Happiness is seldom found where you think.

With a look, I knew he was moments from disaster. Sandwiched between a group of rambunctious teenagers and a snaking line of strangers, my 6-year-old boy squatted on the cement and thrust two tiny fingers in his ears. He couldn’t take the stimulation, the inescapable noise. But where does a mama take an overwhelmed child in the middle of Disneyland?

The entire day had been a surprise. We awoke early, dressed, ate breakfast and packed the car.

“Where are we going?” They asked, no less than 239 times.

“For a walk. Won’t that be nice?” (Technically, not a lie. We would be walking. A lot.)

Without argument, they smiled at the prospect of family time. They didn’t need a theme park to be thankful.

While I distracted the littles with videos on my iPhone, my husband drove to our “walk” location, passing enormous Mickey billboards, hundreds of excited tourists, and street signs directing to “Disneyland.” By some miracle, we made it to the parking garage without revelation.

It wasn’t until we got off the tram that light began to dawn. Ticket counters. Pictures of Mickey and Minnie. A castle. A big, beautiful castle. There, steps away from entry,  three children who never dreamed they’d one day go to Disneyland discovered they were doing just that.

Magic.

Squeals. Giggles. Hip-hip-hooray! For hours, we ran from ride to ride, our littles pointing and laughing at every turn. Look, Mommy, it’s Pooh! See, Daddy? A train! Space Mountain. Nemo’s Underwater Adventure. The Matterhorn. Peter Pan’s Flight (my personal favorite). I’ve never seen children so over-the-top and, … well, happy. I couldn’t stop smiling.

After six hours, however, reality caught up with the magic. Tired feet. Sticky hands. Hungry tummies. Too much noise. Too much to-do. Exhaustion. And the six-year-old who ran excited circles outside the gate, now crouched on the pavement desperate to escape.

I’ve always loved Disneyland. Maybe it’s the fact I was born minutes away. Or maybe it’s my infatuation with fairies and stories and flowing princess dresses.

But now, as an adult, the idea of Disneyland irks me just a bit. Not Disneyland itself, with its whimsy and enchantment. But their utterly impossible claim:

“The Happiest Place on Earth.”

Really?

It’s a fabulous marketing gimmick, I’ll give you that. And the park’s 85 acres certainly provide an unparallelled experience and plenty of reasons to smile.

But no one can deliver another’s happiness. Not even with a $92 ticket.

Of course, we try. We search far and wide for the happiest place on earth. Pursuing a particular relationship. Nailing the ideal job. Squeezing into the right-sized jeans. Trust me—I know. In elementary school, I searched for my happy in straight A’s. In college, a worthy degree. In young adulthood, the right clothes. In my 20′s, Prince Charming and marriage. Then, children. So very many children. But like cotton candy in a kid’s mouth, the happy evaporated the moment I reached for it.

Why? Because no matter how wonderful all these things are, no amount of costumes, characters or props can create a happy place.

The happiest place on earth isn’t a place at all. It’s the ability to find the magic in an ordinary, imperfect life.

For me, last week, my happy place came in the middle of a six-year-old meltdown. As strangers gawked, my husband picked up our overwhelmed boy and took him to the side. For 10 minutes I marveled as I watched a loving father talk a triggered little boy off the ledge. Patience. Tenderness. Reassurance.

Magic.

Was it a perfect day? No. But for us, it was everything we hoped it to be and more.

I don’t know your story or what you’re facing. But I assure you the happiest place on earth isn’t “out there” somewhere. You don’t have to lose ten pounds or find a man or buy a $92 ticket to Disneyland. You’re already living in the middle of it.

It’s called life. And it’s a gift. Even if it’s hard.

Don’t miss the magic in the middle of it.

Where can you look for the magic in your ordinary life today?

I read this today, and it made me hungry for more.

I have no additional words; the text speaks clearly enough for itself. All I can say is I hope the faith I bank my life on and portray here and elsewhere is something far more than facts and data. What I believe and how I came to believe must be breathtaking. Or it isn’t worth the sharing and living of it.

