I want to help you I can’t help you

Today is a swear day.

Today is the day where I swear, sweat, break things, tear things up, throw things around and be generally hurtful and hateful to anyone or anything in my path.

Today I choose violence.

Disclaimer: No need to call the pet authorities or police.

Given what I normally write about, one would think this means that our daughter has relapsed. Your heart sinks. You may even gasp.

Well, you would be wrong. In fact, she is doing her thing and has never looked better. She has two weeks left to go and is trying to get stuff sorted out for when she gets out. You know, life stuff. Like how she is going to live and where she is going to live and, well, stuff!

Today is a swear day because of the bureaucracy that prohibits and restricts her and her support network from accessing the services she requires. Like skyscrapers built around one person who is looking up, trying to find the sky. Every direction they take is blocked with no chance of getting around it.

It’s gross.

She is allowed 10 minutes of phone time a day. I cannot call her. They cannot confirm or deny that she is even a resident there, but will take a message for her (like what? They take messages for every random person whether they are there or not? I don’t think so). They cannot or will not point me to the policy that they are basing this practice on. I have poured through the Freedom of Information Act and they will be hard pressed to give me the section of that legislation they are basing their practice on because it DOES NOT EXIST. It is a global problem when these information legislations are used as a shield to hide behind rather than a tool to protect sensitive information from being leaked. The Release of Information she signed was only giving consent for them to contact other agencies on her behalf. Nowhere does it give her the option to list family members or other natural supports, so, guess what, I’m not on that either.

[Insert all the swear words here].

I have spent the last four days trying to help her gather the paperwork she needs for other government agencies. Simple things like proof of tax returns, identity numbers (SIN, or NI), bank statements. All things she cannot access where she is.

So I send all I have to the nice admissions lady who said she is going to help because that is her job. And I get three missed calls from Robyn when I’m in the shower, so I’m thinking they didn’t get the email. So I call and the nice admissions lady says that she got the email but cannot confirm or deny that what I sent is sufficient because she can’t disclose any information about Robyn to me.

[Insert louder swear words here].

There is no logic. I have been spoken to by this woman, who confirms that Robyn is there implicitly by talking to me about her and acknowledges my email, but then refuses to tell me if what I sent is sufficient to meet the requirements of another agency! Of course, I can’t call Robyn to ask her AND OF COURSE, this woman will not just go and get Robyn so that it can get sorted out right there and then. No, of course not. Because to do that would be helpful and sensible and logical and real.

It would be helpful.

But this is not a world of helpful. This is a world of bureaucratic obstacles for people who are trying to access systems without the resources required to access them (like internet, multi-factor authentication which requires a phone that you are not allowed to have, and documents that only a support network on the outside can get you, if you are lucky enough to have a support person on the outside).

Listen, I know I am a very clever woman. I’m not boasting. I’m clever. I have an aptitude for learning. I have three university degrees. I’ve studied law. I have an excellent memory. I get that. So I think about that before I decide to drown my opponent in a thundering verbal onslaught of legalities, questions I know they can’t answer and statements I know they don’t know anything about.

As I anticipated, I get radio silence when I ask the simple question of how this confidentiality policy (that I’m still waiting for), is being helpful for residents and suggest that it is obstructive. I imagine this policy, if it exists, was never intended to be used the way it is being used, but it is happening.

I want to help you I can’t help you.

I’m no further ahead. I finally dig around and find a government document that has the required information on it. I send that through, hoping that it is good enough. At this point the narrative in my head is that what I sent earlier was not good enough, hence the three missed calls by Robyn, so I’m rummaging through her room to find something else. I’m trying to stay calm but I’m annoyed at her because in the past she insisted her independence with these kinds of documents but never prioritized them because of her addictions.

[Insert swear words in a different language this time, you know, to mix it up].

It reduced me to tears the other week. What was meant to be a simple telephone call to her community psychiatrist to issue a new prescription ended in, well, tears. First I leave a very clear and detailed message. I get a call back from the receptionist who is a notorious non-listener. As I’m re-explaining my request, she is talking over me and therefore cannot hear what I am trying to say. She suggests I just get the pharmacy to send over the repeat. I tell her again there is no repeat. She talks over me and says she can make the call. By now I am crying. Just let me speak to her psychiatrist please who is a lovely woman who I have spoken to before who will sort this out in two seconds. Have her call me please.

