Superhero Parenting {Tangible Motherhood p.4}

Tangible Motherhood stemmed from a book written by my friend and pastor Chris Sicks.


I expected to post sweets anecdotes of how God used my children’s needs {and my tender, affectionate deeds of mercy and words of truth} to reveal His character and make His love known.

I always have plans. God has them too.


A few nights ago I Read Mary Pride’s Homeschooling Secrets expecting to find curriculum ideas. What I found pinned me against the wall like the innocent victim of an over zealous knife-throwing act. Her scant, sharp words pierced the corners of my mind and held me down. I almost couldn’t breathe.

“Power struggles happen when the kid no longer trust you,” she said.

That’s what’s going on inside my superhero’s mind,” I gasped.  “He doesn’t trust me. He doesn’t trust my perspective, my opinion, or {and this took my breath away} he doesn’t trust that my heart skips a beat just for him.”

I began my parenting journey in 2002 thinking, “If I could just get this right, then my children would not only turn out alright, they would turn out right.” As in perfect.  {Yes, I did just say that.}

And now, eleven years into the trip, I stand on the mini golf course, gape at my eldest son, and hear God say, “Doing right doesn’t always equal being right.”

He doesn’t need perfect parenting, perfect wisdom, or perfect discipline for his wild and crazy 11-yr-old behavior. He needs me.

He needs to know I’m on his side.  He needs to know I carry him around like a nerd with my pocket protector and my pens all lined up. Only these pens? They’re the hearts of my children. And that pocket protector? It’s absent.  I hold their hearts close to my own, and wear their stains like a badge of honor.  Because they’re mine.


My littlest one and I went on a walk the other day when he looked up with twinkling eyes. “Mom,” he whispered, “are we having fun?”

“Yeah Jack,” I replied.  “I’m having a great time.  Are you?”

“Yup!” he said with two skips and a hop. And then added, “Is it because you love me most?”

I stooped down to find his eyes before answering.  “No Jack,” I corrected.  “It’s just because”

That seemed to settle him for a moment, until we spied his buddy Sam’s house. He looked up at me with a new question in his eyes and asked with concern, “Do you love Sam the most?”

“No Jack. I don’t love Sam the same as I love you,” I replied quickly.

“Why not Mom?”

“Because you’re mine, Jack. I love you the most’re.mine.


That’s when I finally saw the light. My superhero son had lost his identity.

While God reveals identity by identifying with His children, my child didn’t trust that I did the same.

He didn’t trust that I wore his glorious mess across my heart, like the nerd with{out} pocket protectors, or like Superman might wear an ‘S’ across his chest.

He didn’t trust that I called him my own. How could he when I stared him down on the mini golf course and questioned, “Who is your mother?”

It’s really not what I do to, or do with, or even do for my son that matters. It’s who we are when we’re together. And I can’t do parenting.  I must be a parent. In this case, I must be a superhero’s parent.

So like the poor widow who offered her last two mites, my superhero son and I came to Jesus in our poverty and offered these two little words:

Please help.

{Stay tuned to see just how tangible motherhood can become…}

Photo Credits {HERE}


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