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The book Do Hard Things is required reading in our house. While I don’t hold to every view expressed in its pages, the main message is one that our family embraces: forget easy, focus on right.
I remember when right was a much simpler call with my children, when the thrust of my days was spent guiding them to gather their share of the toys without complaint, or to obey even when the siren song of their free will was so, so loud. I remember steering them towards true repentance, punishing lie after lie, and explaining why, exactly, we treat others with respect even when what we really want to do is punch them in the throat. It was hard. There’s no doubt that there’s a toll taken in the ongoing vigilance of training a child’s character. (Trust me, I get this… because I am still parenting this stage, too!) But it was a different hard— a physical hard of the sort that left me exhausted most nights, crying out to the Lord multiple times a day, and sobbing to my husband or best friend on countless occasions wondering how in the world I’d get through it all.
With older kids, hard is different. Right is different. It’s no longer just my hard, or my right. It’s theirs. That means my hard is praying that God’s voice is the loudest my children hear, that He makes clear their path, and that He gives me the strength to release them into His hands over and over, every day.
Two weeks ago, Jack went off for his first, week-long Civil Air Patrol Encampment. I’ve been very transparent about my wrestling with the introduction of CAP to my family, but at the same time, I know this: Jack has benefited spiritually, emotionally, and physically from his involvement in this organization. He has grown, he has matured, and he has discovered self-discipline. He has thrived, advancing rapidly and gaining skills. And yet…
And yet, Encampment scared me. It scared me for him. For weeks, I watched him gather the items for his packing list, and listened as he explained bits of what the experience would include. I fought back a rising panic that the hours of Physical Training would be too much, that the rigid enforcement of regulations would be too much, that he would break under the strain of the expectations.
It’s too hard, my gut said. What’s the purpose of this?
Let him do hard things, my heart answered back.
And he did.
He pushed himself farther, higher, and beyond anything even he thought he could do. He stumbled, he fell, and he agonized. He got tired. He got his feelings hurt. He exhausted his pride and his confidence. He set—and met— personal goals. He led his flight. He helped others. He accepted his shortcomings. He reached past the edge of himself and found something he never knew he had inside:
The strength God had waiting there all along.
Jack returned not just interested or intrigued by military life, but on fire for it. His hard, I’m pretty sure, is just beginning; he’s decided to pursue an elusive appointment to one of the service academies, or to enroll in an Air Force ROTC program as he works towards a degree. There’s nothing easy about either choice, but for Jack, it’s right. He’s ready to do his hard things.
As his mother, that means I get to do hard things, too.