“For centuries prior to our Modern Era, the church viewed the gospel as a Romance, a cosmic drama whose themes permeated our own stories and drew together all the random scenes in a redemptive wholeness. But our rationalistic approach to life, which has dominated Western culture for hundreds of years, has stripped us of that, leaving a faith that is barely more than mere fact-telling. Modern evangelicalism reads like an IRS 1040 form: It’s true, all the data is there, but it doesn’t take your breath away. As British theologian Alister McGrath warns, the Bible is not primarily a doctrinal sourcebook: ‘To reduce revelation to principles or concepts is to suppress the element of mystery, holiness and wonder to God’s self-disclosure. “First principles” may enlighten and inform; they do not force us to our knees in reverence and awe, as with Moses at the burning bush, or the disciples in the presence of the risen Christ.’” —The Sacred Romance, John Eldridge and Brent Curtis

I lost it with my son today.

Not the little one. One of the big ones. One with whom I’ve worked so very hard to be understanding and patient. One who’s lived long enough to master the art of pushing my buttons. One—God help us all—so very much like me.

Yes, him. 

Just about the time I see glimmers of maturity and start to believe we might, in fact, survive this so-very-long season of parenting adolescents, something sinister and otherworldly takes over my body. I turn into a creature worthy of three heads and horns. And I understand, without reservation, why some animals eat their young.

So, yes, I blew it today. Utterly and completely. Hurt and frustrated, I said things I shouldn’t have said in a tone I shouldn’t have said them. What precipitated my outburst doesn’t really matter. I, the professed grown-up, turned into the two-year-old I accused my son of being. And, sadly, not for the first time.

Ugh. I hate it, hate it, hate it when I do that. When will I learn?

There are not words to describe how desperately I want to be a good mom. I want my children to grow up feeling loved and treasured. To be responsible, considerate, and generous adults. Even better if they end up the kind of adults who tattoo “I heart Mom” on a bicep and deliver a moving tribute to my fabulous mothering when accepting their first Oscar.

That mom.

Instead, I fear I’ll be the one they tribute in counseling sessions. The one they’ll hold responsible for their addictions, indiscretions, medications, and dysfunctions. The one to blame for their relational and occupational woes, and the name they’ll curse from their prison cells.

Perhaps I’m being over-dramatic.

There’s nothing I want to do well more than mothering. And yet, in spite of a robust two decades of experience, I’ve so much yet to learn. Who knew parenting would be this hard? What To Expect When You’re Expecting said absolutely nothing about parenting after new-baby-smell wore off. I needed follow-up volumes, things like What to Expect When Mood-swinging, What to Expect When Your Children are Driving You Insane, and What to Expect When Grounding-Them-FOREVER-AND-EVER-AMEN.

I’ll take a case of each, thankyouverymuch.

Instead, I keep messing up. Doing the wrong things, saying the wrong things. Which leads me to the very hardest part of parenting:

Forgiving myself.

This morning’s altercation lasted no more than a half hour. We talked through our disagreement soon after its occurrence. I apologized. He apologized. We both said, “I love you,” albeit from tense lips.

But I can’t let myself off the hook. I can’t accept my own apology. I should’ve been prepared for the emotion, should’ve been able to inhale, exhale, and handle the heated situation like a pro. Instead, I acted like an adolescent. Again. And for that I can’t forgive myself. But in all of my shaming, I nearly missed the the point:

What if there’s a lesson even here?

What if apologizing, forgiving and accepting deep, covering grace is a far better model to my children than my relentless self-perfection expectations? I’m not excusing my poor behavior. Not at all.

But failure and its forgiveness can be a beautiful teacher.

This morning I blew it. True. Chances are, in the last few days you did, too. We can sulk in a cloak of shame. Heaven knows I’ve about mastered that one. But shaming is about as immature as my morning outburst. What if, instead, we did this:

• Say, “I’m sorry” as soon as possible.
• Say, “I love you” soon after that.
• Commit to grow.
• Then let. it. go.

