The Paradoxes of Parenting

From Chapter 1: Not God but Godlike I remember when I first saw my daughter’s dimples. It was some time after her birth, but I will never forget my surprise and joy at noticing them indented in each cherubic cheek. I don’t have dimples, but my husband, my sister, and my father do, so I relished seeing this piece of them mirrored on my daughter’s face. She also has the most amazing hair. I call it magic hair because strands of almost every color flow naturally in gentle, magazine-worthy waves. She gets her thick, luscious hair from her grandmother. She has my sister’s Cindy Crawford style mole. She has my laugh. So many ways I rejoice in seeing myself and my family reflected back at me in my child. It’s no wonder that when I hear the creation story and get to the part where “God created human beings; he created them godlike, Reflecting God’s nature” (Genesis 1:26–28), it’s not that hard to believe. Think about your own children and the ways you see parts of yourself in their looks, temperament, or preferences. How do you feel when you see yourself in your children? I imagine it’s much like God feels when he sees us: proud, joyful, humored, delighted, connected. And then I think for a minute about the creation story, and when I consider that I am made not only in the image of my earthly mother and father, but that I am also made with God’s nature, something catches in my heart. There is something right and true about that. I am worthy. I am beautiful. I am powerful. I am good. I love. I create. I want justice. I give grace. It takes my breath away that I could be anything like God. And yet, I believe it. At the same time, there are days when I am driving on one of Atlanta’s major highways, and it’s twelve lanes, as far as the eye can see, packed bumper to bumper, thousands of people right there. And I realize I’m just one person. In that sea of people. And that’s just one highway, in a city of five million. And that’s just one city in a country, one country in the world, and one lifetime among billions of lives over the course of history. And it hits me how I am dust. Just a tiny collection of dust and molecules among billions of others swirling within a galaxy larger than I can even imagine. One of my favorite poems I studied in high school English class was “Ozymandias” by Percy Shelley. In the poem, a traveler encounters a colossal statue, broken by time, wrecked in ruins among the desert sand. It’s an amazing poem about humility and the fleeting nature of power, particularly when the speaker recalls the inscription on the pedestal, words of a hubris-filled king whose cracked, stone-sculpted visage sinks among the desert sand: My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings; Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remains. Nothing beside remains. Nothing except for the grains of dust and sand which slowly eat up even the memory of the king. Words to make us despair, indeed. My husband knew his great-grandparents, and my children know their great-grandmother who is, as of writing this book, the ripe age of 99. One friend noted the rarity of knowing a great-grandparent in this day and age, and then she mused, “you know, I’m not sure I even know the names of my great-great-grandparents.” I thought for a moment, and I realized that I did not either. How ironic that I don’t even know the names of the very people just a few years ahead of me and whose lives and choices impacted mine in ways I cannot even begin to imagine. And so we come to the first paradox: We are made in the image of God; We are not God. We are on a path of life where everything we do matters a lot; in fact, it matters eternally. Every reaction, every choice has long-lasting consequences. But we are also mortal. We shall die. Our memories will be erased and our influence seemingly null. How can understanding this paradox possibly help us become better parents? This first paradox reveals that parenting is, in itself, as much about us and our journey—spiritually, emotionally, and relationally—as it is about our children’s. Ultimately, God promises our transformation out of this paradox. Being a Jesus follower means that you and God are working together to transform you into becoming more and more God-like and less and less like dust. And our children will see this transformation. If I’m not modeling that a life of joy is built around learning, seeking, and leaning into God’s will and boundaries, I can never expect my children to want to do the same with either my will or God’s will. I know that I am God-like and can be encouraged by all the ways He is working in me to transform me into the best version of myself. I can also give myself grace that I’m not there yet. From these two things comes a power and authority as well as humility that is the backbone of the parental stance.