Maybe this is too similar to my last blog musings, several months ago.
Maybe I still need to hear it.
Maybe you still need to hear it too.
There is a Christian tradition of blame. There, I've said it. We all know it isn't biblical, but we do it anyway. Especially if your children 'go off the rails'. It must be our fault, somehow. We must have raised them wrong. There is even a charity that holds workshops and writes books to help parents 'raise kids without them hating God'.
So, by default, if your kids do hate / question / ignore / disbelieve God, you must have raised them wrong?
Maybe I should have read that book 15 years ago.
Or maybe, just maybe, it's not my fault.
(And as an aside, if you have kids who are still on the God-path, don't let blame creep into your heart for the Mums like me. Please. We have enough disappointment and sorrow to deal with already. Tell us we are good parents. Pray with us and for us. Pray for our kids. Send us flowers. But don't give us a book on 'how to raise your kids without them hating God'. Because its not our fault.)
I was (and still am) a bloody good Mum. I did the whole Christian-mum thing. If you read my last blog, you can see for yourself. I'm not going to start defending myself here.
I haven't 'turned them off God' or made life choices that have caused my boys to live the way they are living. Poor mental health in my child is not my fault. God isn't punishing me in some malevolent, revenge-filled way for the times I shouted at my boys or locked myself in the bathroom for some peace (and chocolate). God hasn't doled out 'justice' to me for those dark, post-natal depression years when I couldn't even feel love for my child.
God. Doesn't. Blame. Me.
So I shouldn't blame myself either.
And I shouldn't accept the default position of Christian tradition that whispers into my heart all my failings as a mum.
It's simply not true.
I can't change my boys' lifestyle choices. At 19 and almost 17, they are young men with their faces set towards a whole world of adventure ahead of them. I've done the groundwork. I've helped to dig their foundations. Exhausting and grueling it may have been, but that digging was good. Their foundations are full of love, acceptance, grace and truth. And now it's up to them to build the rest of their lives.
Of course my mum-heart grieves. Their rejection of all that I hold close to my heart is painful. Debilitating sometimes. Their blasting sweary music that celebrates violence and crime. The smell of tobacco and cannabis. The noisy nocturnal lives that they lead. The debates we have with them over the nature of God (how can He really be good?). The way they sleep all Sunday mornings instead of joining to gather with our church family. I know that ultimately this path they have chosen will not bring them the fulfilling joy they are seeking.
Mums always want the best for their children. And this isn't the best.
And do you know something? I'm still proud of them. I'm proud of the men they are becoming. I'm proud of the way they think about their choices. I love their humour. I love how they are changing me, shoving me into a life of not judging but accepting. I'm proud of the way they protect and cherish me. I squeeze every last joy-drop of hanging out with them. They make my heart smile too.
But I have to leave them with my Jesus, who promises to redeem.
My Jesus grieves with me too.
He weeps when I weep.
And he hears my prayers; my heart-murmurs, my shouts, my stomps around their bedrooms, my whispers, my groans and my tears full of unsaid words. He hears it all. And he's not ignoring me.
He sits in the shit with me. His heart for my boys laments right along with mine.
And, let me just say it again for good measure.
God. Doesn't. Blame. Me.
So, I accept where we are now and I sit in the shit with Jesus. I allow myself to feel instead of rushing past the emotions and declaring it's not real. I don't pretend.
I cling with every last bitten fingernail on to that faith-hope that tells me my Jesus will redeem this.
His love pursues them.
His goodness and mercy follow them all the days of their lives. Even when I can't. Even when they turn the tracker off their phones and disappear off on a bike.
My boy who is 'stuck' and trapped by his poor mental health will not be a prisoner forever. This heart-pain will not last.
My Jesus is already on the case. And I don't have to do anything to make this happen.
I wait for his rescue.
I wait for his redemption.
And I allow the whispers that tell my heart I'm a good mum to drown out the accusations of blame.
It's not the end.