It could be that simple. Own it. Affirm love. Then forgive yourself and move on. End of story.

Shame is a dead end. Forgiveness is a new beginning. A day is coming when your child makes a big enough mistake he’ll struggle to forgive himself. And when that happens, you’ll want him to have the maturity and courage to move past the shame to try again.

Show him how it’s done, with your own mistakes. After all, children learn less from our lofty places of perfection, and far more from our humble places of grace.

How well do you forgive yourself?

I’ve never thought of myself as the cheerleader type. Itty-bitty skirts and pom-poms? Um, like, no thanks.

After Sunday, however, I might reconsider.

Maria, Amanda and Eric

I stood at mile marker 9, as runner after runner passed me by. The half-marathon had started at 7 am—13.1 miles through Denver. Only forty-five minutes after the pop of the gun, the first elite runner passed my post. I watched in awe, marveled at his incredible speed and strength. If he saw me at all, he didn’t show it. His focus was solely on the goal.

Soon, the handful of elite athletes gave way to the thousands of men and women of various sizes, shapes and ages who came out to run two to three hours for fun.

Of course, at mile 9, there’s very little fun left.

I’d considered running this race myself, my second half-marathon. But time constraints made it impossible to train. And I knew this wasn’t a race to run without preparation.

But then my friend, Jerri, contacted me. Her son, Matt McQuinn, died in the Aurora Theatre shooting July 2012. Jerri had heard about Amanda, a survivor, who planned to run the race in honor of the victims: one mile for each life lost, the last mile for all the families left behind. Her fiance had been one of the twelve. This race was her way back to life, even in the loss.

So Jerri asked: “Would you run Mile 10 with Amanda? Represent Matt and the family?”

Yes, absolutely. So Sunday morning, I stood at mile marker 9 along with Matt’s brother, Eric, to wait for Amanda and our 1-mile run together.

But I didn’t anticipate what would overcome me while we waited:

Inspiration.

Goosebump-raising, misty-eye-making inspiration. Unlike the elite leading the pack, the vast majority of runners agonized with each step. Sweat dripped off their bodies, faces red and strained from exertion. I knew how difficult the tenth mile of a thirteen-mile race could be. You’re far enough from the beginning to be utterly exhausted. And still too far from the finish to be energized by its draw. Still, they kept running, determined to finish. Inspired, I started to cheer:

“Way to go! You’re doing great! Nine miles. NINE! Can you believe it? What an accomplishment! You’ve got this! You’re almost there! Keep going!”

Goosebumps. Covering my arms. Because as I whooped and hollered like a teenage girl on the pom squad, I experienced two unexpected changes:

One, the runners cheered. Not every runner acknowledged my loud self on the sidelines. But those who did, smiled and picked up their pace. It was as if an exchange was made: the enthusiasm and confidence of a stranger passed to the weary and worn runner. A few even cheered right back at me.

And two, the cheerleader wanted to run. There’s something about cheering for someone else that makes a bleacher seat less than satisfying. The more I cheered, the more I wanted to run. It wasn’t enough to watch from the sidelines. I wanted to be in the race, with them.

Every day you and I encounter people weary of their race. Neighbors. Grocery store checkers. Moms at the bus stop. Mail carriers. Co-workers. DMV employees (yep, especially them). Ordinary people running a long and grueling race, who simply need to hear that someone sees and believes they have what it takes.

Unfortunately, we’re usually so consumed with our own race we fail to stop and see another’s.

But what if you took a minute to cheer? What if we stopped just long enough to say …

Way to go! What an accomplishment! You’ve got this! You’re almost there! Keep going!

Some will ignore your offering. Caught up in their circumstances, they won’t notice or care. But others will turn, smile, and find new strength to keep going. For them, your well-timed words just might change their race.

Either way, I bet it’ll change yours.

Because when you cheer for someone else, you run a better race yourself.

