[Author’s Note #0: Yes, I still haven’t finished writing the last installment of my wedding planning saga. It’ll happen, though… one of these months.]
[Author’s Note #1: Be forewarned — this post will probably come across as a bit preachy, but that’s not its intent. I’m just conveying the stories as I remember them happening.]
[Author’s Note #2: The scope of this post is necessarily limited almost exclusively to stories of Borealis. I hope that, one day, I’ll write similar posts about my other children, too.]
Every child is raised with doctrine — whether explicit or otherwise.
To raise a child with no instruction about God is to raise them with this implicit lesson: “God isn’t important to your life, and you can be a good person by other means.”
In contrast, Taylor and I attempt to raise our children with a gospel-centered worldview, which translates to this: “God is the source and destination of your life, but your sins separate you from Him. Nobody can become a ‘good person’ on their own; the only way you can be reconciled to God is through accepting the free gift of salvation offered by Jesus Christ.”
We teach this to our children not because we think that it’s a good idea, but because we think that it’s true — and that distinction is important.
Here’s an illustration: recycling paper is a good idea, but gravity is true. You can lead a fulfilling life while denying the first; you cannot do so while denying the second.
The Good News of Jesus Christ is like gravity, and that’s why we teach it to our children.
Not surprisingly, Borealis has had the greatest capacity to absorb and process this doctrine — which, needless to say, has led to some very interesting conversations. This post tells the story of several recent such chats.
When I was little, I wasn’t much interested in pencil work. I could never get the lines quite right, and I didn’t have the patience to produce the immaculate coloring sheets of my more-dutiful female peers. (I mostly stuck to sculpting, where my imagination and spacial thinking gave me an edge.)
My very-left-brained husband had similar childhood inclinations. While he certainly has the patience to color flawlessly, he can’t draw with anything approaching confidence. Thus, for most of his life, he’s avoided the activity altogether… with one notable exception.
As a child, my husband loved to draw (and color) rainbows.
“I just really like how they’re so smooth, and how one color blends into the next,” he explained. “They were the only thing I could draw well.”
And somehow, defying genetic explanation, Taylor passed this rainbow-drawing-affinity down to Borealis — who now makes rainbows at every available opportunity.
Now, obviously, rainbows used to be of relatively neutral political symbolism. They’re optical phenomena that appear to everyone — not just to one side of the aisle.
However, in recent years, the rainbow has gone the ways of the elephant and the donkey: that is, it now means something very political. However, while we are extremely interested in teaching our children about Jesus Christ, we are not nearly as enthusiastic about prematurely baptizing them into our politics, as well.
And so, while Borealis scrawls rainbows on every available coloring sheet, cardboard box, and kid’s menu, Taylor and I grimly affirm that, yes Bo, your drawing is quite good — and yes, there are quite a lot of rainbows out and about this month.
This came to a head recently. As I was driving my three kids home, Bo chattered about his most recent drawings, then asked, “Can I get a shirt with a rainbow on it?”
I bit back my reflex-level response — Absolutely not! — because those sorts of low-information explanations don’t work well with my son.
Instead, taking a deep breath, I asked, “Bo, do you remember what the rainbow means?”
“God’s promise not to flood the earth again.” (Reference Genesis 9:13.)
I nodded. “Yes, and we know that. But in recent years, some people have said that the rainbow means something else, instead.”
“What?”
I chewed my lip for a second, because I wanted to be diplomatic. “Well, you know how we talked about God’s design for a family? That God wants there to be one daddy and one mommy?”
“And kids.”
“Yes, and kids,” I acknowledged.
“And babies!” Australis added.
I chuckled. “Yes, and babies.”
“Rhysi is a baby!” she noted.
“And Rhysi’s asleep,” Bo added.
“Ok, yes, one daddy and one mommy and kids and babies,” I exasperatedly summarized. “But some families have just a daddy or just a mommy, and some families have two daddies or two mommies.”
“But that’s not God’s design,” Bo answered.
“Exactly. But nowadays, that’s sort of what people think when they see rainbows. So that’s why I don’t want to get you a shirt with a rainbow on it — because people might see it and think that you don’t agree with God’s design for families.”
Bo was quiet for a long time, and I started to think that he would actually assent to my reasoning.
But then he announced this: “Well, when I wear my rainbow shirt, I will tell everyone I see that it’s just for God’s promise.”
“Uhhhhhhh….” I stalled. My mind raced, but I really had no argument against this solution. Eventually, I relented, “Maaaaaaaybe.”
… because when Borealis says he’ll do something, he does it.
This commitment to principle was demonstrated in another recent anecdote. One morning, Borealis — quite unprompted — told me, “Jesus is the Son of God.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “He is. I believe that. You should believe it, too: not because I believe it, but because it’s true.”
“Well, I do believe it,” Bo countered.
“That’s good. Not everyone does.”
“Why?”
I thought for a moment. “I think… for a lot of people, they just haven’t really examined the evidence yet. Like, they don’t realize that Jesus is vital to their life, so they don’t take the time to think about whether He is or isn’t the Son of God.”
