Truth and Life

“I think you are in a position to speak truth and life into the kids you teach.”

I recoiled from my husband’s words, sent in a mid-morning text during the first week of school.

How nice of you to apply the Sunday sermon to me.  What about taking a glance inside yourself? 

So what you’re really saying is that you like my paycheck and want to make sure it keeps coming, regardless of the impact on me and the kids.

I am too overwhelmed and exhausted to learn all their names; how am I supposed to speak truth and life into them?

Who is speaking truth and life into our own kids?  Into your daughter whose screams follow me down the stairs and out the door when I drop her off at daycare each morning?  Into your son, who gets picked up by a daycare van instead of his mom when half-day kindergarten gets out?  And your other son, who doesn’t get to go to real preschool like his brother?

I didn’t respond at all, too stung by hurt and indignation.  To me, acknowledging that God has placed me in this position seems like accepting that it will always be this way.  That God wants my kids in daycare.  That He wants me exhausted and frustrated and heart sick.  That He somehow favors my husband’s quality of life over mine.  That isn’t true.  It can’t be true.  But it sure does feel like it.

But here’s the rub: I know that sometimes God lets us sit in situations that aren’t ideal.  He lets us wait longer than we want to.  He knows the future that we don’t, and His decisions don’t always make sense to us in the moment.  I find myself sitting in one of those places right now, and that doesn’t mean I’m off the hook for obeying Him.  My job as His child is to love, to speak truth and life into everyone I rub shoulders with, including my students.  Being the best teacher that I can be and loving on kids who might not get that love elsewhere does not mean that I am committing to stay in this life, this career, forever.  It does not mean that I love my own children any less.  Loving my students does not mean that I can’t move on when God opens another door.  It just means that, for whatever reason, I am still in room 123, and I still have a job to do here.  And God is still good.  Even if my heart doesn’t feel it.

I have to know that my children will obey me no matter the situation: no matter how frustrated, upset, or tempted they are.  It is a matter of safety and harmony in our household; when I speak, they do.  I am no different.  If I call God my father, I am compelled to obey in any circumstance.  His Word tells me He is good, He keeps his promises, He can do the impossible, He will protect me and provide for me, He loves me passionately, and I can trust him.  To disobey would mean that I don’t really believe those things about Him, and perhaps my hesitation reveals that my heart hasn’t quite caught up with my head.

But I want to believe, and maybe the beginning of believing means speaking truth and life to these teenagers if and until God sees fit to open a new door for me.  Even though I feel like I’m stuck sitting in a place I never wanted to be.