Experience coaches vs. helicopter parenting

Last week’s Wall Street Journal featured this story on parents’ serving as “exposure coaches” for their children who suffer from anxiety.

Basically, therapists work with kids who suffer from anxiety to expose them in a controlled way to the very thing that concerns them. Parents are enlisted in the battle and serve as exposure coaches to help their kids grow accustomed to those things that produce anxiety.

As I read this article, I couldn’t help but think about helicopter parents and how their role seems to be the exact opposite.

Helicopter parents are those who seem to want to make everything right for their kids. Exposure coaches have the goal of making their kids right for what life throws at them. Put me down for #2, please.

When I was a kid, if I complained to my mom about something one of my friends did, her standard response was (and I can see her standing at the stove, stirring whatever was in the pot for dinner as she said it), “You’ve got to fight your own battles.”

Who knew that response would be one of the best gifts she ever gave me.

I was the youngest of four kids and I had awesome siblings who treated me well. I tell my own kids I don’t remember being picked on by my siblings (and I don’t). But I also remember growing up reasonably confident that I could do what I set my mind to. It wasn’t that I always succeeded. And it certainly wasn’t that my parents intervened on my behalf; if they ever did, I didn’t know about it. In fact, I’m sure my folks from time to time wondered how I would do some things I set out to do. But they let me do it.

I remember some school assignments that were awesome. And some were awful. And I got the grades for both efforts. I remember succeeding in some social circumstances and failing in others. Some successes and failures I shared with my parents and some I didn’t.

If I asked for help, I got it. If I didn’t ask for help, I got space.

It was a formula that worked for me growing up.

Now I know that the kids in the WSJ article suffer from significant anxiety, and there are lots of reasons for anxiety, most beyond the influence of helicopter parenting. But at the same time I have to wonder if training parents as exposure coaches is one way we can correct misguided efforts of helicopter parents.

Helicopter parents – those who intervene at every step to ensure their children have the best experience – have failed to learn that what we think is helpful is not always helpful. While it may be helpful to offer to call and make a doctor’s appointment for a spouse who has too much to do, it may not be helpful to do that for a teenage child who needs to learn to call and make her own appointments. While it may seem helpful to offer to type a paper for an overburdened student, it may be more helpful for that student to learn to budget his time better next time – a lesson he might best learn by stumbling once along the way.

When we teach our youth about agency and accountability, we typically say that we can choose how we act, but we don’t get to choose the consequences. That is, we take the consequences that come with the choices we make. A helicopter parent who obscures the consequences does no good for the child.

A friend regularly repeats this mantra: Never do for a child what he can or should be able to do for himself. Good advice. In fact, Great Advice!

In recovery circles, families with addicted loved ones learn a lot about enabling a person’s addictions – taking steps to soften the consequences of the addiction. That enabling might be as benign as regular reminders to wake up on time for work or nagging a person to get certain things done. But it can be as serious as covering up an addict’s or an alcoholic’s misdeeds to avoid legal or other troubles. Those enabling behaviors are often symptomatic of a co-dependent person, one who depends on others for his or her own happiness.

But that enabling behavior is common in our society, not just among families with addiction. It’s also deeply rooted in helicopter parents whose happiness is dependent upon the success of their children.

In the end, our goal as parents is to have kids who can grow up and be healthy, happy and successful without us. Helping our children toward that healthy independence requires that they learn skills on their own, that they learn to fight their own battles, that they learn to do the things that they should do for themselves.

On Playing God

I did a workshop at our stake’s women’s conference, and I blogged about it at Real Intent (you can read that blog here).

The presentation was based on the 12-steps of the church’s Addiction Recovery Program which are, in turn, based on the 12 steps of Alcoholics Anonymous, which are, in turn, a straightforward way of applying the atonement to our lives.

The first three steps are all about our relationship with ourselves, God and other people. And they’re especially important for people who aren’t necessarily addicted.

One of the cornerstone doctrines of the gospel is agency – the ability that we have to act for ourselves, to make our own choices and enjoy (or suffer) the consequences of those choices. “God will force no man to heaven,” or so the hymn says.

In the first three steps of a 12-step program, once acknowledges his own powerlessness over his addiction (and, in the case of a program like AlAnon or Families Anonymous for co-dependents, over other people), the power of God to restore us, and the willingness to turn ourselves and our lives over to God.