The tears worked. She at least stopped talking long enough to listen to the request. She will pass the message on and will get the psychiatrist to call me back. That was two weeks ago. I want to call but at this point don’t want to use my phone in case Robyn tries to call to tell me that she needs something else.

Until you are up against a system, you have no idea how prohibitive and restrictive the system is. How intimidating and surreal. How impersonal, cold and subjective.

Funny how I have been part of this system in my work for so long. In my current role I’m able to challenge that system. It is so ironic how I recently fought for a young person to have access to information that he was being denied because of ‘confidentiality.’ That time I did chew through the statutes, policy, and regulations to tell them that they were hiding behind something they didn’t understand and in fact, this young person was entitled to it. I didn’t get a response to my long, probably snotty letter. But the young person got the information he was looking for. That’s fine by me. Job done.

But Robyn is my young person. And I’m not in the capacity of Advocate with legislation behind me. With this, I’m just a mom. And I can help her I can’t help her, and watch while the systems help her but can’t help her.

Today is a swear day.

But Only for the Grace of God

“I got recognised at work last night.”

I knew by the way she said it this was not a welcome guest. It was not a happy reunion with a gabby catch-up.

This was an encounter with the darkest and most cunning of all stalkers.

The Past.

She didn’t recognise him, but he knew her by name. And could tell her where he last saw her, about a year ago.

It wasn’t in a coffee shop. Or a library.

You get the picture.

It rattled her, to say the least. Moreso because he waited for her boss to be around for the big reveal.

Her boss was mad and annoyed. At him.

She had come clean to her boss when she started, after being asked a number of times why a young girl in Alberta doesn’t drink. He was understanding and supportive of her.

This pissed him off.

I often get curious about the timing of things. This happened a mere 10 days after, well, how should I describe it….

A blip.

What started as a sleepover at a friends ended in an early morning distress call to mom.

And I’m in the car following a pinned location.

And I don’t hang up.

Sometimes I try and visualise what it would be like to step outside of myself during these times. To study my face; track my movements; make a note of the intonation in my voice or the words that I choose – or sometimes watch my numb silence, like frozen consciousness.

I wonder what I would see. Would I see someone looking calm and collected – perhaps supportive and compassionate? Or would I see how it feels like to me – robotic and task centred, going through the motions and the necessary steps to get back to the surface, because, guess what?

I can’t breathe. And I can’t see. And I can’t think or problem solve. I’m on auto-pilot.

She crawls into my bed sobbing. Hot tears of self-loathing and disappointment sear her face. She tells me her story.

I don’t think I want to hear it. I focus on how much I ache at seeing her in such an altered state. It creates enough static that I don’t take in much.

“I can’t believe how easy it was to slip back into it.”

Her lament breaks my heart for her. I say nothing. I can’t. I won’t. Nothing will help right now. The words will either hurt or fall on the floor. I put on some music. Our music. Jesus music. She finally comes down and finds sleep.

Over the next few days she grapples with her reality. A nice evening out for dinner with friends cannot include a few drinks. Not for her. Not now. Not ever. It leads to destruction and danger.

I grapple with what comes next. Trying to decide if I am on the verge of living in a state of constant fear – waiting for the other shoe to drop. Reminding myself of all of my epiphanies over the last year or so…everything I’ve learned. The promises over her – the promises God has made to me. I remind Him too because I’m cheeky and He knows that and He gets me and He’s okay with it.

And just when I’m on the verge of sliding down an emotional black hole, He moves.

Through work I come across a woman who lost her 24 year old son to an opioid overdose. We talk for almost two hours. She shares her story and how she has come to understand things. She talks about how she is only one mother of many that are experiencing her very pain. She is absolute that her son didn’t want to be an addict (a theory I believe and support wholeheartedly), and talks about her boy separate from the drugs. The athlete who had lots of friends and was clever in school. She has stopped trying to pinpoint where it all went wrong.

And then she holds back tears as she offers that the last time she saw him they had argued. She told him she was disappointed. It was the last resort of a desperate mother trying to get her son back. She is inconsolable at the thought of how much more that would have burdened him, knowing how disappointed he already was with himself.

She cries. I hold her hand and give myself a kick in the ass.

But for His grace go I. My daughter is here. She’s here and she’s fighting for it and she’s not giving up. She’s taking them on – all of them – every bloody demon either cloaked in some rando that walks into her place of work to remind her of where she’s been, or dressed in the lure of an ‘innocent’ night out with new friends that somehow leads down the dark path of searching out old ones. She’s here. She’s been spared and she’s gonna make it count.