Have you run a race and experienced the encouragement of a cheerleader? Who needs to hear you cheer today?

I’ve never been good at goodbyes. I blubber and cry. We’re talking tears, hives and uncommon amounts of dripping. Or I avoid it altogether. You know, the turtle and the shell variety. Ugly either way you look at it.

The past few years of my life have been marked by endings. Highschool graduations. Selling our ten-year family car. Adding more children. Saying goodbye to empty nest before it even began. Changes in family, in schedule, career, expectations, dreams. Endings, endings, endings.

But I no longer think of changes and endings as devastating. Painful at time, yes. But not without potential.

Yesterday, Faithlife Women featured a story I wrote about my family’s move from Arizona to Illinois when I was a little girl. I hated it. Cried for days. But now, 35 years past those first 6, I see that move as one of the best things that ever happened to me. Sometimes all a painful ending needs is the perspective of a different vantage point:

“I was not quite seven years old when my family moved from Tempe, Arizona to Bloomington, Illinois.

I still remember hiding myself in the living room drapes, peeking out every now and then to glare at the movers as they emptied our home of everything familiar. I watched, indignant and despairing, as if these men were thieves rather than employees doing a job.

The next day, our family pulled out of the driveway for the last time, leaving behind my Holly Hobby bedroom, my first best friend, and the front yard willow tree underneath which I had discovered the magic of imagination. Within a week, the moving van met us in another state to deliver all our belongings to our new home. And although the belongings were the same, somehow my 6-year-old self knew I would never be. Life as I knew it came to an abrupt end …” [Keep Reading]

Take a honest look at your life, today. What needs to end so you can enjoy a beautiful new beginning?

“How many children do you have?”

It’s one of the first questions I’m asked, whether speaking at a conference or paying for groceries. It’s an expected question, a natural one.

But I never know how to answer it.

I have five children at home, one in his own apartment twenty minutes away. The oldest is 21, the youngest is 6. But only one of my six children called me “Mom” from birth. Only one shares my genetics, brown eyes and mischievous smile. Only one did I nurse and swaddle and witness his first smile.

The other five came to me in unexpected ways. Two from a second relationship, when still 5 and 6 years old. That relationship eventually became the marriage I treasure today, over twelve years strong. At times they’ve called me mom, but the biology is different.

Does it count?

And what about the youngest three? They’ve been in our home for not-quite two years. They call me “Mom” daily, the former “Aunt” reference fading. Still, they know my perch in the family tree is not as “birth mom.” Another woman carries that title.

So, on Mother’s Day Sunday, when my pastor asked the moms of four or more children to stand, I didn’t know what to do.

“Should I stand up?” I grabbed my husband’s wrist, whispered in his ear.

“What?” He didn’t understand my question.

“Should I stand up? Do I count all six of our kids or just one?”

He shrugged. I waited, needing his validation.

“Sure, go ahead. You’re their mom.”

So I stood up, along with a couple dozen other moms. But then, doubt. Loads of it. Did the pastor require proof? Birth certificates? Court orders? Blood tests? Baby books and snippets of hair?

If so, I’d have to confess my fraudulence to a packed room of perfectly traditional parents.

Ugh. Anything but that.

This is my very real struggle. One I share with scores of silent women (and men, for that matter). At times I wonder if it’s just me and my skewed perception. But then a dear friend, who didn’t mean to offend, asked me only yesterday:

“Did you stand up at church on Sunday? How many kids did you say you have?”

Ouch. Exactly. Her question confirmed my fear:

My sense of unworthiness isn’t insecurity. It’s cultural perception of what it takes to be a “real” mom. I may love my six children as if I’d given birth to each one. But without a certificate or blood test, I don’t measure up.

There are many of us “un-moms” out there. The step-mom. Foster mom. Guardian mom. Kinship mom. Mentor mom. Even, at times, the adoptive mom. Regardless of the dinners made, homework assignments completed, conversations shared, and “I love you’s” given, she’s discounted as less than ideal. Less than enough.

