By Jen Denton

I should have been prepared. I should have known better. I should have been equipped.

After all, I had 18 years to get ready. 18 years to get it together, figure it out, and master it. 18 years to train my firstborn in the way she should go. 18 years to divinely succeed and humbly fail too many times to count. 18 years to help her navigate triumph and tragedy. 18 years to encourage her to know and follow Jesus. 18 years to watch this amazing little human become a young woman. And 18 years to ready and steady myself to close a dorm door in a new city hundreds of miles away with a part of my heart behind it. 

If we are friends, you know that I was not prepared. If we serve in ministry together, you know I did not know better. If you’ve stood next to me weeping in worship, you know I was not equipped. If you've read my admittedly indulgent, sappy social posts, you know I was not ready. If you’ve seen me fighting back tears in the grocery store, gas station, or car wash, you know I did not have it together, figured out, or mastered. 

Over the last 12 months, I’ve often curled up and cried in a way too empty bedroom, checked Life 360 more times than I can count, and lost far more sleep than I ever did during the infant stage. I’ve retraced 18 years of decisions, relived the highs and lows, and questioned, “Did I do okay? Is she okay? What did I miss? Why does this hurt so much?” I’ve asked mamas with little ones to ignore my memory-laden, watery eyes as I ached to rewind the hands of time, longing to do it all again, to do it better, to somehow refill this gaping hole in my chest. 

But as time passed and new routines emerged, as much as I missed my girl, the harder thing to admit was that I missed myself. I missed my role in a part of her life that had now passed. So much of who I was had been devoted to getting to this point, doing my job, and preparing to let go. I began to question who I was without that piece. Doubting who you are and what you were made for is scary. It’s terrifying, unchartered territory. It’s an unnerving shift in the atmosphere. But more importantly, it's not where or who Christ calls us to be. 

He calls us to new life in Him, not paralysis in the joy or regret of the past. We were not created to be stuck. We were made to learn, grow, and have abundant life in Him. Knowing that truth and feeling that truth, unfortunately, do not always coexist.

As a parent and educator, I have often been asked, “What’s the one thing you could attempt to impart to a child all day, every day, and it still wouldn’t be enough?” Without hesitation, my response is always the same: identity…more specifically, identity in Christ. I’ve written and spoken about this topic many times over. But as I turned the page on this particular chapter of life, the slipping grip on my own identity in Christ was loosened and left me shaken.

Who we are in Christ is foundational to our faith. Embracing grace, knowing we were bought with a price, becoming joint heirs, and being called sons and daughters is a powerful truth. It’s constant through every season, every trial, and every unprepared step we take. Our confidence in moving forward is not found in the information we gather, the lists we check, or the expert advice we heed. Our confidence in everything is knowing that we are His and He is for us. He will guide our steps and lead us in paths of righteousness for His name’s sake. New chapters, new roles, and new unknowns; He governs and provides through it all. 

I’m not sure I believe that time heals all wounds. But it does provide perspective; and, if we allow it, surprising joy. It’s been said that we don’t just parent one child but multiple children over years, weeks, and months. We love and care for the immediate needs of an infant, steady and ready the emerging steps of a toddler, and prepare growing minds to learn and navigate elementary, middle, and high school. We nurture several little people that, after a season, we will never see again. 

Whether it’s college, vocational study, work, military service, or some other new adventure, our roles undoubtedly change as our children strike out on their own. But there is great reward and unimaginable excitement in meeting yet another new, not-so-little person. As long as we breathe, our jobs as parents are not done. They are just different. We trade late-night feedings for late-night chats. Road trips replace carpool. Daily meals are exchanged for long weekends and long-distance calls. Bandaging skinned knees and elbows becomes helping to heal broken hearts and make big life decisions. Regardless of age or stage, our kids still need us to listen, guide, and be a safe place to call home.

Parenting past 18 is far from easy, but we serve a God who loves us unconditionally, will comfort us in times of transition, and has a plan for us in every season. We are His children, and He never stops parenting us! As we loosen our grip on tiny hands, we have the security and confidence in knowing that He never lets go, loves them more than we do, and loves us more than we can fathom. He is our parent. He is our safe place to call home. Our identity and hope are in Him, and He is always prepared.

Jen Denton, her husband, and two children are long-time residents of the Lowcountry and active members of LCC. Jen serves as a creative arts volunteer, leading worship and online experiences. Jen has an extensive background in education and currently creates professional development opportunities for educators worldwide.