And while I’m still standing she’s not going to do it alone. I’m off my pity pot and I’ve got your back, kiddo.

Thank God His sword is bigger and better than mine and hers put together and that He’s got both our backs. He’s the only one I want on my side in a fight.

Time to Re-invent

“Welcome students to your first introduction class…..” The instructor’s voice floats through the house. She’s dusted off the outdated home computer and somehow managed to get it operational enough to download Zoom to start her course. She listens and engages for about an hour, then she starts to lose interest.

“….. so if you look on this part of the screen….” She shoots me a sideways glance.

‘I think I’m going to need to double up on my ADHD meds.’ Yes, my darling. Yes indeed.

‘Well, you’re seeing Dr. B soon. Maybe ask her.’

I answer her while tying my shoes, amazed at how calm my response comes out. Inside, I’m anything but calm. My mind, as always, is churning and whirring. As she re-invents herself, it means I have to adjust as well. As the instructor keeps talking, I keep thinking.

….tests of 100 multiple choice questions. She’s going to need support with that. Studying is NOT her strong point.

….practical weeks. Perfect. She’s all about the hands-on.

microbiology. Oh sweet Jesus.

What I hear through the computer is progress. Progress. Recovery. Planning. Future.

Re-invention.

This past week saw her say goodbye to the last associate of her past life. It was hard; painful. Cleansing.

‘Why don’t I feel sad? I should feel sad, but I feel…. relieved.’

I just look at her and smile. ‘It was hard but you are going to be glad you did it. You’re at peace. It’s called Jesus.’

She turns her attention to looking ahead. Commenting on how busy she is going to be anyways. School, work. Then she gets worried that she won’t be able to manage it all. ‘My mental health….’ comes out often.

If you would have told me in March that we would be here in less than a year, I don’t think I would have been able to hear that. I was so consumed with adjusting myself to meet her where she was at. It was sometimes an hourly tweak. Many times I didn’t get it right. The times I did were powerful and profound and it is those times that have carried us through the rough spots.

Often, readjustment comes totally out of the blue. One minute she is in the kitchen talking and laughing; 5 minutes later she comes out of her bedroom in tears. It’s constant thinking on our feet and I never know how long it is going to take. Sometimes an hour, other times longer.

Like pushing Play-Doh into a mold, I find myself readjusting my approach and responses to meet her where she is at; to get the best possible outcome; to give her the opportunity to get the best out of herself.

I don’t feel I am at the mercy of my daughter; quite the opposite. Over the years, all of the ‘tough love’ and the ‘boundaries’ ended in chaos, reckless decision-making, and impulsivity. That is because people with certain mental disorders see the world differently. What many see as boundaries, our daughter views as rejection. There are many different ways to have boundaries and I have had to learn how to let go without turning away. Some days it’s pretty darn hard. Some days walking out the door looks pretty attractive.

I’m working with a young person who has been diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder. She hasn’t had a great childhood (hence my involvement) and has no supportive or healthy family. Her social worker talks about how frustrating the young person is; how she makes bad choices and is self-destructive. I listen on the phone, mostly annoyed and irritated at this social worker’s rude demeanor and approach to this girl. I find myself thinking that one of the main differences between this girl and my own daughter is a supportive family, knowing about a God who loves her, and a mother who absolutely refuses to back down from this fight.

I don’t judge people who have felt they need to estrange themselves from their loved one(s) because of addictions or mental health issues that create havoc and pain. I used to. Now I know that is neither helpful nor constructive. Now I stand with them and weep with them and concentrate on how much love they have for that person to the point where their heart hurts. And I talk to them about reinventing themselves and readjusting. Some people feel they can and others feel they can’t. We are where we are.

Stake in the Ground

Blogging has recently given way to journaling. I can write raw there. The words can blister and ooze. Emotions, black and hot, spray from the pen. Ink saturated with fear and anxiety leave passionate dents in the paper. It sounds crinkly as I turn the page. Those entries are for me. They are my bare-all; silent screams into my pillow until there is no voice left.

It hurts. It’s hard.

