Parents Who Want to Give Up: how to raise up kids even when you want to give up

When I was an oblivious 16, more than a few moons ago, I met this soccer mama who had it painted on her canvas sneakers: 

Shoe #1: These 2 feet run

Shoe #2: After my 3 sons.

We ended up with 4 sons. 

Four sons. Four sons who swelled me out like a melon and nobody tells mothers that: Once labor starts, it never ends.

Four boys that made mountains of laundry like they were tectonic plates, who furiously ravaged the fridge 24/7 and left a never-ending stream of empty plates. A quad of explosive testosterone, a quartet of dirt and wrestling and loud and dreams and books and mess and sweat and inventions.

And, frankly, there were a lot of days I wanted to have it wired up in neon blinking lights on a t-shirt:
These two arms
pull out a lot of this mother’s hair
over her 4 sons.




The one boy that was harder than all the other kids all put together?

The one who made me think he was either headed to delinquency hall, or I was literally headed to an insane asylum, who made me lock myself in the mudroom, slink to the floor and weep a primal grief? At least three times a week?

He bought his own house the week before his 18th birthday. That he rents out to 7 other university students.

He now messages me multiple times a day with quotes of what he’s been reading. Links to good stuff. He’s one of my very best friends. One of my very favourite people in the whole wide world. I never want conversations with him to end.

A road always looks one way — until it makes a u-turn.

They don’t tell you that either: 

The only way to raise kids — is by never giving up.

I’ve failed our kids like the Hindenberg. Crashed and burned of epic proportions. Daily. Turns out that: Whenever you want to light into someone, is exactly when you should lighten up.

Instead of giving someone a piece of your mind, it turns out far better if you give them a piece of your heart. 

I confess: I wish I had done that. There’s support groups for moms of preschoolers, but where’s triage for the moms of teenagers? MOTHERSOFTEENAGERS #MOTS

 The older our kids become, the greater our isolation can become, because while mothers of toddlers can instagram and commiserate together over the Terrible Twos — mothers struggling through a stretch of terrible teens can suffer alone.

Those hard teens? One of the younger ones scored in the 99.7 percentile on his ACT. Was offered a scholarship to his program of choice — mathematical physics —  the week of his 17th birthday.

While the Farmer worked in the fields last night, planting way past midnight, that kid talked on the phone for hours with his dad. Recited to his dad all of Ephesians 1 — he’s been memorizing every chapter of Galatians and Ephesians with a goal to memorize all of the New Testament. He’s become more than I ever dreamed.

Redemption is the papery ash that’s falling, turning and uplifting as sparks of pure glory.

This happens. We don’t deserve this and redemption still happens.

And it begs us to never stop looking for it, to always stop and witness it.

* * *

So when our 4 boys show up this year, in the middle of a global pandemic, to ask their dad how they can help him put in this year’s crop? 

Yeah, they end up in tractor seats — grinning a mile wide and nodding at us, and I remember how I once held these boys as babies in my arms.

Remember the year that they got stuck in the back field, tracks up to their knees.

How the cultivator had caught a bit of damp dirt at the edge of the woods.

And the phone had rang after midnight here in the farmhouse, a brother looking for his kid brother.

I’d still been up, making up something warm to eat for for that kid brother who’d just dragged in from another farm and planting 200 acres of soybeans on his own.

Both boys had have been up since 4 am the day before: Feeding hogs. Washing down barns. Hooking cultivators on to tractors. Cultivating up a seed bed for hundreds of acres for those seeds.

When a family works shoulder to shoulder through something, they find they can take on just about anything.






Their Dad was still out there, planting. Still out there going in the field behind the barn, out there underneath a milk moon, on an open tractor, eating dirt up and down the field, trying to get the last of those corn seeds into the ground.

When I’d taken a warm bowl out to the good man, his hands were bone cold. I’d told him that one of the boys had gotten stuck — but he’d called for his brother to come help. 

And Levi had left his steaming plate on the table, headed out to the shed to grab a chain, start up the tractor again, haul over to the farm a few sideroads over to pull his big brother out of the field in the middle of the night.

This old ma of theirs, I’d driven the pick-up tuck out to check on our boys. Stood in the dark and nod our Boy-me on. Brothers.

The Redeemed and the Rescued and the Remade. Gittin’ ‘er done with their dad. Doing whatever it takes to keep the other one going, get this crop in the ground and get this family through — because, for all our stumbling and wandering, that’s what families do.

Levi and Joshua had hooked that chain onto a tractor axle in the dark. Their bass voices echoed across the field. When did I turn and they grow up like this and how did this miracle of grace bond us all like this?

People can say what they want about teenagers & boys these days.

Say what they want about this next generation, say that kids can’t change, that we’re all going to pot here in a hand basket. But even in the midst of hard years, when raising kids is just plain hard, especially in these strange days, and I just want to whisper:

There’s a whole generation of young men who are becoming good men.

There are young men who need time. Oak trees don’t happen over night.

Growing in grace and wisdom and stature isn’t an immediate download — it happens the way a tree grows up: over decades.

There’s a reason why children begin as seeds. It’s okay — it’s okay — that growth and change take time — it’s supposed to.

There are good young men who simply need someone to tell them a dozen times a day, “You’re good at working hard and loving large. You were made for this.”

There are good young men out there who need to be unearthed from low expectations, and made over by relentless grace, and strengthened with daily doses of iron: the nails of service and the Cross of Christ.

There are good young men who need someone to show them they are trustworthy by entrusting them with worthy work, who take the time to inspect their work so they know what to expect, who give them confidence to to do hard things by giving them hard things to do.

One of the boys hauls his brother out of the mire.

I had memorized the boys’ silhouettes in the lunar light — and I can still see it now. 

How the two of them had stood in a shaft of moon, farm caps pulled low, deciding who will finish up this field now at 3 a.m., who will get up when the 4 a.m. alarm would go off in an hour for the barn again and those hungry hogs.

It doesn’t matter if they’ve both been up 22 hours now. It doesn’t matter that there are hours ahead of them and rain coming and only so much time to get these seeds into the ground. They’re both bent and bound to not quit now.

Don’t quit now.

There’s a whole generation of the hardest boys who can become the greatest men.

There’s a whole generation of young men who will rise up if we raise our expectations, who can turn over new leaves because we never stop believing in them and a redeeming God. 

When you teach a kid how to work hard, you teach him how to work through whatever’s hard.




Yeah —- there’s more than just a few good young men.

There’s a whole world of them. Headlines could tout them. Facebook streams could flood with them and Instagram could capture them and Twitter could trend with our future men: #GoodYoungMen. And a whole generation of mothers and fathers could do the hallowed work of raising them up. Because a country needs them, a hurting world needs them, an eternity needs them, and the raising up of #GoodYoungMen is no small thing  it’s a hard and holy thing.

When the third born son, Levi, had caught a glance of a photo from the field, he had leaned in over the outlines by the tractors.

“That’s Dad?”

I had shook my head, no. 

“Oh, that’s Dad?”

He points to the other silhouette in his peaked farm hat. “Wait — Dad was planting behind the barn that night,” he straightens up, confused.

It’s you.” Something’s burning in my throat.

“It’s you and your brother.”

Levi leans in again over the picture. “Really? We both look like Dad. The way we are both standing.”

His mother nods, swallows around this burning ember.

The feet of all our sons run like all the good men ahead of them 

a crop of good young men planted by their Father, for a harvest worth all of a mother’s worn and faithful grace.