When I was young I had a list of names for my kids and big plans for how I'd raise them. All the media I'd been exposed to in my TV free life painted a powerful picture of how the family of faith would relate to God and to each other. Kurt and I would share Jesus all day long in every way possible. The kids would learn instant, unquestioning obedience. The whole world would be amazed at our little ducklings devotedly following us around in their matching outfits I had sewn myself. There is one electron microscopically small problem. No one in our family had follower DNA--not me, not Kurt, not one of my kids. Even the one girl who will do what's she's told has her, let's call them "spunky" moments, that's how we know she's ours.
I've felt like a failure since I pulled Mea out of her infant tub and she pulled a fit I was powerless to still. My kids aren't bad kids. They are very good kids, but they think for themselves. As embarrassing as it is some days, I wouldn't have it any other way. How are they supposed to find God if they are continually satisfied with me?
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