Who else finds it odd, but still thoroughly enjoyable, to text with their children? Maybe it’s my age, (having grown up without this mode of communication between myself and my parents,) but I didn’t anticipate it as being part of the communication matrix with my own kids.
I actually love it.
I love when Jack randomly texts me during the day with some random fact about a random video game that he’s playing. Like a court-side announcer, he’ll also often send one line reports regarding the current squabble happening between Brenn and Meg. A few days ago I got a text that read, “MOM. I just saw the funniest thing…” which was followed by a delightful series of posts regarding something in a book he was reading. He’ll often just check up on me when I’m out running errands (“U Ok? Havin fun?”) and sometimes he’ll panic text me when he’s worried (“Mom I can’t find my math book!” “do you know where it is” “Mom I can’t find it” “its not where I left it” “what should I do??????”)
Our conversations are weirdly fun.
They’re also sometimes sanctifying.
Texting an apology to my teenage son (my words are in blue) was harder than I anticipated.
I’d left the house earlier that day for a scheduled trip out to Matanuska glacier in order to join Paul for a resiliency event he was hosting. The kids were staying home and finishing school work during the hours that I was away. Per murphy’s law, everything went to pieces in the hour leading up to my departure. Chaos descended. Tempers flared. Accusations were made and snarky comments were lobbed, grenade-like, into our pleasant afternoon.
It was a low point on the parenting scale of success.
A few hours later, while I was waiting for Paul at the glacier park entrance, Jack texted. And I sat for a beat longer than I probably should have before texting back with an apology. You see, part of my heart still felt like I shouldn’t have to ask my teenage son to forgive me. He should understand that his actions would make it difficult for any adult to maintain their cool. He should be chagrined for inconveniencing me and making my life harder. Right?
Apologizing rankles. I sometimes get indignant when the Holy Spirit prompts me to admit my fault and ask for forgiveness. It feels demeaning. It feels like losing. It feels awkward, uncomfortable, and like admitting that I was wrong...
…except, of course, I WAS wrong. Hurling hurtful words at my son, no matter what precipitated those words, is not right. I know this.
So why does this even matter? Why expend the emotional effort to go through the steps of repenting for my weaponized comments? Couldn't I just kinda, sorta admit the mistake in my head but never mention it out loud to anyone else?
Here's the problem: when talking about my belief system, I confidentially state that repentance is at the very heart of my faith. It's vital and important. I talk about it's beauty, the wonder of God's forgiveness for me. I revel in that fact that like the penitent prodigal son, I was welcomed into God's waiting, forgiving arms.
Sigh. This is amazing grace. Cue the music.
Somehow it's much harder to think of myself as a prodigal or appreciate the beauty and wonder of repentance when it's my son (or husband, or friend, or neighbor) and not God, who deserved my apology. There's no song declaring the beauty of confessing your sin of anger to a teenage son and then asking him to forgive you. Instead, I often hold tightly to the idea that I was not to blame. That I was justified in my anger. That my actions weren’t really THAT hurtful. That if anyone deserves an apology, it's ME.
It’s pride.
Self-righteous, self-protecting pride becomes more precious to me than relationships. Pride holds me a prisoner when I could be enjoying my relationships rather than just enduring them…stubbornly waiting for the other person to acknowledge their errors first. Pride lies to me and says that admitting fault means losing, and I want to WIN.
But what if by wanting to win, I actually lose? I lose the chance to have a better relationship with those I love. I lose the chance to listen to the Holy Spirit. Ultimately, I lose the chance to act on what I say I believe.
Conversely, requesting and receiving forgiveness can act as a reminder of the supernatural reconciliation that happened between myself and God. As such, it becomes a beautiful, (sometimes necessarily humbling) moment! Just like it did when I asked Jesus to forgive me that first time, asking for forgiveness is often a first step in the journey of relational healing, a necessary part of restoring person-to-person community.
That afternoon, as I sat and looked at my screen and its little words encased in blue, the Holy Spirit reminded me that admitting that my anger was wrong and asking Jack to forgive me was a better path—a path leading to life. It was better than pride. Better than brushing it off. Better than blaming. Better than carrying around my own sense of superiority. Better that I be found in HIS righteousness than feel justified in my own eyes. Better that I sacrifice my pride in order to have a thriving relationship with Jack.
It doesn’t look like a lot, but that little text to Jack carries a lot of relational weight. It was a moment of vulnerability with my son. It was a little painful. A little embarrassing. But I did it because I want to normalize this habit of relational living with Jack for a lifetime. I want him to see that repairing an interpersonal break before it grows into a schism is good, plain and simple. Whatever his habitual fault turns out to be in life (thankfully, he didn't seem to inherit my temper) I want him to know the steps for repairing any damage it causes. God loves me, and God loves Jack and God’s desire is for the two of us to live joyfully, peacefully together. If we want that too (and who doesn't,) apologies are necessary.
I want Jack to grow up thinking that apologies are as normal (though maybe not EASY) as sending a short text to Mom.
(Note: I shared my text, and our story, with Jack's approval : )
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