When Parenting Fails

The need for mentors, community and people who know who to be family is real.  

Music by Scott Holmes - A Wee Tipple 
Non Copyright Music 

Transcript

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I stood there, taking in the pain of the unruly ones around me. A few questions, and then a few quick words were quietly spoken in response, but just enough to piece together circumstances that were so heartbreaking it left the inside of me weeping as I went on throughout my day, and probably will be for a while. How can I see this much pain and be so limited in giving the care I know is needed? Where are the adults that could love well? That could show up and provide what would heal? There's so much that could be healed, so much that could be made easier. Young ones walking around with oceans of hurt in their eyes, while the adults around them seem unaware. How did they miss the depth of pain clearly evident in their mannerisms? The glistening at the corner of the eyes, and the quick look away, the shrug of the shoulders, hoping to push away this new vulnerability because someone actually saw, the bravado being used to cover up unimaginable grief, the tightening of the jaw, and the lift of the chin, daring me to come face to face with what was their life. Today, once again, drove home the need for parenting done well, for adults who could mentor well, the need for community, for people who know how to be a family. The deep wounding that happens when parenting isn't done well. God, the grief of that rips through me. Kids who weren't told how the world works, who didn't grow up listening to the voice of their mother asking if they were okay, or the voice of their father reminding them of who they were. They didn't grow up allowed to feel what they felt while being safely held, or having the presence of someone sitting beside them as they wrestled with homework. No, they were shouted at and told to knock it off. They were told to shut up and go to their rooms. That crybabies don't get loved, they get made fun of. They experience some of the most horrific things, and learn no one really cared. After all, it happened to others too, so no need to talk about it. It wouldn't change anything anyway, right? They were ignored and left alone to figure things out. They'll be fine. Children who had no one to help them work through what happened to them, who weren't tucked in at night and reassured they were going to be okay. They learned compliance was all adults really cared about, and that asking questions gets you no real answers. They had parents and caregivers who didn't bother to look in the mirror and consider how they could have handled things differently, and ever said, I'm so sorry I hurt you, because you're the best thing that has ever happened to me. What would have become of these defiant, snarky, emotionally unregulated, hard-ass juveniles should they have had people that stepped up, followed through, that talked, really talked and checked in? All I know is that the moment these unruly ones, when these defiant ones sense you're for real, that you really care, that you can joke around and have fun, that you do what you say and take them and what happened to them seriously. When they sense all of that, their faces melt and they look you full on in the face, as if making sure to remember what love looking back at them looks like. They're eager to help, asking to carry your stuff to the car. They look forward to playing games and don't mind losing too much. They respect your nose and take in all you have to say when you say it from your heart. They begin thinking about a future and consider for the first time that maybe losing the image they carefully built on the street is an acceptable loss when they know they have someone in their corner. And then they start making choices. Choices you didn't see coming, but so proud of them for it. They work hard and push through. And then one day you look at the one in front of you and your heart explodes with pride because you full well know they just did the impossible. And all just because someone really saw them.