Sometimes the fear and sheer panic causes me to seriously consider gathering my little ones, locking the doors tight, and refusing to ever emerge from these walls again.

I tell him this after we drop them off at Awana and head out to do some errands. Raising kids is in this world is a downright scary endeavour, I say.

Our Tuesday morning Bible Study class had been talking about parenting just that week. One mother commented she feels as if she’s raising kids in Sodom and Gomorrah.

I couldn’t agree more.

A dear godly man – more than twice my age –  leaned over then and stated the greatest influence on our children is us as parents. If they see us walking closely with Christ, why wouldn’t they want what we have? All of his children are grown and gone and serving the Lord.

He meant it as encouragement, but all I could think about was the spilled orange juice that morning and the soggy Awana books and how I almost – almost – held it together. Why would they want that?

Another woman mentioned a dear grandfather who she remembers on his knees in the barn time after time, and how many times to they catch me on my knees?

There is a young woman, not yet twenty, lying in a hospital bed after an unsuccessful attempt at taking her life. Her 7 week old baby is in the care of another mother, the father left a week ago, and I wonder how it could get to that point? What lies does the enemy have to whisper over and over to make that the only option?

This world is broken.

A friend shared with me about some ungodly, unwise, unethical advice given to a high school student by a teacher, and I shudder to think this is the world my children have to grow up in.

Makes me want to educate them myself.

My husband parks the van and I tell him I’m afraid. It’s as simple as that. The task of raising kids into young men and women that are in love with Jesus and have determined to lay their lives down for the Kingdom seems almost impossible.

I had used that word – impossible – after the Bible study had ended that Tuesday morning when talking to the other mother. And yet, I had said, it will only be by God’s grace that our children serve Him their whole lives. Yes, so much is up to us as parents, but even more is the Lord’s work in their hearts.

“We are good parents,” my husband tell me.

I nod. Not perfect, but trying.

And this world? It will make us want to batten down the hatches and hide many times, but if we did, we wouldn’t exactly be the light God has called us to be, would we?

I tell him we need to pray like crazy. Because that’s the only thing that’s going to get us through this parenting journey.

And God’s grace.

 

Seven years ago today (at precisely 6:54 a.m.) we heard the joyous words, “It’s a boy!”

Then I blinked and here we are.

He’s been counting down the days to seven. Seven seems so big – so grown up.

After we’ve said goodbye to the last of the guests, swept all the cake crumbs from the floor, and tucked a tired, but deliriously happy boy into bed, I grab my iPod and my running shoes and head out.

I choose a podcast by a teacher I’d never listened to before and pressed play as I ran towards the setting sun. She was talking about numbers in Scripture, and particularly the number seven.

At the end of a day of celebrating seven – him celebrating seven years of life and me celebrating seven years of motherhood – how could this teaching about sevens in Scripture be a coincidence?

The seventh day was a day of completion in creation – a day God set apart and blessed.

God told Noah to take seven of every clean animal onto the ar – a sufficient amount to repopulate the earth.

The Israelites were told there would be no manna sent n the seventh day, but to gather a double portion on the sixth day and rest on the seventh.

It took seven days to make the altar holy.

Silver is refined seven times to become pure.

Seven thousand men – the remnant who remained true to God.

As my feet rounded the last corner and turned toward home, she explained that the number seven in Scripture has a connotation of perfection and completeness. Groups of seven are often associated with the completion of a work of God or a quantity of seven represents the amount of time it takes for God’s people to complete some holy purpose.

I think back over the last seven years of the holy purpose of mothering. Completion? Perfection?

They certainly can’t be described as complete. There is much work left in mothering. Much work to train him up in the discipline and instruction of the Lord. And there is much, much work left in me, as this journey of parenting endeavors to make me more and more like Christ.

And perfect? The memories of words flashing in anger and guilt that often floods mercilessly as watch his chest rise and fall in the dark. No – certainly not perfect.

I remember what one wise lady said several Sundays ago in our class, her own children grown and gone – her own work perfect and complete. She had said parents lay a foundation during the first eight years of a child’s life. And that by eight – you had better have completed your best parenting work, because the rest of the years would be built on the solid groundwork established in those first formative years.

I have one year left.

One year to lay a solid foundation in his life. 365 days to teach him so much. How will I ever fit it in?

I remember feeling so overwhelmed at her words, wishing I could turn back the hands of time and start over. If I had a second chance, I would be much more intentional, making the most of the minutes.

But the hands don’t turn backward, they only march relentlessly forward.

And here we are at seven. A number filled with meaning. Perfect and complete. But maybe – just maybe - we are right where God has purposed us to be. Perhaps His perfect and complete work has been done in both my son and I over the last seven years.

Are we complete. No. Are we perfect? Not even close.

But perhaps we are at the exact point in our journey that God has planned for us as we celebrate seven.

May God continue His perfect work in us.  

Mothers gathered at a bus stop or in a school yard or around a table naturally share struggles and concerns about this ministry of motherhood.

It was after dinner when I announced it was time to cut his hair.

Every four weeks or so, I get out the razor and trim back the hair grown over his ears. It’s the same style always - a quarter inch off the back and sides and a half inch off the top.

This time he asks, “Mommy, can you cut me a mohawk?”

I look at him, surprised.

He goes on. “Two boys at school have mohawks and I really like them. You just cut the sides short and leave a long strip down the middle.”

“I don’t know, son …” Then I say what all good mothers say, “Ask your father.”