Bo furrowed his Eisenhower-esque brow. “But… does Dina believe that Jesus is the Son of God?”
“Uh….” I stalled. (I do a lot of conversational stalling with my oldest child.) Bo was asking about his fourteen-year-old babysitter — the one who celebrated her bat mitzah last summer.
So, eventually, I answered, “No, Dina doesn’t believe that Jesus is the Son of God.”
“Why not?”
“Because her family is culturally Jewish,” I answered. “And most Jews believe that Jesus was a prophet, but not that He was the Son of God.”
Bo straightened in his seat. “Well, then we need to tell her!”
My eyebrows rose. “You want to tell Dina that Jesus is the Son of God?”
“Yes. And that He died for her sins, and that He rose again.”
This was a conundrum for me. Truly, I want Dina to believe these truths — but these conversations don’t take place in a vacuum. There’s a bit of a power differential between Dina and me — what with the mother-vs.-babysitter dynamic — plus I think she still holds a grudge from that one time when our dog mauled hers. (Reference How to Save a Dog, Part II.)
In short: I feel like our relationship needs a bit more rebuilding before I’ll have the social capital by which to share the gospel with Dina.
Borealis, however, did not feel that way. Impatient with my silence, he concluded, “I’m just going to tell her tonight, when she comes over.”
“Oh yeah, that’s tonight,” I muttered. Dina was filling in for Vienna, our normal sitter. I scrutinized my resolute son, then offered one more caution. “You know, sometimes people don’t really wanna hear the truth about Jesus — it takes a bit of time for them to come around. Do you maybe wanna give Dina a little bit more time?”
“Nope, I’m gonna tell her tonight.”
And that is exactly what he did.
Dina arrived as I prepared to leave for Life Group. The babysitter had no sooner doffed her shoes when an overeager Borealis grabbed her hand, pulled her forcefully to his bedroom, opened his Bible, and bellowed, “JESUS IS THE SON OF GOD, AND HE DIED FOR YOUR SINS, AND YOU NEED TO BELIEVE THAT!”
I was immensely proud of my son — but I was also overcome with embarrassed giggles. I temporarily swallowed my laughter to yell, “Bye! We’ll be back at seven!” — and then I cravenly fled the scene.
Dina skittered home as soon as we returned — not staying long enough even for Venmo to complete our transaction. So, not necessarily the most promising sign.
Borealis, too, seemed a bit miffed by her taciturnity. He let out a long, dramatic groan, then complained, “I told Dina that Jesus is the Son of God, and she didn’t even say anything back! NOTHING AT ALL!”
Once again, I swallowed a bout of inappropriate giggles — not least because of my son’s expectant, exasperated expression. Finally, I managed, “Borealis, I am so proud of you for telling Dina about Jesus. When we care about someone, we want them to know the truth, and that’s what you did tonight. But, do you remember what else I said this morning?”
“No.”
I rolled my eyes at his tactless honesty — then I squeezed him in a hug and said, “Sometimes, people aren’t ready to hear the truth. Sometimes they need more time before they’re able to understand about Jesus.”
Bo furrowed his brow once more. Finally, he announced, “Well, then I will just have to tell Dina about Jesus, again.”
I laughed. “Yes, I agree — but maybe give her a bit more time, ok?”
“Ok, Mommy.”
Bo gave me a quick kiss, then ran off to find his sister.
Taylor slid silently into the room and enfolded me in a hug from behind.
“You’re a good mommy,” he said.
“Ha! Flattery will get you nowhere.”
“I’m not flattering you,” he flattered me. “Just look at what a good kid Bo is turning out to be.”
This forcibly reminded me of the monster baby with whom we started. (For a “fun” throwback, reference Traveling with a Strong-Willed Child.) Indeed, one would think that I’ve had at least something to do with Bo’s maturation, right?
Just as quickly, though, I pushed away my inclination toward pride. After all, most of Bo’s sin patterns stem from me — whether directly or indirectly. He is certainly my biological and spiritual heir.
Finally, I acquiesced, “Well, I agree that we’ve become better parents over time — but Borealis is a good kid, regardless of us. I think…” I paused, then concluded, “I think God has just given him a good heart.”
For the next several days, I thought about hearts: how the “natural” human heart is hard, and how it can only be softened by God’s grace — either universal or specific. Bo’s warmth toward Jesus seemed to suggest that, at some level, God truly is softening his heart. (Even if my son is frequently still an obstinate mule.) After all, no amount of head knowledge can force my kids to love Jesus — but Borealis is increasingly showing a fledgeling heart-level affection thereof.
Another unexpected conversation soon provided corroborating evidence. It was a lazy, housebound morning: Bo and Aza picked away at a puzzle, while Rhys expressed his dissatisfaction with the imminent end of our breastfeeding journey. Now that I’m no longer donating breastmilk, my supply has plummeted — much to my baby’s dismay. He’s taken to piteously moaning “Mehhhhhh-meeeeeee!” while pawing wildly at my chest and sloppily signing Milk.