It isn’t right. Maybe not intentional. But it’s real.

So what do we do?

At the least, it warrants a conversation. Even better, a commitment to see and actively support the thousands of men and women who fill gaps they didn’t create and love and lead children they didn’t birth. What they’re doing matters, and it does, indeed, count.

But the first step begins with the un-mom herself. The one who doubts her significance and wrestles with her role.

Yes, you.

[And me.]

So you didn’t wear maternity clothes and eat tacos at two in the morning. So you didn’t groan for twenty-one hours of labor until the doctor dropped a squalling child in your arms.

So what.

You said “I do” and opened your arms to children you didn’t birth. You said, “Yes,” and welcomed a troubled child with no where else to go. You signed papers and set up extra bedrooms and got that extra job.

A birth certificate isn’t the measure of a mom; what you do with the gift you’ve been given is. Don’t wait for the world’s validation. God has given you a sacred responsibility. For whatever reason, He brought you—YOU—a child needing your love.

Do it well. Stand up and take your place as a lover and molder of children.

You are a mother.

Do you know a non-traditional mom, someone who is investing in a child she didn’t birth? Tell us about her. Then send her this post. You’ll make her day. 

We sat at a restaurant table, eating burgers and fries. Rather, he ate. I picked.

From “Jesus Calling,” by Sarah Young

“It’s nothing personal.” He talked casually, not knowing how much his words seared me. “It has nothing to do with your performance. You’re great. We just can’t afford to keep doing business the way we have been. We’re losing too much money.”

A noble attempt to reassure, but I couldn’t get past his last words:

“We need to let you go.”

My head told me to take it at face value. I should believe his explanation, understand the business side of these decisions and walk away with head high and heart secure. These things happen, all the time.

But deep down, in a wounded area I couldn’t quite identify, I believed this instead:

If I was good enough, they wouldn’t let me go.

It’s been years since that day. But the experience reinforced a long-held belief. As did the writing rejections. The divorce. The children who rebelled. The friend who walked away. In every case, I held my inadequacy responsible.

If I was enough, they wouldn’t have left.

And so I worked, worked, worked to be the best wife, the best friend, the best writer, the best mother.

You do the same. I heard your words when we spoke after the event in Pennsylvania. I saw the doubt in your eyes even as I stood on the stage speaking in Texas. You lose a friend, and blame yourself. You watch a child struggle, and question your mothering. You take in all life’s rough edges and losses and rejections and assume somehow you are to blame for every. last. one.

But sometimes rejection is more about them than you. And your worth is never, ever tied to your work.

“Do you know how much I love you?” I ask my six-year-old the same question we rehearse nearly every night as I tuck him into bed. He’s desperate to know he matters. Maybe one day he’ll finally understand my answers are rock, not fog.

“So much!” He spreads his arms wide, although I’m certain he doesn’t yet believe in a love that will not leave. There’s been too much evidence to the contrary.

“Yes, so much.” I smile. Then ask another, more telling question: “And will I ever, ever stop?”

“NO!” He announces it, proud, like he can’t quite believe something so good can actually be his.

“You got it, buddy. Never.” I rustle his hair, look him in the eye. “Even when you’re having a bad day. Even when you scream and don’t listen. Even when I get frustrated and put you in time out. I love you. Always.”

I lean down and kiss his forehead, knowing he’ll be smiling long after I turn off the light. Even so, I know we’ll need to go through the questions again tomorrow.

I walk away, wondering when—oh, when?—our reassurances will show fruit. It takes such effort when the words don’t seem to stick. The thought is barely finished before I hear a question, this time asked by Someone other than me:

Do you know how much I love you?

How often I forget, how desperately I need to hear it.

So much. I answer Him. So very much. 

And will I ever stop?

He pushes me a little bit further, hoping I hear Him better this time, deeper. Understand—finally—His words are rock, not fog. I remember the missteps and mistakes, the wandering and doubting. How I worked so hard to be enough. Defeated, I put my worth up for sale. Still … 

No. You never let me go. Never will. 