For people who grow up reciting the first few Articles of Faith, this should be boilerplate stuff.  We believe in God the Eternal Father, His Son Jesus Christ and the Holy Ghost; we believe we’ll be punished for our own sins and not Adam’s transgression; and we believe that through the Atonement of Christ all mankind may be saved by obedience to the laws and ordinances of the gospel. We are taught from our earliest years that we get to choose, that we are agents unto ourselves, and that the fact that we are here on earth is already proof of our having chosen well at least once.

And yet, most of us who grow to adulthood try to limit the agency of others at one time or another. After acceptable rules of persuasion fail, we try to force our friends or our enemies to do things our way as kids. As parents, we learn by trial and error how much we can force our children to behave. As spouses we learn, often through sad experience, that D&C 121 is right – we really can’t compel others to behave in a certain way.

I’ve heard some say that trying to control outcomes for others is trying to play God. But even God does not control the outcome. He offers a choice and we make a choice. Our choice determines the outcome. Of course God facilitates the choice, and the path back to Him if we choose poorly. After all He loves us and His grace extends to each of us if we choose to accept it.

As a parent, the hardest lessons I’ve learned have been the understanding that I must let go. Now a loving parent doesn’t hold a child out a third story window and then let go. Instead, the parent does all he can to teach, guide, direct, protect, make safe, and then he lets go. And even when a parent lets go, he doesn’t leave his child alone. Good parents establish rules and boundaries with real consequences so that children learn early that with choice comes accountability. And consistent and fair consequences often do a better job of teaching than any lecture Mom or Dad could give.

Now six of my seven children have approached that point at which they begin to separate from us. All kids do it (or should), usually in the mid-to-late teenage years. Some of the separations have been easier than others. Some of our kids have separated but maintained the standards and patterns they learned at home. Others couldn’t run for the exit fast enough. A few have separated in fits and starts – wanting to be independent, but not really wanting to be independent.

Our job as parents – impossible as it seems – is to prepare them to leave, not to prepare them to stay. I learned some time ago that I cannot judge my success as a parent by the choices my children make. But I have learned there are things I can do to help them learn to separate themselves from me. I can help them see consequences. I can help them think a little longer term than the end of the hour or day or week. I can engage them in conversation and invite them to formulate and express their opinions (even half-baked ones). I can help them identify their strengths and help them to reinforce those. (Chances are they know their weaknesses better than I do; I am learning I don’t need to point those out, but I can still help them to learn how to work through them if they want to.)

Basically, I do need to play God. He put us here with teachers, trainers, parents, prophets, friends and family to help us to learn to live separately from Him (so we can return to Him). Similarly, I need to help my children to arm themselves to live separately from me.

What do you think? What has worked for you in helping your children to be independent?

Primarily Speaking

It’s that season again.

I don’t mean leaf raking (though it is). And I don’t mean pre-Christmas (though it is). And I don’t mean Thanksgiving (though it is).

I mean, of course, Primary program season.

We had ours ten days ago, and it was awesome. Our primary presidency takes a great approach. At some point in the year, they being asking the children questions related to the Primary program, and then they develop a program based on the children’s own comments. Each child, in the end, presents his or her own words in the program.

Our primary presidency also mixes the kids by topic, rather than by class. As a result, you have Sunbeams and CTRs and Valiants all mixed up. The older children help the younger ones. The children do a great job of teaching the rest of us the gospel. It is far more than a cavalcade of cute kids tugging at our heartstrings (though it’s that, too).

I’m sure there is a little of the Music Man effect for some parents. But this is the first year I had no child in the program, and the spirit of the meeting was still soft and sweet and lovely as we listened to childlike testimony and teaching. There was of course a blend of silly four year old boys playing with the microphone and second verses of songs that were a little harder to hear than more familiar first verses. But far more powerful were the lessons we were taught by what we heard and saw and felt.

Kudos to our Primary presidency who teach the gospel to our children, and who do such a great job of helping our children teach the gospel to us.

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BTW, I've used Honest Jon's cartoon above. Please visit his website and buy his books. I'm putting When High Priests Take Over The Nursery on my Christmas list!