When I inevitably relent, he suckles for about twenty seconds, then detaches and runs off to find a new source of entertainment — which will last for only a few minutes, until he realizes that he’s still a skosh hungry… at which point, the process repeats. Sometime soon, I’ll work up the fortitude to stop this cycle — but I’m not quite there yet.
[Author’s Note: Over the course of writing this piece, I have worked up said fortitude. Rhys has not been pleased.]
Anyway, we were on our fourth or fifth round of speed nursing when Borealis looked up and said, “Mommy… you really like babies.”
I laughed at this unexpected observation, because apparently my growing frustration was not as obvious as I thought. So, I tiredly answered, “Yes, Borealis, I like babies.”
Bo sat back and raised an eyebrow. “But do you know what the best thing ever is? Glorifying God.”
I blinked in shock. Am I being Punk’d? Who *is* this kid?
Bo, meanwhile, remained perfectly placid — and I realized that I ought not to waste this teaching opportunity.
I gathered my wits and answered, “Yes, Bo: glorifying God is the best thing ever — even when it doesn’t feel like it. But even when glorifying God doesn’t feel like the best thing ever, it still is. It helps us recalibrate our souls and spirits so that we remember who we are, and how much God loves us!”
Bo nodded pensively. “Well… sometimes I feel like eating cake is the best thing ever.”
“Ha!” I barked. “Yes, well, sometimes it feels like that. But even when you’re eating cake, glorifying God is still the best thing ever.”
Bo squinted in concentration, then finally assented, “Um… I guess so.”
I laughed again. “Plus, you can glorify God while eating cake.”
Bo cocked an eyebrow. “So can I have cake right now?”
“Ha! No.”
“But can we play Tears of the Kingdom?”
“Well… maybe for a little bit.”
Is it good parenting to play Tears of the Kingdom with one’s young children? Probably not — which is why we’re taking a long break from the game in an attempt to quell Bo’s burgeoning video game addiction.
However, even though The Legend of Zelda isn’t the epitome of good parenting, the game still offers numerous opportunities for gospel-centered discussions.
For instance, when we earn a Light of Blessing — which “purges ancient evil and purifies with its radiance” — Bo knows to clarify that, “Only Jesus can purge us of evil.”
And when we “pray” to a Goddess Statue, I remind the kids that, “In real life, we only pray to God. Remember the Second Commandment?”
And when we endure an interminable loading screen, we talk about how patience is one of the Fruit of the Spirit.
One particular discussion, though, stands out as the most significant.
It was a Saturday morning, and we were picking up a load of free mulch from the City of Golden pile. As Taylor pitched wood debris into the back of my Explorer, Borealis recapped our latest gaming session — finally concluding with, “And I’m so glad that the bad guy is dead now.” After a pause, he added, “And I wish all the bad guys in the world were dead, too, so that there would be no more bad guys.”
*All* the bad guys? I thought. Big yikes.
Bo’s comment forcibly called to mind the famous Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn quote: “The line between good and evil cuts right through every human heart.”
…which is to say, everyone is partially a bad guy.
“Borealis,” I began. I wasn’t exactly sure how to translate this concept into five-year-old terms, so I started with something concrete. “How can you tell a bad guy in Tears of the Kingdom?”
When Bo didn’t immediately answer, I prompted, “Is it because they’re all monsters?”
“Yeah!”
“And are the monsters kinda bad, or entirely bad?”
“Entirely bad!”
I sighed. “Yes, and in video games, the bad guys are really obvious — because they’re all, like, 100% bad. But in real life, no one besides Satan is totally bad — and no one besides God is totally good. Everyone else is both sorta bad and sorta good.”
Bo wore a pensive expression, so I summarized, “Look. Without Jesus, everyone is partly a bad guy — like even me and Daddy. Only Jesus can take away our inner bad guy and make our hearts entirely good.”
“How?”
I’m not, like, eminently qualified to distill millennia of theology into a simple explanation, but I did my best. “Well, when Jesus died on the cross, He took the punishment for all of our sins — and so now we don’t have to be bad guys anymore.” I paused, then briefly addressed the doctrines of sanctification and justification. “Although we won’t fully be good guys until we die and go to heaven. But when you ask Jesus to take away your sins, then God immediately sees you as a good guy — like even while you’re still on earth.”
As I watched, Bo scrunched up his eyes and murmured, “Jesus, will you take away our sins to help us to be good guys.”
Tears sprang unbidden to my eyes. Bo’s prayer was so innocent and sincere — a truly child-like Sinner’s prayer. I was touched to have been witness to this first real confession of his need for a Savior.
And look, I’m not naive — I know that plenty of five-year-olds pray this prayer and then go on to leave the church. These child converts are often lumped into the category of “rocky ground” (from the Parable of the Sower in Matthew 13). The Word springs up, but it doesn’t take root.
However, not every child convert leaves the faith of their youth. I didn’t, for one — and I hope and pray that Borealis won’t, either.
Time will tell, of course. For now, though, only God truly knows Bo’s heart — and we’ll find out in eternity whether this was actually his moment of salvation.
Until then, we’ll keep on keeping on: trying our best to do right by the children whom God has given us.