We went for a bike ride yesterday as a family. And as we rode through the neighborhood I had a flash back of my youngest son Ty when he first began learning to ride a bike.

He was on training wheels and his little, chubby legs were pedaling as fast as they could go and he couldn’t catch up with us no matter how hard he tried.

He’d scream “Wait for me!” And he’d begin to cry in frustration from not being able to keep up.

This is how I feel many days as a mom. Time is flying, they are growing up, technology is advancing faster than I can keep track of everything they are learning, and I am flailing behind saying, “Wait for me…”

I’ve been a mother for a little over 16 years. That’s 6,012 days to be exact.

That’s a lot of days to get it right.

And wrong.

When I was a little girl and dreaming of being a mother as I played with my baby dolls, I swore there were certain things I would never do like my mother.

I would never yell, never hurt my kid’s feelings, never say, “because I said so”, and never give them fast food.

God has a way of humbling you when you say you will never do something.

My lack of holiness becomes clearly evident in my parenting. And just when I thought I was getting some of this parenting thing down, I had teenagers.

And there are days my kids do something to really pull at every ounce of my being and we fight, argue, say hurtful things, and I’m back on my knees feeling so defeated and asking “How?”

How do I teach them, mold them and show them when I am still so messed up?

When I still bear wounds and scars and limp along on many days?

I learned long ago to never judge another mother. We all have different backgrounds, temperaments, wounds, and are in different places on our journeys. And our children are just as unique and different. Aren’t we all just trying to do the best we can?

As I get before the Lord and seek answers, my mind goes back to Winter Jam last February. (A Christian concert for youth).

It is worship time and me and my family and their friends are worshipping and taking in God’s presence filling the arena. I scan the crowd and there are thousands of youth with hands lifted high. My eyes as they roam the crowd rest on my husband.

My husband who has a background of addiction. And stumbling. And who was a prodigal that found his way home.

My husband who goes to a Pentecostal church but is not charismatic, and who is not one to show public displays of affection for Jesus.

I watch him and his eyes are closed and he is lost in worship and his hands begin to lift and I know that this is not something that comes natural to him. He is warring with his flesh but he lifts anyway and he raises his arms in complete abandon to his Heavenly Father. Palms up, heart split open.

A huge lump forms in my throat and tears find a way to my cheeks, because I know in this sacred moment he is preaching more than a thousand sermons to our boys.

Our children have the front row seat to all of our failures and weaknesses that we as parents hide behind closed doors.

But I’m learning our children do not need parents that never fail.

 What they need is when they see us fall–we get back up, and even if we limp, reach for the Savior who is the source of our healing. May they see that this gospel we proclaim and this Jesus we pursue is real, because they see His power working despite our inconsistencies and failures.

I use to think being a great parent was fixing everything and trying to make my kids happy. But I’ve realized the greatest gift we could ever give to our children is not to fix all their problems, but instead to lead them to The Well,  and teach them how to drink.

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