Worth without work. Love without loss. Rock, not fog.

Chances are, we’ll go through this again tomorrow. He’ll again ask the questions. I’ll again remember.

But this time, today, I smile as I shut my boy’s door.

And something deep inside me rests.

Have you ever equated your worth with work and results? 

I originally scheduled another post for today. But it seemed trite, in light of suffering.

Yesterday morning, soon after I snagged my first cup of coffee and before the sun had filled the sky, I read the following. Later in the day, when news out of Boston slammed against my chest, I thought of it again.

I have no words. But Tozer’s give me something stronger than all my “why” questions to lean into to. I hope they do the same for you.

In this world where men forget us, change their attitude toward us as their private interests dictate, and revise their opinion of us for the slightest cause, is it not a source of wondrous strength to know that the God with whom we have to do changes not? That His attitude toward us now is the same as it was in eternity past and will be in eternity to come?…

In coming to Him at any time we need not wonder whether we shall find Him in a receptive mood. He is always receptive to misery and need, as well as to love and faith. He does not keep office hours no set aside periods when He will see no one. Neither does He change His mind about anything. Today, this moment, He feels toward His creatures, toward babies, toward the sick, the fallen, the sinful, exactly as He did when He sent His only-begotten Son into the world to die for mankind.

God never changes moods or cools off in His affections or loses enthusiasm. His attitude toward sin is now the same as it was when he drove out the sinful man from the eastward garden, and His attitude toward the sinner the same as when He stretched forth His hands and cried, “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”  —A. W. Tozer, The Knowledge of the Holy

Earlier this year, on a particularly frustrating day, I wrote a letter “To the Mom Who Can’t Keep Up.”

I felt exhausted, overwhelmed. No matter how hard I worked, I couldn’t seem to stay on top of all the to-do’s. I wanted to either scream or cry. Maybe both. Instead, I wrote this letter.

Before lunch the next day, it would become (by far) my popular post. Thousands of readers commented or shared, expressing similar angst over the never-ending expectations and failures of motherhood. To my great relief, I was not alone.

Jill Savage, Founder and President of Hearts At Home and author of nine books, recently released a new book that speaks to this wrestling with imperfection: No More Perfect Moms: Learn to Love Your Real Life. Jill has been a dear friend for more than twenty years. What I love most about her? She’s imperfect, just like you and me. At the end of this post, I’ll tell you how you can get a free copy of her book. For now, welcome my good friend, Jill: 

***

When child number one threw a fit in the grocery store one day, screaming at the top of her lungs in this very public place, I was so embarrassed. I’d witnessed a scene like that before I had children, and I swore my kids would never do that. Since becoming a mom, I’ve found myself in all kinds of situations I never thought I’d be in.

When the kids didn’t sleep much, I found myself beyond weary. When they didn’t potty train as quickly as other kids their age, I was discouraged. When they grew older and began to have a mind of their own, I found myself exhausted from the conflict.

I’m less patient than I thought I’d be. I weigh more than I want to. My children are more strong-willed than I expected. At times, my marriage isn’t the “happily ever after” I dreamed it would be.

Inside I think thoughts like: I don’t measure up. I’m failing as a mom. My kids don’t act like her kids. My house doesn’t look like her house. My body doesn’t look like her body. My husband doesn’t help like her husband does. What is wrong with me?

Have you ever felt that way? Have you wondered what is wrong with you, with your family, with your kids? The truth is that nothing is wrong with you or your family—or me and my family. We are all normal. Our frustrations are normal. Our disappointments are normal. Our struggles are normal.

When you and I compare our insides to other women’s outsides, we always come out short. We’re comparing our struggles to their masks.

There are no perfect moms (just women who make a good outward appearance). There are no perfect kids (just kids who are dressed well and behave well just when you see them). There are no perfect houses (just ones where the clutter is cleverly stored!) There are no perfect bodies (just ones who know the beauty of Spanx!)