Standing with your first born as they come to the painful realization that everything isn’t okay; that 6 years of substance abuse and poor mental health will not be ‘cured’ in a 21 day program; that after-care is as important, if not moreso, than detox, is hard. It’s hard because you have to let them go through it and hope beyond everything that they will come out on the other side. It feels like an impossible situation when you start hearing a diluted version of the past three years. A minimalist view of the problem. Openly questioning whether the alcohol ‘use’ was really ‘abuse.’ And then comes the oral justifications – ‘I’m going to have a drink on my birthday. It’s my birthday. I’ll be fine.’ In God’s wisdom he constricted my throat – what was going to be a harbinger onslaught came out as a raspy ‘oh?’

There have been some wonderful days. Lovely and inspiring where there’s been really awesome connection. In fact, those are more than half the days. It’s the others that cause the shadow. It’s like an awkward dance through an abandoned minefield. She’s on one side and I’m on the other. Tiptoeing and fluttering our way through. Most of the time we are artful dodgers. But when we hit one, it goes off.

It’s quite common for me to find myself in situations where I am searching for the ‘right’ thing to say to someone who is in emotional pain. I’m not a counsellor – I don’t go through the process whereby the person in front of me comes up with their own solution, or achieves their own epiphany or level of insight. I am a social worker, and more recently, an advocate for children whose rights have been trampled by the very system put in place to protect them. That means I am in contact with A LOT of children and young people, up to the age of 24, who have years of trauma and abuse and rejection and pain. And sometimes they need a shoulder to cry on. Sometimes they need me to fix it. Sometimes they need me to be behind them as the big sister while they try to fight their own battles. Sometimes they need a nudge. Sometimes they need a mom to put a bandaid on the owie and make it better.

I never feel as taxed as I do when I am in the situation with my own child. Deciding what to say, or what to do, if saying or doing anything in any given moment is the right thing, is exhausting. The mind never sleeps, it is a hamster on a wheel – whirring, whirring. Never sleeping, never stopping. Never knowing what is right or what is the best.

So sometimes I step on a landmine. Boom.

I’m exhausted and scared. She’s frustrated. I feel taken for granted. She feels restricted. My heart breaks for her. She only sees hurt in my eyes. That causes her to feel bad about herself. It causes me to feel more scared and my heart breaks all over again. I’m an all-in or all-out kinda person. And for her I’m all-in. That makes for some intensity around Palmer Manor.

In her autobiography, Michelle Obama gives a description of how her parents handled her and her brother. She writes how her mother raised them in such a way that she knew that Michelle’s life was hers to live. She writes that her mother never overmanaged and did not ride Michelle’s highs and lows in life as if they were her own.

That resonated with me. It still does. I do that. I ride the highs and lows of my kids’ lives as if they were my own. And this particular ride has consumed me.

My husband recently took a job about 3 hours away. He is going to commute. Partly because we just aren’t in a position to move financially, but wholly because I am not going anywhere without my daughter. The other day we were eating dinner, and I was in the middle of a mini-crisis in my head. It wasn’t a particularly hopeful day, and I was starting to despair that the course of the rest of my life would be bound to her fate forever. And then I said to myself, ‘Melanie, eventually you are going to have to put your stake in the ground. Eventually you are going to have to say this is where I stop. And she goes on her road, whatever that road my be.’

Dinner was over.

That night I woke up, or was woken up. I went into another room to think and pray. I wasn’t saying or thinking much. Then God spoke to me. He asked me why I weep over my children. He told me that they were not going to be devoured by the beast – surely I knew that? He reminded me that their path was lit; they were going to stumble, but their path is lit. They will not be devoured. A light in the darkness. Another promise of redemption. He is totally amazing.

I’m not saying everything is rosy and I’m not saying I’ve not had another anxiety attack since (although I’m starting to be less hard on myself when I do have them), but……

I am taking off the white hat. I’m not managing as much. I’m not asking so many questions. I’m listening, and validating, and trying to understand the view from her shoes. And it’s helping.

I think, in small steps, I’m preparing to put my stake in the ground. I’m totally not in that place yet, but I feel better than I ever have that I will get there sooner rather than later.

GROW a Great Family Culture

There’s so much out there today about parenting; the market is saturated with ‘how to’ guides on family life.  I’ve spoken to many parents over the years; many of them well read, others who have attended many parenting courses.  Out of the thousands of parents I’ve been in contact with, none of them have come across the one idea, book or course that answers all the questions.  They’ve not come across the one magic tool that addressed all of dilemmas, stresses and trials of raising children and leading a family.

