After almost fifty years, God’s plan for my life is becoming clear. It’s not about me doing the right thing in the right place at the right time. He wants me to grow into my full potential.
At the dawn of time, while the echo of the creator’s voice could still be heard, and his warm breath hung heavy in the air, the beauty of this world was unrivaled. Pristine gardens, beaches that perfectly joined forests with oceans, and mountaintop views that extended forever – all exactly as he envisioned them. It is still magnificent. His handiwork is undeniable and gives every creature insight into his nature. But evil crept into paradise. It feeds on our strength to spread its infection. I walk through a world that is broken, and neighbors in need surround me. They are hungry, sick, and alone. Their eyes are an open window that draws me into their pain and their longing for hope. Their individual needs are large, and the devastation is widespread. I am compelled to help, but I am only one. I feel small and powerless. In despair, I cry out. “Who am I?” God calls me his beloved son. He proclaims that I am heir to his kingdom, that everything he has is mine, and that his spirit and power live in me. Through him, I can move the mountains his hands carved, heal sickness where he breathed life, and restore hope to a world he spoke into existence. He offers me his full authority. Yet I hesitate and await his specific instruction at every step. I kneel and ask when it is time to stand and act.
I am not able to wield his full power, but neither am I a child with a wooden sword. The armor of God lies before me. I lift each of the pieces and put them on. Helmet of salvation, breastplate of righteousness, belt of truth, sword of Spirit, shield of faith, and feet ready to carry peace – together they form the full armor. They fit like a second skin and respond as an extension of my body. Not only are they weightless, but wrapped in them I feel complete. Fear melts away, and I am drawn to the fight. My neighbors will not suffer alone and without hope. I will not stand by and wait for someone else. The evil must be defeated and its curse lifted. I am a warrior. It is time to rise up and embrace my destiny. Hear my prayer, Lord!
The Knight’s Prayer
Father –
Anoint me as protector of your beloved children, who are my brothers and sisters and the territory of your eternal kingdom. Help me to love them as you do.
Keep me vigilant when demons descend, spreading sickness, pain, addiction, and destruction. Though the clash comes quickly, remove my doubts and hesitation. Give me strength and make my hand swift and sure. Allow peace to mark my footprints.
Shield my heart from the deceiver, who fills my path with temptation.
Forgive my failures, and encourage me when I pray for answers that do not come. Your grace is sufficient. May I hunger to do good, seek you in uncertainty, and love fearlessly at all times. My life is yours.
Why are kids hyper-critical of their parents when they will most likely spend the next twenty years becoming just like them?
Back in college, my brother and I would get together with our fiancés and spend the weekend at my parent’s home in Chattanooga. Part of our ritual would be a contest to determine whose parents did the weirdest things in our younger days. There were my mom’s mental health moments during our summer vacations. She would send all of us outside and then lock all the doors. Any ringing doorbells or door knocks were met with harsh response. We would find ways to amuse ourselves for a couple hours then discover doors that opened again. We never wondered what she did in there. My dad told terrible jokes and retold them endlessly. There is a particular one about nacho cheese that was his personal favorite. I cringed when he told it. It’s not funny. It never was. Of course, I’ve told the same joke to my kids dozens of times. Occasionally Kim and I sit around at night and try to predict which of our actions will make the kids’ list of weird parent things. Erin tells a great (and exaggerated) story about me throwing softballs at her when she was four years old until she wasn’t scared of getting hit by them anymore. James talks about his eight years of karate lessons as if he were a prisoner of war suspended in a bamboo cage. I can’t begin to guess the stories they tell when we aren’t there to defend ourselves. While I was in college poking fun at my father, I was studying the same major he had, relaxing to the same hobbies as him, and becoming engaged to a woman who nearly mirrored his wife. But no matter how much everyone else saw our similarities, all I could see were the specific areas where I wanted to be different. It’s all a harmless part of bonding as a family. It’s as much a part of forming parent/child relationships as offering unsolicited advice and trying not to listen to it.
But why are parents of every generation surprised their kid doesn’t want fashion advice or music reviews from a forty-something? And how can teenagers since the dawn of time be offended by an offer to help with homework? Finding our own paths in life is all about making our own choices. It can seem isolating at times but is necessary. Each of us must come to God on our own. Acceptance of the savior must be born out of each unique heart. It is hard for parents to celebrate family members pulling away. It’s equally difficult for an adult child to lean in and love the family he or she is trying to break away from to form their own beliefs. Love is hard. It requires respecting each others’ needs and accepting that helping your kids sometimes means giving them space. It means finding creative ways to show your love that will encourage them even when they are pushing you away. For kids, independence isn’t only about finding out who you aren’t. It’s mostly about embracing who you are. Build your memories from life’s best moments, not just the weird ones. There is a path set for you before the world was created and God placed the great loves of your life along that path as guides. Unconditional love means knowing who you are. It also means accepting that your individuality is best expressed in the way you love others. If you can figure that out, good for you. Give your kids a break while they figure it out, too. And their kids after them.
