The last few nights I, along with many other parents, have been sitting idle in our school’s theatre parking lot. Since the sun sets just after noon these days, or so it seems, the scene is of course pitch black—save for some incredible Northern Lights two of the nights!—and parents’ eyes flit from phones to the auditorium entrance, anticipating the release of the preteen and teenage actors.
We parents of children who are still “under our roof” but fairly “independent” (I use quotes around that word, because in my experience they love to exercise their independence yet still struggle to independently clean up after themselves!), spend much of our time thinking about, worrying about, wondering about, and caring for our children in oh-so-many ways. I think a lot about experiencing these various seasons of parenthood. Some of the things I wonder about are quotes like, “Little kids, little problems. Big kids, big problems,” “It won’t be like this for long,” or Tina Fey’s hilarious and hit-home musings about how we often think about and approach our teenagers.
“Having a teenage daughter is like having an office crush. You’re thinking about them a lot more than they’re thinking about you. You go up to their door and you’re like, a bunch of us are going to eat dinner … you’re probably busy.” —Tina Fey
Regardless of the season of parenting we are in, our core longings remain the same, for our children to know they are seen, heard, and loved unconditionally.
Our basic human desire.
In this season where days are short and dark, despair and anxiety threaten to swallow us up. With so much continued chaos with the inundation of information, misinformation, and everything in between, it is difficult to navigate daily life with peace and hope (I am making broad assumptions here, in assuming this is an overall feeling, but I certainly feel this personally, often). So here I offer a scene of hope:
When these student-actors finally are released from the theatre and into the dark parking lot—filled with gently roaring motors and parking lights shining—what I witness gives me hope. Each child walks slowly outside, into the darkness, hesitantly scanning with their eyes, searching for that recognizable vehicle. Their posture communicates reluctance, apprehension.
I watch the door like a hawk, because I want to see my child before he sees me. Because to watch him first walk slowly, and with uncertainty, to the transformation that occurs when he locates where I am waiting—and more importantly, that I am waiting—reminds me that the roller-coaster of parenting in and through all these seasons is worth the ride. The transformation is posture turning from shoulders low, eyes ping-ponging right to left, steps slow to chest open, eyes locked, and a straight sprint, right toward the familiarity. Right toward the safety.
Right toward the love.
This is how I think our Creator God waits for us. God waits for us in that patient, steady, unchanging, light-in-the-darkness, yes-I-am-here kinna way. So as the days grow even shorter, even darker, know that you are like that child leaving the bright building and entering that space that at first feels a bit scary. God is waiting, with the the lights on, always.