Part of this is because we are all unique individuals and not everything will work for everyone.  Some of the reason could be because we tend to be reactive rather than proactive in our approach to parenting and leading family.  Many parents look for help or advice once they are facing a problem and not so much when things are going well.  Our society tends to search for solutions in the face problems and preventative approaches don’t get as much attention, until something becomes widespread, worrying and destructive.

For many parents, by the time they go looking for help things are bad.  Exhausted and desperate, parents search the internet for quick fixes to problems such as temper tantrums, refusal to eat, rebellion, smoking, drugs, self-harm, etc.  I have come across many parents who are so distraught at the behaviour of their child, they are ready and willing to try anything.  By this time, they are their wits end and for some, their relationship with their young person, even their partner, is in tatters.  I have found that about 90% of the time, the ‘problem’ is actually the symptom.  In most cases, it doesn’t take long to discover that the problem is deep rooted and normally a product of feeling rejected out of disjointed connection that was borne out of a toxic family culture.

On a basic level, a family is a group of people that are in relationship with each other.  From a married couple to one with 12 children, it constitutes a group of people.  When people are in relationship together, their attitudes, beliefs, behaviours and responses to one another form a culture.  Philosopher Edward S. Casey (1996) describes: “The very word culture meant “place tilled” in Middle English, and the same word goes back to Latin colere, “to inhabit, care for, till, worship.” To be cultural, to have a culture, is to inhabit a place sufficiently intensely to cultivate it – to be responsible for it, to respond to it, to attend to it caringly.”

I like to think of culture as a set of attributes that identify the way in which we live.  At the heart of it, these attributes reflect our core values and beliefs.  Culture shapes what some see as normal behaviour and practices, while others see those same things as strange, odd or even offensive.  An extreme example of this are facial piercings.  In Africa, there are tribes that see facial piercings, ear and neck stretchers as a sign of beauty and status.  You don’t see too many people walking around with an ear stretcher the size of a golf ball around here because it is not widely accepted in our Western culture.   Although this example is one of outward appearance, the premise of it can be transferred into how we relate to each other.  A few years ago I did some travelling with one of our church elders.  We visited a number of churches on that trip, and one night we were having a meal with a group of people who attended this one particular church.  Over dinner, I noticed how part of their culture included a high degree of sarcasm and mocking of each other.  They clearly didn’t see anything wrong with it, but I found myself feeling uncomfortable and awkward, especially when members of the group were being made the brunt of jokes.  This was an example of how a culture of sarcasm had been established in this group of people, and while they thought it was normal I found it dishonouring.

Like the examples above, every family has a culture.  The challenge, as parents and leaders, is what attributes do you want to nurture and cultivate in your family?  Culture will grow, whether we like it or not.  If we are not intentional about defining our culture, one will be defined for us.  I don’t think for a minute that those people in that church I spoke about earlier set out to define a culture of sarcasm and mocking.  But somewhere along the line that was established and allowed to breed, and as a result became a normal part of how they live – part of their culture.  As a result, they became defined by their culture rather than the other way around.  As parents and leaders, we must intentionally define the culture of our family rather than let an unwanted culture define us.

About 6 years ago, our church started tackling the issue of culture, and introduced five attributes that would define how we lived as a church family.  My husband and I realised that we had allowed a family culture to develop that needed to change, so using our new church culture as an example, we went about defining a new one.  This was going to be the way in which we chose to live; the way we cultivated our biggest investment – our family.  We didn’t really put a name to it at first, but this is basically what we went for:  G.R.O.W:

Generosity.  Respect.  Outstanding effort.  Working together.

Generosity – Lavish giving and sharing of time, attention, opportunities and possessions.  Any resource, natural or otherwise that I possess I share generously with each and every member of my family.  Efforts are made to counterbalance the ‘mine’ mentality (my toy, my stuff) with a more community approach.  This is woven in with the other attributes when looking at caring for and respecting others.  This way not one person feels taken for granted or exploited.

Respect – Due regard for the feelings, wishes or rights of others.  In this context, respect goes hand in hand with honour.  I categorically disagree that respect has to be earned.  It is an individual’s choice to show respect to someone, regardless of what they have or haven’t done.  When I walk into a coffee shop, I expect the person behind the counter to be welcoming and respectful towards me.  Up to this point, I haven’t done anything to earn that.  Likewise, that person expects me to treat them with respect.  Our hearts are our fuel tanks, and they need to stay full for us to function properly.  The fuel of our hearts is kindness, emotional warmth, attention, positive encouragement, etc.  Alternatively, cracks in the fuel tank appear when the opposite happens.  Shouting, snide remarks, sarcasm that hurts, name calling, taking possessions without asking (leading to mistrust).  Part of having an attribute of respect is topping up each other’s fuel tanks while keeping the cracks to a minimum.

