldn’t trade my feisty gang for the “church” family I longed for. I don’t know what my children will do with the faith of their youth as they negotiate the twists and turns of life. I will trust the One who holds my heart. I am confident that He loves them, just as they
