Eleven years ago I knew exactly what kind of parent I was going to be. I had decided what books my daughters would read, what songs they would love to sing and how I would handle difficult situations.
It turns out that life cares little for my theories.
The challenges facing our children seem to grow on a daily basis and the truth is that some days I go to bed feeling like every choice I made turned out to be the wrong one. It feels like the future is approaching at an ever-increasing pace, relentlessly mocking my naïve arrogance and tempting me to give in to the fear that I have not adequately prepared my daughters for what lies ahead.
For me, one of the most sobering moments in the entire Old Testament narrative is when the children of Israel discover that the land they are ready to conquer is inhabited by giants. Crippled by fear for the future of their children, the Israelites turn back and head for the wilderness. Every time I read it I wonder whether I would have acted any differently in their shoes. Honestly, I doubt it. Sometimes, when I look at the world around me, the temptation to retreat can be almost overwhelming.
It strikes me that the thing which swayed the Israelites more than any other was the voice they chose to listen to. All twelve of the spies saw the same thing when they looked at Canaan. Giants. Strongholds. Danger. The facts were inescapable.
Despite this, two very different stories were told that day. Two of the men painted a picture of a land that was fertile and ripe for harvest. So rich was the soil that it took two men to carry a single cluster of grapes. Yes, the men who lived there were big and yes, the battle would require courage, but the God of Israel was bigger and he had promised to fight for them.
The problem was that the voices telling the second story were louder. They told a tale of fortified cities and soldiers so big they made the Israelite army look like grasshoppers. As the story spread and their words took root, the images conjured in their minds struck fear into their hearts and turned their legs to jelly.
I don’t know what the future holds but I know there will be days when my children will stand in the long shadows of unwelcome giants. On those days, the story they listen to will make all the difference. I have a God-given responsibility to guide and nurture them and to lead them constantly to Him, however, I am beginning to realize that when I try to do it in isolation—determined to provide everything they need—I elevate myself beyond the truth of what I am. For a long time I have been utterly convinced by the importance of community. I know that we were not designed to make this journey on our own. When it comes to parenting, to my shame, I often forget this. I am so thankful for the people in our lives who are prepared to stand with my husband and I and add their voices to the story we are trying to tell—friends who, over the course of years, have taken the time to intentionally know and love our girls, enriching their lives in ways we never imagined and filling in the gaps when we fall short; grandparents who are faithful in prayer, surrounding them, protecting them and providing examples of faith that has endured through difficulty, struggle and the passage of time; teachers who give them good books to read, quietly stretching their minds and fanning their imaginations in the best ways; writers who write great stories which inspire courage and songs that stir up faith.
The truth is that my husband and I can never fully equip our daughters for the battles they will face; only God can do that. Our job is to keep telling the story. Over the past few weeks, this truth has been gaining momentum in my heart, bringing in its wake a welcome freedom. With the freedom comes a fresh determination not only to fill the lives of my children with voices that are telling the true story and telling it well, but to intentionally stand with my friends as they fight to raise their families in an increasingly hostile world.