Outstanding effort – Striving for excellence, not perfection.  In everything we do, our goal is to do it well and to the best of our ability.  A frequent question in our house is, ‘Did you do it well?’  We have worked hard to make that question something we all ask ourselves as well as each other.  This can be applied to everything we do, from making the bed to studying for a test to spending time with a friend.  The aim is to be able to say with confidence that we have done the best we could at whatever we were doing.   We need to be careful not to get disillusioned; excellence is not perfection.   To expect perfection from our children, and ourselves for that matter, breeds disappointment and rejection.  We are not perfect beings and therefore cannot produce perfection.  Excellence for our family is measured by our effort because unrealistic expectations only give way to feelings of disapproval and frustration.

Working together – We are a team.  In any team sport, each person has a position to play.  In ice hockey you are either center, forward, defence, or goalie.  In American football you are a quarterback, halfback, tight end, running back, etc.  Even in doubles tennis, you have one at the net while the other plays the back court.  Every member of the team knows their position and plays according to it.  The team is most effective when all the players work together playing their respective positions.  This is the same for a family; there are positions that we all take up and do well.  When we are working well as a team our family is functioning well.  So what happens when, for whatever reason, a team member gets taken out and that position is vacant?  A hole is created and the other team members have to cover it.  The team still works, kind of, but not as good as when the team are at full strength.  Again, this is the same with family, when we all pull together it makes us stronger.  We found that as we started to identify ourselves as a team, we became much more responsive to working together.  Individually we all became more responsible for our positions, and as a collective we were much better at covering each other.  This was really noticeable when I would be travelling alone with the children.  The children knew that we needed to work together so that we all stayed safe and ended up in the same place.

Working together can be seen as the lynchpin in cultivating a nurturing, supportive and honouring family environment.  When people are truly working together, there are aspects of generosity, respect and outstanding effort.  This has to be held in balance with the reality that sometimes parents, as the adults, will have to make decisions for the family that children are unhappy with.  That said, when working together, even the children are able to make a positive contribution in the decision making process.

The key to our culture is knowing who we are.  Our son is a goalie, and before every game I ask him: ‘who are you?’   He responds with, ‘a son.’  Our identity as sons and daughter of God is key to our motivation to serve each other well.

How do you intentionally embed culture?

  1.  Start with yourself.

When we started to embed the GROW culture into our family, I became aware of how sincerely my daughter would cheer on her friends and fellow dance competitors.   My comments changed from, ‘you’re better than them,’ to, ‘you’re an amazing daughter.  Have fun.’  As I changed my message to her, she became more confident and her dancing went from great to amazing!  She became part of a dance team that went on to become third in the world!  Of course the hours she spent practising had a lot to do with it, but it was this combination that embedded the culture that she carries so well.

2.   Motivate

Part of fostering a good culture is motivating each other towards excellence.  In American football, the quarterback is a unique position in many different ways.  Not only is there only one on the field at any one time, but the quarterback needs to be able to lead his team.  He needs to develop a relationship with each and every one of his offence so that they want to work for him; they want to protect him from the oncoming assault.  In establishing an indepth emotional connection, members of the family want to excel at everything they do; not only for themselves but also for the ones they love.  Nothing makes me happier than to celebrate an achievement of a family member.  They all know this and this partly spurs them on.  However, what spurs them on even more is knowing that I will love them and be proud of them no matter what the outcome.

3.  Keep your culture protected in the storms

As our children became teenagers, the issues we were facing got bigger.  Many times it felt all too easy to throw culture out the window and react to the situations in a way that would not have been helpful or constructive.  Many times my husband and I have had to intentionally put our relationship with our children in front of the conflict.  There have been times when we have had to meet them part way, without compromising our family culture.  This has not always been easy, but the end results have been worth it every time.  We have realised that when we chose to operate within our culture, our relationships are preserved and connection deepens.  During times when we haven’t done that, we have had a lot of damage to repair as parenting out of fear only leaves carnage.

Whatever it looks like, I encourage you to define your family culture.  This has become the cornerstone of our relationships and connection together.  There have been tough times, but defining our culture has meant we are clear on who we are and how much we are loved, by each other and by God.