If you’ve had things you thought your parents did that were strange but now copy them, or a struggle with finding or encouraging independence, I hope you will share them in the comments. Each of your stories are powerful and bring us together.
Life is ironic. After a lifetime of struggles, I have finally found peace with my life, only to discover a greater fear of threats to my kids’ lives.
Their later teens and early twenties are rough on all of us. My daughter is our older child and my biggest struggle since it is all a first for me. I watch her struggle with her emotions and the hardships of this world. Overwhelmed by fears of what could happen to her, I can become more unsettled now than I’ve ever been.
I remember when she was a newborn. I held her in my arms, looked into her bright eyes, and I could physically feel the love between us. She was perfect – from the way her little baby head smelled to her wiggling, chubby toes. I imagined her growing beautiful and strong with a brilliant mind and loving heart. I pictured a good job and a large, happy family. Over the years, I’ve done my best to protect her from evil that would destroy that future. It gets tough as she grows up. Her biggest struggles seem to erupt not from an outside assault, but from within her. The tantrums of a toddler give way to the self-centered focus of a child. The child grows into a middle-schooler who can be downright mean at times. High school brings a strange mix of self-doubt and know-it-all-ness that nobody knows how to deal with. Her search for independence is inevitable, but part of my struggle. As she begins to fight her own battles, the wide-eyed admiration of a father who is strong enough to take on the world is withering away. The opinions she forms are replacing her unquestioning acceptance of my pearls of wisdom. Searching for her own answers, she tunes me out. I explain risk to an invulnerable audience. Lectures on consequences are wasted on a thrillseeker who thinks my life is lame. She takes wild risks and carelessly handles her carefully crafted future. I watch in worry, afraid my delicate images will shatter in front of me.
She gets hurt and becomes sad. Her choices can bring consequences no one would have wanted. I stand by powerless to help. I can no longer scoop her up into my arms and make everything OK again. That’s hard for me to accept. I miss the old days. It hurts to let them go. Slowly, I am releasing her future to her. My dreams for her must fade as her chosen path becomes real. Unneeded as her champion, she must face down her own demons. My desire for control must be replaced by the bonds of love. Jesus has provided the example. Although he has a perfect plan for me, he designed me to make my own choices. Watching my struggles isn’t easy for him, either. But it is his love, not his power or control, that has transformed my life.
My heart will change when I let go and let love take over. The world around me will change as I release the same love as the savior. If I want to impact a child’s life, let it be through a love that draws us closer, not a grasp at control that makes her pull away.
I need to return to the same, simple love of a father holding his child in his arms. I have given love unconditionally before and I can do it again. I can provide comfort when screams come unexpectedly. I can listen with joy while she talks. I can watch in amazement as she creates masterpieces. I can smile as she plays with others. And I’ll still cry on her “first-” days.
One day, I will look into her bright eyes with unconditional love and she will look back at me the same way, just like we used to. How do I know? Love wins.
Jagged and raw, my wound lays open. My senses become dull.Nerves that should connect me to the world now scream and isolate me. Pain becomes my prison and I am alone.I sit in the dark, curled into a ball, crying out without knowing if anyone hears. How long has it been?
My eyes are still squeezed tightly shut but I sense light. I feel arms holding me, hands stroking my face. As I focus on the comforting touches, the stranglehold pain has held loosens. I breathe more freely and the healing grows. Too weak to move, I collapse into his embrace.
How long has he been here? Was he here all along? My head begins to clear and the world comes back into focus. I see the arms that hold me. The soft hands that touch me are strong, with scars carved deep into them. I struggle to shake free and stand on my own, but his whisper tells me to rest.
Jesus patiently comforts me. In his arms, everything melts away. Gazing into his eyes, the prison disappears and peace flows through me. My strength builds until he says the time has come. I rise more than healed, I am restored.
I ask “Why did you allow the pain to happen? Why didn’t you heal me faster?” A gentle smile is the only answer. That’s OK. It is well with my soul.
Our sins cause pain. The consequences of our choices stay with us – betrayal burns like a hot brand, harsh words pierce like an arrow and withheld love is a jagged cut. Gathered together they become too much to bear.
In your darkest moment, when your despair is great and your sin is overwhelming, you are transported to the place where punishment is demanded for your actions, along a dusty road in Jerusalem.