He turns to his dad and our eyes meet across the kitchen. I shrug and he says, “It’s o.k. with me as long as Mommy is o.k. with it.”

The boy turns back to me with his puppy dog eyes and begs, “Please, Mom?”

All manner of things are flying through my mind. What will people think … especially the people at the church I am scheduled to speak at in two days? If we say yes to this, what will he ask next?

But it’s only hair … it will grow in by the next turn of the calendar page. I don’t want to be legalistic. I remember well …

“O.k.”

He cheers and hops up on the stool in the middle of the kitchen, all the while instructing me on how exactly it’s to be cut. I run the razor down both sides of his head and a few short minutes later, we have this:

 

He runs to the mirror and laughs happy. “You did it, Mom! That’s exactly how  you do it!”

Yes – I can’t believe I did it. I text my friend and tell her the same. She can’t believe it either.

I think I know why.

I grew up in a family which intentionally broke away from it’s more traditional roots. When I was in Grade 4, my parents left the Mennonite church, and in doing so, made a clear distinction between the way their parents raised them, and the way they planned to raises us three girls. 

However, my Dad insisted we continue to do things out of respect for my grandparents – I know that’s what it is now, but at the time I felt we were pretending. For example, we were always expected to wear dresses at larger family gatherings. As a teen, my spirit rebelled against this, and there were times I refused. 

I still remember my little cousin telling me I didn’t love Jesus because I wore pants.

I vowed then to be a parent who was more concerned with the heart of my children, than outward appearances.

And so the mohawk? It’s a testament to my determination to care more about my son’s heart before God and his character, than his hairstyle.

I choose to fight hard over issues of character, not issues of appearance.

Do I struggle when I see that longer strip of hair down the middle of his head? Yes. Do I wonder what people will think? Yes.

But if they ask, I will tell them about the boy who’s heart is kind towards his little sister, who announces repeatedly he loves God, and who prays simple, faith-filled prayers at bedtime.

(And yes – I’m trying to be a cool mom!)

… for God sees not as man sees, for man looks at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart.   ~ 1 Samuel 16:7 (NASB)

 

It’s the third lesson and the Mamas with little ones find chairs at the end of the pool deck and wait for the clock to strike ten. She sits quietly in the chair beside me.

There is a little boy behind us in tears. Softly at first, then his sobs grow louder as he realizes he will need to get into the water soon. It’s a repeat twice over of the weeks prior. Last week his teacher lifted him into the pool against his will and his wails were heard from all corners of the pool.

I’ve been watching her – his Mama. Blonde and pretty, gentle and sweet, she leads three equally blonde boys onto the pool deck. The youngest one she swings easily on her hip, the oldest one follows without a word, and the middle one – the one in the bathing suit – cries louder now.

Then I hear different sobs and I turn to my own and she’s crying softly. “I don’t want to swim today,” she says with teary eyes.

This is new. She loves swimming. Looks forward to Mondays. But she’s been watching the little boy and perhaps his fear combined with her short night is causing these tears.

“You have to go in the pool,” I say firmly.

She shakes her head and cries louder, her toes digging firmly into one spot on the deck.

“It’s time for swimming lessons,” I say unwaveringly. I take her by the hand and lead her to her group. I nod and her swim instructor reaches for her hand and leads her to the water’s edge. She’s still crying, but in she goes.

I find my seat again and my attention goes back to the pretty, blonde mother. She’s sitting now in the circle with her child’s class, her little boy desperately clutching on to her arm. She’s bouncing the baby on her knee and her eldest is stilling quietly on her other side. Soon the other little kids follow their teacher into the pool, but he stays stubbornly by his mother’s side.

But instead of forcing him to follow them, she whispers quietly in his ear. Reassuring him. Coaxing him. Easing his fears.

And this continues for the next half an hour. All the while she stays calm, encouraging him to watch the others splashing in the water, doing her best to convince him the pool is great fun.

He never does go in the water.

I’m amazed at her patience and her state of calm, but mostly intrigued by her mothering strategy which is obviously very different than my own. 

I’m a push-them-through-their-fears Mama.

She’s a wait-until-they-are-ready Mama.

I wonder which strategy is more effective? There’s the obvious fact – mine is in the water, hers is not (I won’t mention that mine came out of the water twice during the lesson in tears insisting she wanted to go home). However, her child went home happy, whereas mine was still upset as I got her dressed.

I’m not doubting my strategy at the pool. In my daughters case, I know it was the right thing to do. But I wonder which strategy is more effective for the overall duration of raising children?

I’m sure her gentle and patient spirit is not only reserved for the pool, just as my firmer, more determined approach extends to most areas of my mothering.

Which strategy yields a confident, secure, whole child? Which strategy enables a child to reach their full potential in the kingdom of God?

We left the pool with these questions swimming around in my mind.

Later that evening as I thought about it some more, I wondered if maybe there is no cookie-cutter answer – no one way of parenting. Perhaps mothering needs to be done in the unique way God made each mother. And perhaps God has given children who need more of a gentle encouragement to mothers whose natural spirit is one of gentle encouragement. And maybe God has given children who need a firm nudge towards taking risks to mothers who firmly encourage their children to try. 

Perhaps He really does know our children best. 

Leaning heavily on Him in each and every situation is the answer. And as we listen to the Spirit guide and direct our interactions with our children, He parents them through us by giving them what they need to grow in character, faith, and maturity.