Golden heart with Dagger by Robin Dance
A very long time ago, and yet just a blink of the eye, I was the Model Christian Mother.

A poster child, if you will, for what you’re supposed to look like if you’re doing all the “right” things as a Christian mom.

My car’s radio was tuned only to Christian music.

Most of the children’s books on our shelves were purchased from Christian retailers.

We memorized scripture together and learned Children’s Catechism.

We prayed out loud at bedtime and most days in between.

Bible verses were scrawled across art and craft projects.

I was active in Children’s Ministry and even worked at my church for almost ten years in service to babies and littles.

We modeled hospitality in our home and supported and served the local poor.

I was intentional and determined and eager in leading my babies to Christ, and by God if I had anything to do with it, they would follow the path to salvation.

I had more answers than questions.

But, then, we moved out of state, joined a different denomination, and, perhaps, stressed out or burned out or worn out,




We faithfully continued church attendance–Sunday school and corporate worship–but outside of nursery duty I never served in children’s ministry again.

My children were in first, third and fifth grade when we moved and none of them remember when I was the Model Christian Mother.

* * * * * *

I have two sons in high school now and a daughter in college.

They know I’ve struggled as a believer for years.  In part, I can point a finger to the church we joined nine years ago; their leadership floundered during the four years we were without a pastor.  Good men made poor decisions (by their own confession) and it left me trying to submit to an authority I neither respected nor agreed with.  People were hurt.  I was hurt.  We were loyal and tried to make it work, but this among a host of other things, led to spiritual anemia…a long, fitful, complicated, spiritual slumber.

Here’s the thing about the temptation to assign blame:  when I point an accusing finger elsewhere, there are always three damning me.

Those fingers are satan’s delight.

* * * * * * * 

Please keep reading at Death and Redemption of a Stepford Mother at Deeper Family today; this one is a tale of redemption and influence, the back story of which is told in my incourage post today.

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