Lauren Denton
Parenting is scary, yes? Sure it’s a lot of other things too—fun, frustrating, joyful, nerve-wracking. But a thread of fear always works its way through the “job” of parenting, doesn’t it? For the most part, we’re OK though. We get our kids dressed for school and let them leave, trusting that they’ll return to us at the end of the school day. We let them play at friends’ houses, swim in the lake, ride their bike down the big hill. We try not to be helicopter parents or lawnmower parents or any other category of parent that essentially means we hover too close, sniffing out danger and ready to jump in and rescue when necessary. Instead, we’re cool, we’re calm, we’re OK with letting our kids be kids.
Then a little girl is snatched out of a Birmingham playground, with her whole family nearby, and everything changes.
The day after the news broke, when my 7-year-old told me she was going two houses down to play with the neighbor kids, I stood in the yard and watched her until she was safely at their house, even though they live all of 50 yards away and it was still afternoon daylight. That night, I laid in bed thinking of all the darkness in the world, all the people who do bad things for myriad reasons, all the ways evil can lurk and attack. Even though I’d heard the alarm beep when my husband turned it on before coming to bed, I flung the covers off and walked downstairs just to make sure the red lights were blinking. A few days later, walking down a street in another town with my family, Kate and Sela walked a little ways ahead of us. A few people filled in the space between me and the girls, and even though they were still within sight, I panicked. I called out—loudly— for them to stop and wait. People turned and looked, probably thinking I was one of those helicopter parents, but I couldn’t stop thinking of bad people snatching little kids.
It feels like we parents are always fighting the fear battle to some extent, trying to push it down so we can give our kids the freedom and independence they need. Then something like this happens and sets us 10 steps back, making us think how handy a nice microchip would be so if our children ever went missing, at least the police would be able to find them. (Just kidding, Mom. Sort of.)
There are verses aplenty that speak to this kind of fear: “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you…,” “Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way…,” “Do not be anxious about anything…,” “God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble…”
The truth is I do believe these verses with every ounce of my being, but it’s easy to say that when things are going well. When I think of what this little girl’s mother must be feeling as she’s seeing the days pass with no clue to her daughter’s whereabouts, I wonder what kind of comfort these verses would bring me if I were in her position. Would I cling to God’s comfort and truth, or would I be asking, “God where are you? I thought you said you’d never leave me?”
One question my daughters have been asking a lot lately is, “I know God is real, but how do I really know, since I can’t see or touch him?” It’s a valid question and the only answer I know to give is that we have to ask for the faith to believe. Without that gift of faith, it’s impossible to believe. And I think it’s the same thing with the fear that comes alongside us in parenthood. I can talk to my kids about strangers and coach them on what to do in scary situations. I can double-check the alarm and hang out in my front yard while the kids are playing outside. I do all these things because they make me feel better, but even if I do them all perfectly, I still cannot, on my own power, ensure perfect safety and protection. The only thing I can do is continually ask for a trusting heart, a heart that clings to God’s words when he says he will be with us when we pass through the waters and walk through the fires. Then hopefully I can go about the business of parenting my kids without absolutely crumbling under the weight of all the worries I constantly push away.
In this busy Advent season—a season of watching, of waiting—as I hold my people tight, the prayer that comes to my lips again and again is one of rescue and redemption.
“Oh come and make all things new. Come and make all things new. Oh come and make all things new. Build up this ruined Earth, Come and make all things new.”
