I'm Turning into my Parents...
People always warn you that you will inevitably, one day, become your parents. You will wake up to find that you have turned into your mother in all of her sweetly manipulative glory or in the ways she eats her pain away or the way she hides life's troubles behind a thick mask of make-up-ed glory (Mary Kay's dream client). Your response, my response, everyone's response to such accusations... "HECK NO I will never be like my dad or mom or anything in between!"
When I was younger, I made vows to never be weak like my parents. I saw the consequences of my mom naively loving the "bad boy" and my dad's arrogant downfall from being the "bad boy." Their lives made me smarter, and my faith made me holier. I would absolutely, positively, NEVER become my parents. Oh the pride of a 13-year-old!
I was in Chicago when I realized that I was, in fact, exactly like my mom. Despite my boasts to the contrary, I ended up with a bad boy who broke my heart. I called home with tears in my eyes and desperation in my voice. In that season, I needed the wisdom of someone who had naively loved, and despite her mistakes, had survived. My hurt gave me a new-found respect for my mom and how strong she really was. I wonder if part of her said "I told you so..." when I admitted that I needed her. She didn't rub my face in it, she just offered to fly to Chicago and be with me. I exchanged her trip to see me for 2 new pairs of JCrew pants, because, well, pants last longer than grief and I am ever a pragmatist. But the thought was still super encouraging.
I credit my new Georgia life to showing me that I am also not above my dad's short-comings. Growing up, my dad had dreams of being someone, doing something legendary. Despite his big plans, he woke up one day in hood-ville, South Carolina a husband, a father of 3 small daughters and a truck driver with way too many bills. He was stuck and angry, and needed someone to blame. For years contentment alluded him, as he grew more and more cynical and bitter with life.
Currently I am where my dad once was. I am standing on the edge of a cynical pit debating whether or not to jump. I once had dreams of glory that I masked under humble pretense. "If only I can be a doorkeeper in the house of God, then I will be content..." I prayed when everyone was watching. All the while, knowing that I was much too valuable to be stuck at the door!
In my heart, I blame others for where God has brought me. I fight with God, and take out my bitterness on those closest to me. (I also eat as much ice cream as I can afford, but thanks to poverty... it isn't a lot!) I have become who my dad used to be, alluded by contentment and beckoned by ever growing anger. I stand at the pit, but I refuse to jump. I don't want to be who my parents used to be, I want to be who they are. I want to be like the man who hit bottom and climbed his way back to the top, or the the woman who in her weakness was made stronger. How often I seek a solution by changing my circumstances, when I just needed a change of perspective!
I am so thankful for parents who learned, like the apostle Paul, that the secret of contentment rests not in circumstances, but in a trust in a holy God who gives strength in all seasons (Phil 3:4-11).
When I was younger, I made vows to never be weak like my parents. I saw the consequences of my mom naively loving the "bad boy" and my dad's arrogant downfall from being the "bad boy." Their lives made me smarter, and my faith made me holier. I would absolutely, positively, NEVER become my parents. Oh the pride of a 13-year-old!
I was in Chicago when I realized that I was, in fact, exactly like my mom. Despite my boasts to the contrary, I ended up with a bad boy who broke my heart. I called home with tears in my eyes and desperation in my voice. In that season, I needed the wisdom of someone who had naively loved, and despite her mistakes, had survived. My hurt gave me a new-found respect for my mom and how strong she really was. I wonder if part of her said "I told you so..." when I admitted that I needed her. She didn't rub my face in it, she just offered to fly to Chicago and be with me. I exchanged her trip to see me for 2 new pairs of JCrew pants, because, well, pants last longer than grief and I am ever a pragmatist. But the thought was still super encouraging.
I credit my new Georgia life to showing me that I am also not above my dad's short-comings. Growing up, my dad had dreams of being someone, doing something legendary. Despite his big plans, he woke up one day in hood-ville, South Carolina a husband, a father of 3 small daughters and a truck driver with way too many bills. He was stuck and angry, and needed someone to blame. For years contentment alluded him, as he grew more and more cynical and bitter with life.
Currently I am where my dad once was. I am standing on the edge of a cynical pit debating whether or not to jump. I once had dreams of glory that I masked under humble pretense. "If only I can be a doorkeeper in the house of God, then I will be content..." I prayed when everyone was watching. All the while, knowing that I was much too valuable to be stuck at the door!
In my heart, I blame others for where God has brought me. I fight with God, and take out my bitterness on those closest to me. (I also eat as much ice cream as I can afford, but thanks to poverty... it isn't a lot!) I have become who my dad used to be, alluded by contentment and beckoned by ever growing anger. I stand at the pit, but I refuse to jump. I don't want to be who my parents used to be, I want to be who they are. I want to be like the man who hit bottom and climbed his way back to the top, or the the woman who in her weakness was made stronger. How often I seek a solution by changing my circumstances, when I just needed a change of perspective!
I am so thankful for parents who learned, like the apostle Paul, that the secret of contentment rests not in circumstances, but in a trust in a holy God who gives strength in all seasons (Phil 3:4-11).
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