Perfection doesn’t exist…but unfortunately we waste a lot of time and energy pursuing the elusive mirage we’re just sure can be found. While we’re pursuing perfection, we’re missing out on the most precious parts of life: the laughter of silliness, the joy of spontaneity, the lessons found in failure, and the freedom found in grace.

Let’s give ourselves—and our family–the gift of grace to make mistakes. We can’t be perfect moms, but we are the perfect mom for our kids.

Where do you most often fight feelings of failure: mothering, appearance, housekeeping, marriage, or ???

FREE BOOK GIVEAWAY: Today I’m giving away one copy of Jill Savage’s book, No More Perfect Moms. If you want to be included in the drawing, make sure you leave your name, email address, and blog comment below. And don’t forget to use the share buttons below to link this post on Facebook and Twitter.

WANT THE SUPPORT OF OTHER IMPERFECT MOMS? Jill is leading an online, Facebook study beginning Tuesday, April 16. Hundreds of moms have already joined. You don’t have to do this alone! Find out more information and join the group by clicking here.

When I first held my newborn child, I never dreamed being a mother might one day break my heart. I only pictured play dates at the park, books read by the bedtime nightlight, and chubby little hands holding my own. Anything less seemed inconceivable.

But then my babies grew up, entered adolescence. They became less boys and more men, less adoring and more questioning. They developed their own dreams and ideas, pushed against my convictions and fought my best attempts to guide. At every turn, I found myself negotiating and wrestling with near-adults who once savored my words but now argued with every. last. one.

Bless their hearts. Not nearly as adorable as when they were born.

Independence is expected, but it’s tough to watch our children chart their own course. Especially when their course is so different from our own. Whether it’s the friends they choose or the pastimes they pursue, we lose sleep and pace floors, afraid a day will come when we lose them for good.

And, much as we hope otherwise, at times we do. Life writes prodigal stories in even the best of homes.

If this is you, you’re not alone. I have no words, no promises your child will “figure it out.” And until she does, your ache will remain.

I can tell you this: the waiting doesn’t have to rob you of living. You may not be able to make her choose better, may not be able to save her from herself. But you can fight worry while you wait for her to come home:

Let Go. Sleepless nights have been a staple since my boys became teenagers. My worry worked itself out in the dark of my bedroom. But sometimes my motherly concern morphed into something far more dangerous: Control. As a mom of children who are now adults, I wish I would’ve learned how to let them go. I can teach integrity and responsibility, make them put their dishes away and brush their teeth. But when adulthood snatches them out of my grasp, there is little I can do force the course of their life. My over-control does nothing but close doors. I have to let go, and allow my children to find their way.

Never Stop Saying “I love you.” Last week, I read a poignant tribute by Frank Schaeffer to his mother, Edith, who recently passed. Although she was a woman of devout and bold faith, he spent years outright rejecting her certainty for cynicism. Now, decades later, he believes in the God his mother adored. Why? Because she never compromised either her beliefs or her love for him. You will not not always agree. But never, never stop saying “I love you.”

Pray Like a Life Depends on It (it might). Recently, when concern over one of my children brought me to tears, I struggled to think of something I could do. Surely I could say something, convince him of wisdom. But, in my heart, I knew I’d already said enough. That’s when I realized I’d neglected the one “do” that could make a difference: I knelt on our family room floor and prayed.

“When I think of all this, I fall to my knees and pray to the Father… I pray that from his glorious, unlimited resources he will empower you, my child, with inner strength through his Spirit. Then Christ will make his home in your heart as you trust in him. Your roots will grow down into God’s love and keep you strong. And may you, my child, have the power to understand, as all God’s people should, how wide, how long, how high, and how deep his love is. May you experience the love of Christ, though it is too great to understand fully. Then you will be made complete with all the fullness of life and power that comes from God.” —Eph. 3:14-17 (NLT)

Let go. Love. Pray. This may be your best parenting yet.

Have you known the grief of watching a child (or loved one) struggle? How did you cope?