There are few travelers in sight. This is not a place to be discovered by local officials and identified as sympathetic to those being punished. But here in between criminals, the Son of God is being crucified.
He saw your distress. He saw your guilt. With no other way to help you, he brought you to this dusty road. As he hangs there on a cross, beaten nearly beyond recognition and racked in enormous pain, his gaze is locked on you.
Although his body is in agony, his soft brown eyes are filled with love. The same eyes that surveyed the universe as he spoke it into existence are now focused on you. You are looking into the eyes of your savior.
Taking your punishment, he took each lash of the whip. In your place, he was punched, ridiculed and spit on. Instead of you, he wears the thorn branches, twisted together and pressed onto his head, causing drops of blood to ooze out of his torn skin. Nails forged by your sin were driven through his hands and feet. The cross that you deserved was lifted up and dropped violently into a hole on public display as a sign of warning and humiliation. But he didn’t bring you here to watch him suffer.
You appeared on this road after the abuse and humiliation, gazing up into those perfect eyes that stare at you in love, forgiveness, and acceptance. Looking at you, he licks his dry, cracked lips and summons his remaining energy to speak in a hoarse voice. “It is finished”.
In a flash, you return to your life. Your price has been paid. He took your place. He was cursed so that you could be blessed. He was broken so that you could be made whole. He was abandoned so that you would never be alone. In his perfect love, he died for you. All your debt is paid, now and forever.
Three days later, death was destroyed when it could not contain him. The one who breathed creation into existence walked out of the tomb. Resurrected, he was restored to the right hand of God. Because of him, you were made righteous and invited to share his reward.
Accept the gift he gave you. Accept that you cannot repay him. Accept that you will fail him again. Accept that his sacrifice was not based on your worthiness. There is no longer guilt in a broken family or shame in addiction that has raged out of control. Your identity is no longer defined by your failure. It is finished.
Great things are in your future. You are a child of Jeremiah 29:11. There is hope for you and a future. However, you have trials still to come that will last for years. Your path will be troubled and difficult.
Confess the failures that caused your pain. Own your part of each broken relationship. Allow your wounds to heal, knowing the remaining scars will always be sensitive when they are touched.
The scars will not be ugly. They will tell your story of grace. As you accept them, you will learn to recognize the ways people try to conceal their own, hiding their shame from the world. Your scars will speak to them that you understand.
You will bring comfort to people who would never trust someone dressed too perfectly, whose words were too polished and whose life seemed pulled from a storybook. You will show your scars to others and be trusted because of them, like the one who received his scars for you.
The same breath that created life will flow from your mouth into a world that needs it. Your transformed life will change destinies and cause dead hearts to beat again.
Rebuke the voices that say you must do more, that you are not enough. Silence any who would say that your failures have caused too much damage, too much pain. When you have doubts, look back into those soft, brown eyes. Feel the love behind them.
All families have traditions they pass down from generation to generation. Ours is running the 400m. It’s something of a strange legacy to leave. When you are running, the pain is intense and you can only think of being done. However, it becomes part of your identity. If you can triumph over that race then other things in life are a lot less scary. Because of its difficulty and unchanging nature, there is an honor shared among those who have called it their race. My father is James Sr. He ran track in the early ‘60s. He was a good runner and his memories of those days are as clear as ever. He was coming of age in a world that was quickly changing. He dealt with all the insecurities, frustrations and challenges of a normal teenager. Running soothed those feelings. There was solace in the endless laps around a track and the sprints up and down the bleachers. Life was simple while he was running full speed, heart pounding in his ears, his lungs and legs burning while he focused on finishing the race and doing his best. I am James Jr. Over two decades later, I put on the same uniform. A different world by then, I dealt with different issues but struggled with the same emotions as my father before me. It was my time to come of age. My anger and insecurities faded away when I ran. All my attention quickly focused on pushing through the same physical pain my father had felt. In seasons where mile upon mile melted into the distance, my spirit was soothed. God has always spoken to me in those quiet times when all of life’s other troubles seem insignificant. When the pain is white hot, I know that He is there. This time, James III suited up. It was his last regular season meet. The world is now radically different than the ones my father or I competed in. James deals with his own issues and insecurities and the same teen angst occasionally boils under the surface. He finds his own peace at full speed, the wind in his hair, every muscle screaming to quit. While he focuses on being the best God made him to be, his character is strengthened. On Saturday, three men stood together at the track. We share more than just a name. One is beginning his race. One is in the middle of his season. One is patiently finishing well and preparing to receive his crown. We have circled the same track, run in the same events and found the same peace. Each of us runs to honor those that came before us, the One that is always with us, and those who will come after us. This is our race. I’m thankful we had the chance to do it together one more time.
