When Our Children Are Friends With Troubled Children

I really enjoy the connections I’ve made thanks to FaceBook … especially the ones from my disjointed childhood. It has been sweet and rich to talk with people who knew me, even just for brief seasons, during the confusing (and often dark) young years of my life.

One of the connections I’ve recently made is with a woman who is my age (I’ll call her Mary) who knew me briefly during my junior high years. I don’t remember much of our contact back then, but I do remember that she was beautiful, kind, really smart, and that her parents loved her. (Her mother is forever ensconced in my memory as a wonderful Girl Scout troupe leader—I wonder if she even was one or if I’ve just created that memory?—And her father is this very professional gent who cut tiny little triangles of fresh grapefruit for us for breakfast—I had never even seen a grapefruit or any other fruit for breakfast before that day—and who had already bought her a gorgeous sports car—and MG MIDGE? Is that even a car?—just waiting for her sixteenth birthday to give it to her.)

I also remember that she wrote deep and insightful poetry and that I was shocked that she was being so kind to me. I don’t think I ever knew how badly I smelled (from my parents nonstop smoking and my lack of personal care and clean clothes) until I was in her family’s car and home. (If you’re saturated in nicotine and that’s the only life you’re ever known, you never know that there is a whole other world that isn’t coated in green stickiness and stench.) She never made me feel bad about this, to be sure. But it must’ve been pretty gross to be around me.

I bet it was also hard because I had a potty mouth. (Again, the only life I had ever known was one that was filled with profanity.) And my family’s upheaval (mother in detox again, father living with a different woman and serving my mother with divorce papers the day she got home from her mother’s funeral) … well. I remember using terrible words to describe my father’s live-in-paramour and having my friend’s mother stop me and say something to the effect of, “We don’t use those words in our home. We don’t talk about our parents that way.”

Again, I was just amazed. I never even knew that was possible.

But it was.

Contrary to my entire childhood, there was an entire world out there of adults who were adults; parents who were devoted to their children; children who honored their parents … fresh food, clean homes & utensils & clothing … personal care … beauty. Hope. Laughter. Safety. Love.

 I think of my time with this family as a pre-evangelistic season. I didn’t know at the time that they were Christians. I do not remember Bible or prayer or church being associated with them. But just like the Little House on the Prairie books (which held out to me the hope of a different world than my childhood), my time with this family held out to me the hope of a different life too.

Now, as a 42 year old mother of two daughters, I’m processing all of these things from a different perspective—one of “what does wisdom combined with love look like when my children are in relationship/contact with troubled children.” Do I want to share Christ with them as a family? Of course. Do I want my kids to only be surrounded by intact, Christian families. No. But are there serious concerns that I need to consider and be wise about? There are.

And so I pray. I seek counsel. I read and study. And then I try to act not from a position of “boundaries” (which, to quote Ed Welch, can lead us to think more about self-protection than love), but from a position of wisdom and love.

More on this later if I can make the time … it’s another full day of my real job of Momma Tara-ness / Domestic Diva Duties. Yay!

Blessings and much love,
Tara B.

PS
Happy Birthday, “Mary”! 🙂