Ideal Families in the Proclamation

Today's post is cross-posted at Middle-aged Mormon Man as part of the Proclamation Celebration. You can find it here. At MMM's site you'll also find links to the other hosters of the the celebration. I invite you head on over and take a spin! But read this first:

There’s occasionally discussion of a conundrum in gospel teaching. None of us is perfect, yet we’re all teaching one another the gospel so that we can do as the Savior commanded us, and become perfect. As a result, much of what we teach is, as a good friend of mine says, “aspirational.”

You know how this goes: you teach a lesson on missionary work knowing full well that you’re a bit of a slug in that department, or you teach about family relations and all you can remember is the disagreement you and your lovely spouse had over something insignificant that morning.

There’s an extended concern some people raise, namely that we teach a standard that is unachievable, and we therefore put ourselves in the impossible position of always trying, but never attaining it. In so doing we become discouraged (at least) or disaffected (at worst). None of those responses seem consistent with the Savior’s injunction that His yolk is easy and His burden is light.

How does The Family: A Proclamation to the World cope with that conundrum?

First, the standards are established in the Proclamation:

1. Marriage between a man and a woman is ordained of God

2. The family is central to the Creator’s plan for us and is ordained of God

3. We are all created in the image of God, and each of us is a beloved spirit son or daughter of heavenly parents

4. We all worshiped God in the pre-mortal existence and accepted the present plan of salvation

5. Temple covenants allow family relationships to extend beyond the grave

6. The powers of procreation, consistent with God’s command to Adam & Eve, are to be used within a marriage between a husband and wife

7. Husbands & wives should love each other and care for their children, rearing them in love and righteousness, providing for their physical & spiritual needs, teaching them to love & serve one another and to be obedient to the laws of God and man

8. Children are entitled to be born to parents who are married and to be reared by parents who honor their marital vows and are completely faithful to one another

9. Happiness is most likely when families live within the teachings of the Lord Jesus Christ, organizing their families accordingly

10. Those who violate covenants or fail to fulfill family responsibilities will stand accountable before God, and the disintegration of families will bring consequences to individuals, communities and nations

Is the bar too high? Who could feel left out or uncomfortable by these mileposts? Well, there are probably some:

1. Unmarried adults. Although the proclamation never says it’s evil not to be married, it’s pretty clear that those who are not married are missing out on something that’s “central to the Creator’s plan for the eternal destiny of His children.”

2. Married couples without children. Whether by choice or for some other reason, childless couples may feel left out of the blessings of family life.

3. Single parents and their children. Whether these parents had their children out of wedlock, or are single because of divorce or death of a spouse, they are single. Their children are (perhaps) not enjoying “birth within the bounds of matrimony” or being “reared by a father and a mother who honor marital vows with complete fidelity.” They do not have both a father who presides and a mother who nurtures.

4. Covenant breakers. There’s pretty harsh language for those who break marital covenants, abuse spouse or offspring, or who fail to fulfill family responsibilities.

What’s the remedy? Does the Proclamation provide any solace or help? Yes, of course it does.

1. Like so many gospel truths, those presented in The Family: A Proclamation to the World appear as opportunities for us. If we find ourselves in families, here is how we can maximize the joy of that circumstance. The Proclamation itself is not a commandment to marry, nor is it a commandment to have children; it is a description of how we can have the best marriages and families we can. Further, it teaches that all of us, married or not, are children of loving heavenly parents, and that blessings accrue to us for that reason alone. The language of the Proclamation says to me, “If you are married, then…” and “If you are a parent, then…”

2. The Proclamation itself recognizes that we are not perfect. In the list of qualities that contribute to the most successful families are these: “faith, prayer, repentance, forgiveness, respect, love, compassion, work, and wholesome recreational activities.” Number three and four on that list make clear that the Lord acknowledges (as if He needed to) that we are not perfect. (Of course His real acknowledgement of that fact is far more significant since he gave His own life that we might live and return home to our Father in Heaven.) The fact is that every marriage and every family is made up of imperfect people who (sometimes, at least) are trying to do the best they can.

3. The Proclamation recognizes a family’s need to personalize the application of the Proclamation. As it discusses the best chance for happy families, it reminds us: “In these sacred responsibilities, fathers and mothers are obligated to help one another as equal partners. