The story of Jesus in the temple at age 12 (Luke 2:41-52) has always left me feeling uneasy with more questions than answers. Where did Jesus sleep each night for five nights? Did someone invite Him home with them after dark? How did He get food? Did He even eat? Did He have enough money in His pocket? Where did the crowds go without any port-a-potties?
How did Mary and Joseph feel? One day to travel toward home, one day back, search for three days. Not only had they missed out on five days’ worth of work back home, but they’d misplaced the Son of God! This mother’s heart would have vacillated between fear and anger, between trusting God that He would take care of His Son, and relief that He was safe. And if Jesus weren’t considered a man, she’d be tempted to give Him His first whipping for being so uncaring, irresponsible, and self-centered. “How could you do this to us?” she cried.
I wonder if Mary’s faith grew ten times that day, or if she became triggered every time Jesus wandered too far from the back door after they returned home.
And then I look at it from Jesus’ viewpoint. Did He even realize His parents had left? Was He so engrossed in being “in the zone,” where He felt closest to Home that He was unaware of what day it was? He wasn’t being disobedient, for His parents never said, “Come, Son, it’s time to go,” and He didn’t respond with a whine, “Do I have to?” Was He just being a boy, acting like a boy/almost man, not to think about how this would affect His family? Or was He unconcerned, for He knew He was safe, and He knew they would be okay. He’s not responsible for their emotional well-being. No codependency there!
How did Jesus respond to His mom’s accusation? He was actually surprised they’d been searching for Him. He knew where He was; why didn’t they? He didn’t apologize or self-defend. He put it back on her. “Didn’t you know . . .?” Was Jesus being inconsiderate? Unkind? (I don’t think so, for as the Son of God, I believe He could do no wrong.)
How was Jesus at age 12 a reflection of the Father’s heart? Here was an opportunity to spend time with His real dad. Here was a chance to listen to and receive instruction from the seat of power and authority and instruction in His dad’s holy Scriptures. THE WORD was hearing about the Word as a growing, learning, almost-teen-age human.
Relationship and truth with God are more important than even human relationships. “I MUST be about my Father’s business; I MUST be in My Father’s house; the Son of Man must suffer; the Gospel MUST first be proclaimed to the Jews; I MUST preach the Kingdom of God to other cities; The Son of Man MUST be delivered into the hands of sinful men and be crucified, and the third day rise again; all things MUST be fulfilled; you MUST be born again; so MUST the Son of Man be lifted up; we MUST worship Him in spirit and in truth; I MUST work the works of Him that sent Me; other sheep I MUST bring in.”
“Must” feels like a divine appointment that Jesus kept, but I still feel the story through His mother’s eyes.
I am an old woman. One hundred twenty to be exact. I’ve lived a long, full life, and it’s time to set my house in order and write my memoirs. To be honest, it’s not just my age that triggered these thoughts. Recently, some foreign traders stopped by to sell us some trinkets, and I recognized a gold bracelet of mine that’s been missing for years. I remember it disappeared the day of the big feast. I assumed a slave girl of mine had stolen it, and I’ve held a grudge against her all these years. I think it’s time to make things right between us. Let me tell you how it happened.
It all began when my husband Abraham bought me a gift—a beautiful 12-year-old girl from Egypt. I remember the first time I saw Hagar. She seemed frightened and shy, but she had a spirit about her, an air of determination that was unusual for slaves. I took her under my wing immediately and taught her how to cook and keep house for me. She was quick and bright and seemed eager to please. As her body began to blossom, I noticed Abraham eyeing her occasionally, but he never touched her. He was too loyal to me to be tempted by her beauty. And I was careful to always meet his needs.
About this time, my husband had another one of those encounters with God. He claimed God told him he was going to have a son whose descendants would grow into a mighty nation. He was ecstatic. I thought him a fool at the time. After all, I was too old to have a baby, and he’d never been with another woman. But he insisted God would keep his promise somehow, and he believed Him.
That got me to thinking. All my life I’d longed to have a baby. Abraham desperately wanted an heir for all his wealth. But me? I just ached to hold an infant in my arms and feel him suckle at my breast. Never mind the embarrassment and shame of not being able to produce a child; I just wanted to know what it was like to feel life inside me. But it seemed that God had shut up my womb forever.
And so I got an idea. If I couldn’t have a baby of my own, perhaps there was another way. What if I persuaded Abraham to sleep with Hagar? A child half mine to cuddle and play with was better than none. When I suggested this possibility to him, he agreed, but only if he married the girl first. Then the child could be a legitimate heir.
What a delight to my soul the day Hagar hinted that she might be pregnant. I was to have my baby at last. But something unexpected happened. Her attitude toward me began to change. I noticed it first in the way she tossed her head, like she was something special. Later she turned surly and haughty, as if she thought herself better than me. I couldn’t understand it. Here I’d given her favored status, with the best tent and food, and even shared my husband with her . . . and this was all the thanks I got?
It must have been Abraham’s fault, and I told him so. Though I was still considered beautiful by any standard, I could not compete with the lithe, young body of my slave girl. Abraham was spending more time with her at night, and I could see him watching her throughout the day. I’m ashamed I started to make life miserable for her. I sent her on long errands and demanded more physical labor to keep her out of the tent.
One day she stayed away longer than usual, and I started to worry. What if something happened to my child? What if she ran away and Abraham blamed me? I was most relieved when she showed up two days later. I could tell she’d been crying, and I was about to open my mouth to scold her for staying away so long, when something in her face stopped me. Something had changed. She had lost her defiance. Maybe she realized now where her bread and cheese came from. “That’s better,” I thought. She returned to work, but she avoided me as much as possible. That was okay with me, though, because I had mixed feelings every time I saw her swelling belly.
At last the day came for the birth. Abraham and I could hardly contain our joy. I took over immediately the oversight of all little Ishmael’s needs. Of course I had to depend on Hagar to feed him for me, but the rest of the time, he was mine to play with and cuddle while she worked.
Abraham doted on him too. He gave him the best of the best. What Ishmael wanted, Ishmael received. But something was wrong. I blamed Hagar for how he turned out—a surly, angry young man. Much to my dismay, he seemed to have an interest in hunting rather than sheep herding, and Abraham indulged him with the finest bow and arrow on his twelfth birthday. As a mom, I disapproved, but at this point I had little to say in the matter. He was a man now.
And then, a year later, the most extraordinary thing happened. Some out-of-town visitors dropped by and told Abraham that he and I would have a son by this time next year. I just laughed. Abraham was no spring chicken! And me? Couldn’t they see my wrinkles? They should have realized I was way past the time for enjoying this pleasure. But they insisted they told the truth, and I was afraid when they challenged me.
Oh, just a minute. See that handsome young man over there by the well? That’s Isaac . . . my son. You see, the men were right! Unbelievable! Not only did I get pregnant, but I got a name change too—from Sarai to Sarah. That’s when I learned that nothing is too hard for the Lord!
But I need to finish my story of Hagar. The day came for Isaac to be weaned. Hagar had remained aloof during my pregnancy and even more distant after Isaac was born. I didn’t mind. I was pretty preoccupied with what was happening in my own life. But on the day of the big feast, something happened that I’ve lived to regret.
I think Hagar was feeling left out of the festivities, and I can only imagine now how she must have felt to see her own son lose his favored status and position. I’m sure she must have said something to Ishmael, because early that morning I came upon the two of them whispering by the woodpile.
Later that afternoon, three-year-old Isaac came running to my tent, bawling like he’d been trampled by a camel. When I finally got him calmed down with the promise of a treat, he pointed toward Ishmael’s tent. It seems Ishmael had lured him into his domicile, then ripped his cloak off and started mocking him for being a cry-baby when he protested. Claimed he was the first-born, and he would make Isaac mind him, or he’d hurt him. A servant nearby heard the commotion and rescued Isaac before any more harm could be done.
I was livid. Nobody, but nobody, was allowed to touch my son, least of all a slave child. I immediately accosted Abraham and demanded he get rid of “that woman and her son.” There was no way I was going to allow him to share in Abraham’s inheritance after God had promised the blessing would come through Isaac.
I’m sorry. Please forgive my tears. I felt something had died in Abraham that day. I know I hurt him deeply with my tirade, for I knew how much he cared for Ishmael. I’ve since begged his forgiveness, and he’s assured me that God has healed the hurt. I’m glad. But it didn’t bring Ishmael back. He and Hagar left the next morning, having missed out on the feast the night before. We’ve never heard from them since.
Life went back to normal after that—if raising a child at age 93 can be considered normal! Isaac was the apple of my eye. We had a very special bond as mother and son—still do. I’m so proud of how he’s turned out. But he needs to know the stories of his childhood before I die. And I need to relieve my conscience and find some peace in my old age.
So here’s what I did. I bought back my bracelet from that trader and asked where he’d gotten it. He said he’d had it for a long time. He was passing by a woman and her son one time on the trade route, when she stopped him and begged him to trade it for some food. She looked pretty desperate, so he did. Even gave her some money for it. He said his wife loved that bracelet, but when she died, he decided to get rid of it.
I know it’s a long shot, but I plan to give it back to Hagar if my servant can find her. I want her to know that I’ve forgiven her, but most of all I want to ask her forgiveness for the way I treated her. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to rest a bit before I tell you my next story.
In the Good Friday service tonight, I saw a visual of a thin waif. As we partook of the elements of communion, I shared them with her and she revived.
“Who is this, Lord?” I asked.
“She’s the young mom you were, trying to raise your daughters, mistakes and all. You’ve not been kind to that self.”
And as we sang, I helped the waif nail her shame, chains, and guilt, regrets, disappointments and should-haves to the cross, and I forgave her for being “less than.”
Looking back, I wonder how different I would have been as a wife and mom had I known then what I know now. I would have stayed more present, rather than hiding my true self. I kept her safe and hidden for almost 20 years, and another 10 before she fully came back to life.
I can hide parts of my heart from myself or from others or even try to hide them from God. But God knows each part intimately and wants connection with each one.
Check out these verses on hiddenness.
Times are not hidden from the Almighty (Job 24:1 KJV).
Thou desirest truth in the inward parts: and in the hidden part thou shalt make me to know wisdom (Psalm 51:6 KJV).
And God who knows the heart . . . (Acts 15:8 ESV).
I’m still learning what is appropriate and what isn’t in relationship with an adult child under our roof. Is it reasonable to expect our daughter to pick up after herself in family living areas? To help with the dishes? With cooking? With cleaning the house? And if she chooses not to, how do I approach the subject with her? I realize communication at this point can be tricky. My expectations and desires for a neat and tidy house must be subservient to maintaining relationship. Therefore, I am far more tolerant of mess than I would be if I were still trying to train her.
Child-training was like using all my strength to pull three girls in a wagon who are pushing and shoving and fighting each other. If I insisted they get out of the wagon occasionally to walk on their own or help push a little, they whined, “We’re too tired!” (Well, so are the parents!)
The trouble is when children get comfortable in the wagon, they expect you to bring their food to them and clean their play area even though they’re old enough to clean it themselves, and you trip over the toys, and have to clean around them. Where did I go wrong in my parenting that my training didn’t stick?
Now that they’re grown and living with us, it’s time to drop the wagon handle. The challenge is not to become resentful or nagging when they don’t join me in household chores.
While living in a college dorm, our one daughter discovered firsthand what it felt like to have a roommate who never cleaned up after herself in the kitchen. So when she came home, I was delighted to hear of her intentions to help out more with the dishes. So if she’s too tired to help out for a couple days, do I hold her to her good intentions? Do I feel resentful when I return home to find breakfast dishes still in the sink? So she slept late that day, worked the entire day, and ran out of energy before the work was done after supper . . . (welcome to the grownup world, kiddo!) I do not fault her, but I do have to figure out what is an appropriate response.
Jesus says, “Whistle while you work.” Praise Him that I have two arms and two hands. Praise Him that I’m not in a wheelchair and unable to stand at the sink. Change my attitude and enjoy the brief time I have with my daughter. She’ll soon be gone, and I’ll miss her.
A 2023 Update. Now that my girls have homes of their own, it’s fun to watch them struggle through the challenges of training rambunctious boys to put away their clothes or help in the kitchen. And when they come to Grandma’s house for a visit, chaos reigns for a few hours or days and I love them all. But when they go, tidy returns. I guess you can’t have it both ways!
I was reared in a small African village without the basics of running water, electricity, or flush toilets and, thus, no TV or movies. I remember as a first grader on furlough being mesmerized by black-and-white cartoons flashing across the screen of my Grandpa Peterson’s small TV set, and then again four years later, on our next furlough, unable to unglue my eyes from this novelty.
I struggle to navigate parenthood without experiential knowledge in monitoring entertainment. What makes a good story great? What details make it acceptable? What scenes are suitable for my children to watch? What images will leave them with nightmares and fears? At what age do I allow exposure to realistic scenes? When is violence and sexual content and adult language appropriate and for what audience? I don’t think I can predict what that limit is . . . until it’s too late. These decisions for my children are messy ones for each stage of their growth. How can I be wise, balanced, and sensitive to their needs? How can I push back against the culture?
Unfortunately, some children experience far too much reality for their age; others are exposed to it by their peers. How long can I or should I shelter their innocence? Information, should they desire to gain access, is readily available but, as a parent, I have a responsibility to guide them.
I wrote the following to my youngest daughter when she turned 18 on October 8, 2005,
I turned 18 in 1972, in Elkhart, Indiana. I had only been away from Nigeria (where I was born and reared) for a year. My parents had returned to the mission field, leaving me behind to stay with a middle-aged couple from our church for my senior year of high school. I felt lonely, displaced, liked a fish out of water. I had made a few friends from church, but attending a school of 2000 students felt a little overwhelming to my raised-in-the-African-bush senses.
Bell bottoms, paisley ties, leisure suits, flower children, mini (and maxi) skirts, the peace sign, and open love and drugs were all the rage. Schools were frequently closed for race riots. It felt a far cry from my missionary upbringing where skirts were modest, profanity was unheard of, and everybody knew all the words in the hymnbook by heart. I’d never heard of Elvis, and Christians shunned the Beatles who were known as a rebellious band because of their long hair. When Jesus Christ, Superstar came out, I thought I was living in a pagan society. I longed to fit in, but I didn’t know how to bridge the gap. Staying active in my church group became my sanctuary of sanity, but even there, I was considered a different class.
I remember the joy of occasionally walking home after school a couple miles in the snow, but more often than not, I got a ride with a Jehovah’s Witness girl in our neighborhood. Besides baby-sitting, I started my very first job working in the office of an aerosol packaging plant. Most days I bicycled to work. I bought my own (secondhand) sewing machine that year and made my own clothes to save money.
I knew that when I graduated, I wanted to attend college to become a missionary medical doctor, but I had no idea how to begin the process. A lady in our church encouraged me to go to Word of Life Bible Institute to get one year of solid Bible teaching before entering the secular arena. Not knowing what else to do, I listened to her advice, packed up a trunk with all my earthly belongings, along with my marimba, and in the fall I took off for New York State. (I subsequently decided I was not interested in medicine after all and continued my education at another Bible college.)
Happy Birthday, Katie. Thank you for the trip down memory lane. I pray that when you reach my age, you will look back on your life with as much delight and satisfaction as I have had to see the hand of God in every move you make. Stay true to Him. He will never leave you or forsake you, and that’s the truth!
From my 2009 Journal. I’m still learning what is appropriate and what isn’t in relationship with a newly-adult child under our roof. Is it reasonable to expect our daughter to pick up after herself in family living areas? To help with the dishes? With cooking? With cleaning the house? And if she chooses not to, when is it permissible to speak to her about it? I realize communication at this point can be tricky. My expectations and desires for a neat and tidy house must be subservient to maintaining relationship. Therefore, I am far more tolerant of mess than I would be if I were still trying to train her.
Living in a dorm situation she discovered firsthand what it feels like to have a roommate who never assists in the kitchen. So when she came home from college, I was delighted to hear of her intentions to help out more in the kitchen. But if she’s too tired to help out for a couple days, why do I hold her to her good intentions? Why do I feel resentful when I return home to find breakfast dishes still in the sink? So she slept late that day, worked the entire day, and ran out of energy before the work was done after supper . . . I do not fault her, but I do have to figure out why I feel what I do and what is an appropriate response.
VISUAL: As a young mom, I had three girls in a wagon, and I was pulling with all my strength, trying to get them to follow me. If I tried to get them out of the wagon to assist or to walk on their own, they whined and cried “We’re too tired!” and then they pushed and shoved and fought each other. What am I doing wrong?
How did a friend of mine get her children out of the wagon and behind the thing or in front to help? I don’t know. I just know that I have to quit pulling. It’s time I drop the wagon handle and walk away. There’s work to be done. The trick now is not to become resentful or nagging or whining myself.
The trouble is when people in the wagon get comfortable there, they begin to expect you to bring their food to them and clean the playpen for them. But now they’re old enough to clean their own area . . . and they don’t, and I trip over the toys and have to clean around them. It’s a perpetual issue with a husband too (sorry Scott). Relationships are messy!
I feel so many times like a Martha. Lord have mercy, and God forgive me!
So . . . I can “whistle while I work.” Praise God that I have two arms and two hands. Praise Him that I’m not in a wheelchair and unable to stand at the sink. Change my attitude and enjoy the brief time I have with my daughter. What’s a little mess matter when I can have her company. She’ll soon be gone and I’ll miss her.
From my 2009 Journal. What makes a good story great? What details make it acceptable? Realism? What scenes are acceptable for children to watch? What stories will leave them with nightmares and fears? At what point or age or maturity do we allow exposure to “reality”? Some unfortunate children experience far too much reality for their age. Some are more sensitive to violence and others to PG rating content and others to language. How long can we or should we as parents or grandparents shelter their innocence?
I don’t think we can predict what that limit is for a child . . . until it’s too late. We were pretty strict about what movies we allowed our girls to watch; but it wasn’t until she was an adult, that one of my imaginative daughters reported having had nightmares of spiders and wolves from our bedtime story The Hobbit. Who knew!
These decisions for our children are messy ones for each stage of their growth. How can we push back against the culture? My girls are grown now, and I don’t have to grapple anymore with these questions. But soon I may be influencing grandchildren, and I need to know what limits and boundaries are best for them.
And now it’s 2020, and I have 4 handsome grandsons to love on. I find I don’t think much about these questions anymore because I’ve relinquished all control and decisions to their parents (I’m thankful they have good boundaries). And when the boys are solely under my care, I’m far more apt to engage with them face-to-face with table games and hikes and playgrounds and reading or telling non-scary stories than to indulge in screen time together—or as one grandson calls it: “scream time” (and I’ll never correct him!)
In honor of the 10th anniversary of my mother’s death (has it really been that long!), here’s a piece I wrote for Mothers’ Day, 2005. Though hard to tell here, the original poem was in the shape of a pink (her favorite color) dress. She never wore a pair of pants in her entire life, and her unbraided hair reached down to her waist. I still miss her. For those who knew her, what would you add?
syn·cre·tism [ síngkrə tìzzəm ] (n.) A combination of different beliefs: the combination of different systems of philosophical or religious belief or practice
Medusa stone in a synagogue in ancient Korazim, Israel
I can’t say I’ve ever heard preached from a pulpit the following Bible story found in Judges 17 and 18. And I certainly never heard it told in Sunday school! In brief, a lady curses when her money comes up missing. When her son Micah admits that he took it, she responds, “Blessed be you by the Lord”! Okay, so it’s not uncommon to curse when you’re disappointed, but to bless your son in God’s name when you find your son has deceived you!? Really? I suppose she was responding in relief that the money had been found. Maybe James had this lady in mind when he talked about “the double-minded man who is unstable in all his ways” and “out of the same mouth come blessings and curses” (James 1:8; 3:10)
Now if that’s not strange enough, Micah’s mom says she’d had plans for the money: “I had dedicated the silver to the Lord for my son to make idols.” This Israelite woman is just a little mixed up, confused, deceived, double-minded, guilty of syncretism.
A confused mom yields a confused son. Micah sets up idols in his own house and then makes his own son his priest—until a Levite man comes along and consents to be his own private priest. Micah then claims, “Now I know that the Lord will favor me, since I have a Levite to be my priest.” (By Mosaic Law, only Levites were supposed to be priests.) What a mixture of beliefs: Seeking God’s favor through disobedience to His commands!
Later, the Danite tribe, en route to conquer some new territory, discover Micah’s stash: a carved image, an ephod, a teraphim, and a molten image. They persuade the Levite priest to join them instead—which he’s glad to do.
Here’s another mixed-up character. The priest’s place of service should have been solely at the tabernacle at Shiloh. He’s supposed to represent and worship the one true God, but in actuality he’s only lord over sticks and stones. And when given the opportunity, he gladly follows greed.
Note: Beware the lone wolf, the one without accountability. “In those days there was no king in Israel and everyone did what was right in his own eyes” (Judges 21:25).
Are there “servants of God” like this today? Yes, I think so. I was accosted by two Mormons yesterday—fully convinced they had the full truth. Just by reading the book of Mormon, they said, they had received blessings from God ten-fold. And wouldn’t I like to experience it too? And Jesus Christ figured prominently into their sentences. Mixed up? Joseph Smith vs. Jesus Christ. Hmmm.
As for the Danites, they set up those idols for themselves, led by . . . guess who? Moses’ grandson Jonathan of all people! Can that be possible? A grandfather’s godliness does not guarantee piety for his children or grandchildren. We all have choices in life. Even with a most godly example, we can choose to follow a path of rebellion. Jon knew all the stories by heart, I’m sure. He’d heard them rehearsed around the dinner table, recounted, and reiterated. He knew the 10 Rules that his grandpa carried down Mt Sinai. How could he, dare he, fall so far from God’s path to follow after the enemy’s path?
Now you know why I pray daily for my grandchildren.
In honor of the 10th anniversary of my mother’s death (has it really been that long!), here’s a piece I wrote for Mothers’ Day, 2005. Though hard to tell here, the original poem was in the shape of a pink (her favorite color) dress. She never wore a pair of pants in her entire life, and her unbraided hair reached down to her waist. I still miss her. For those who knew her, what would you add?
In the Pursuit of Peace 