People ask what it’s like to have kids in their twenties and twos, what it looks like to have college kids sharing space with toddlers, how it feels to talk about planning for the future just around the corner while setting up a wooden train track.
We talk a lot about legacy at my house. Not so much the financial concept of legacy, but the handing down of a strong Christian belief to the next generation.
I know that as parents we’re not ultimately responsible for whether our children choose to follow Christ. I know that as they grow up, their relationship with God is just that—it’s theirs.
But I do believe that as parents, we are called to create an environment that makes the choice of following the Lord so much easier.
Just this past weekend, my 15-year-old son and I spent a night and day searching for a little white box in the woods during an ongoing downpour.
I can think of about a million more things that might have been more comfortable — even at moments more enjoyable — than getting soaking wet, but, as members of the Civil Air Patrol, we were training for search-and-rescue missions in the wild woods of Tennessee.
Recently, I shared a blog piece to Facebook. It wasn’t anything I had written, and honestly, the topic doesn’t matter. In the course of the ensuing discussion, however, an interesting (to me) theme developed that was finally succinctly summed up in a single phrase by a friend— the cult of family.
The idea, as I began to understand it, is that it’s a bad thing to be too family centered. (I’m not entirely sure who gets to define “too family centered.”) Apparently, large families are among the worst offenders. I’m guessing that the whole idea springs from the abuses of the Quiverfull movement, which are many, but I truly can’t be sure.
Ah, summer. The season for gatherings of kin and kindred from far and wide. The time of year when politics and beer mingle amongst the loosely related, and all sorts of fabulous crazy comes bubbling to the surface:
Like your Great Aunt Mildred taking a really keen interest in the fact that you homeschool. Good times.
I recently stopped to watch my 17-year-old and 15-year-old sons strip apart some bikes to fix brake and sprocket issues.
Ball bearings were rolling across the floor as one leaned down to grab them. And later, inside, the other told me how some of the work had to be redone because, well, when they had finished, there were a few extra parts that shouldn’t have been extra. Continue reading