To be a parent is to write a story without any control over the ending.
You can control things up to a point. You can (to one degree or another) create the scene of your home life. You can develop habits of dialogue: how you will talk to your child about certain things, how you will handle discipline and responsibility and cultural forces that are always at your doorstep. You can follow a certain plot line: all the milestones and necessary developments along the trajectory from newborn, to toddler, to quirky six year old, to sweet eleven year old, to puberty, to teenager— and then suddenly they are moving out and moving on and there you are with the wonderful reality of a child who is now an adult.
While you can lose the plot and the script and go insanely off course at any point during those younger years, in general it feels like a story you have a considerable amount of sway over. Until you don’t.
To be a parent is for many years to be a fervent advocate, an avid gardener, the most hopeful of entrepreneurs. And then to stand aside and with your arms remaining as wide open and your fingers as loose and unclenched as possible, let this treasured being on which you have spent so much of your physical, emotional, and spiritual capital, walk away.
I probably sound as though I am having a hard time letting my children go. The truth is, I let them go gladly. As much as I miss our oldest, I haven’t found myself dissolving into a puddled mess on the floor literally or figuratively. But I do find myself thinking a lot about letting go on a different level— especially as it relates to who and what they are becoming. Because as humans do, these children of mine continue to become the people they are becoming. And I don’t have as much (perceived) control over that as I used to.
In these murky waters of boys who are becoming men, and a daughter slowly (or perhaps too quickly) maturing towards womanhood, the lines of control become more blurry. Wisdom seems in greater need of supply. Assessing my own inner need for affirmation or desire for certain outcomes, or all manner of motivations becomes more acute than it did when they were younger.
I’m grateful for places to run to when these tendencies come on too strong. I think of other parents who are years ahead of us, and their example of how to lead and guide with love and conviction, while letting go of the need to control. I can hear the prayers they have said over their adult children while we sat in living rooms late into the night, and it guides my own prayers.
I’m grateful for the worn out copy of Paul Tripp’s book on parenting teens that I found a few years ago. Full disclaimer: I eventually had to put it down because it started to make me feel bad. That wasn’t his fault. Sometimes there is only so much advice you can take. He has a lot of it, and I am grateful for any amount I can handle.
I’m grateful for our own stories, to be honest. This is something Josh reminds me of often— to look back and remember the paths we walked and the ways God was so faithful to us through many a wrong turn. It is really just the practice of testimony over formulas or how-to’s. One of the reasons I love biographies and history in general— not to mention the stories throughout the Biblical narrative— is the varied ways that all of our lives play out, filled with mistakes and blindspots and failures. And all the ways we see God at work in them.
At one point during a particular parenting discussion, Josh told me to imagine the worst possible outcome, and to start from there. Even if that *worst possible thing* happened, what would it mean? How would we respond, and what would God possibly be doing or be able to do? The answer is manifold. Of course we would grieve, but we could also continue to love and to hope and to believe.
When novelists talk about writing a good story, they often speak of losing control at some point, over a particular turn in the plot, or the choice a certain character makes, or the inevitable ending that they did not see coming. It’s a strange interplay between artistic voice and agency with an innate sense of something else being in charge. A good story is developed by both.
What is being a parent if it is not learning to let go, from the first day to the last? It is a beautiful privilege: to be given something and to care for it like it is your very life, and then to give it back. As a Christian, it is even more specific. I receive this gift from God, and I give it back to him. As scary as that could appear—like Abraham’s awful moment of surrender with Isaac—it is the goodness of God that makes that impossible moment possible.
I have said many times that having teenagers is one of my favorite things. I know that’s not true for everyone, but it has been true for me. It’s also fast becoming the age that most reveals my own heart. And gives plenty of room for letting go.
Thank you so much for this. With two kids out, one graduating this year and three or far behind…. This voices the cries of my soul. Grateful for your words!