Raising kings

A Narnian parenting philosophy

“I’m not raising victims here!” I yelled above the fracas.

(I know all the fancy words for “chaos” at this point in parenthood.)

I was in a heated, lose-lose parenting situation involving a Lego masterpiece that had been compromised, multiple pieces of missing king cake, and a three-year-old brother who actually does frequently take his brothers’ treasures and probably gets away with it most of the time.

As the volume in the kitchen increased, I stepped onto the Soapbox.

“Let me tell you something, young men. If you let your happiness depend on when everything feels fair to you, then you’re going to walk through this life living out of a whole lot of self-pity and resentment. You. Will. Never. Ever. Be. Happy.”

Blank stares.

Then back to the fracas.

You know, I thought that 16 years into parenting, I’d be more…calm? Self-possessed? Effective at instilling virtues in 8 and 9-year-old boys?

Sigh.

Years ago at a playdate with my library’s moms and tots group, one of the moms mentioned how she viewed motherhood as “raising kings.”

“I think of all the qualities I would want a good king to have,” she explained, “And I try to teach them those things.”

Her sweet philosophy has stayed with me all these years. I think it’s because it has always echoed something for me from the Chronicles of Narnia series—books that have been dear to my heart since I read them in the 3rd grade.

In the first book of the series, English siblings Peter, Edmund, Susan and Lucy Pevensie walk through an old wardrobe and into the magical land of Narnia. After many adventures, they ultimately become legendary kings and queens of Narnia, lauded for their virtue and goodness.

The odds are that my children are all going to be little kings and queens of something one day. They will lead a family or a team or a company or a project.

Of course I want to raise good kings and queens. Of course I want my kids to be good human beings and good leaders. And I could list out a dozen virtues I’m trying to instill in my kids.

In the trenches right now, though, I struggle to keep a right heart about this parenting stuff. My two oldest children are barreling their way through high school right now, and I catch myself all the time acting like—well—like I’ve only got 2 or 3 more years to produce Narnian royalty.

I correct this or that child for the same fault over and over again. I come down way too hard on the child who I find out has only been brushing teeth once per day for years. I lay awake at night wondering if certain of my children are going to leave this house not knowing how to make a good apology or yield cheerfully in preference or—heck—floss. I worry that I’ll forget something, that I won’t get through to them, and that they’ll suffer one day because of it.

When I parent from that place—from the Soapbox or from straight-up anxiety or in my worst moments from straight-up pride—I’m not my best self. I’m not effective. I’m harsh. I’m certainly not reasonable.

When I write a post here on Substack, it’s usually an overflow of what’s been percolating in my heart and mind for a few weeks. I started and stopped this post several times. I just couldn’t figure out the hinge—what God was trying to show me.

Finally, the Holy Spirit brought something into focus.

The Pevensie children had to leave home, experience some real suffering, have some pretty dangerous adventures, and meet new adult mentors in order to become the legendary kings and queens of Narnia.

I wonder now if that’s the story line for all of us.

We all spend a lifetime becoming, and the truth is that a lot of our becoming happens after we leave home.

Goodness, it occurs to me that I’ve been blogging for 16 years now, and it’s basically my personal public record of becoming.

For those of us in these middle years of raising kids, what if we asked God to help us catch ourselves when we fall into parenting that’s about producing a perfect product on a strict timeline?

What if every time we prayed for wisdom as parents, we started asking Him now to provide and give wisdom to our children’s future mentors and friends?

What if we started now pre-praying for Him to protect, form, and guide our children on their life’s adventures once they’re outside of our home?

And what if we asked God to start preparing our own hearts now to maintain our peace and trust in Him when we have to watch our children suffer one day?

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I’m not here to write a flowery post about how the kids will be all right. A lot of people I know read this blog. You are mothers and aunts and grandmothers and women of all ages. I know some of your kids aren’t all right at this moment. Some of you aren’t all right at this moment.

I’m here to proclaim the goodness of God.

To remind you that you and your dear ones are beloved sons and daughters of the Most High God.

To remind myself and anyone who needs to hear it that the prayers of a mother are irresistible and precious to the Heart of God.

To share my testimony and conviction that God writes straight with crooked lines.

To point myself and others again to the unfathomable designs of Divine Mercy.

To remind myself and others that we are a pilgrim people, and that Heaven makes every suffering and mistake and trial on earth as nothing.

And I’m writing to remind myself and maybe you today of this:

Maybe one of the very best things I can do as a parent is focus on the apostolate of my own spiritual journey, on living a life that shows I really and truly believe all of the above.

Because it’s true, none of us are victims here. St. Peter writes that we are “a royal priesthood, God’s own people.” We are royalty. We are irreplaceable, unrepeatable, beloved sons and daughters of the Most High God.

I hope my children will watch me for all the years we are on this earth together dragging myself doggedly to the well of Divine Mercy, letting Him love me and letting Him call me out of all the darkness inside and outside of myself, and into His marvelous light.

But you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s own people, that you may declare the wonderful deeds of him who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light.

-1 Peter 2:9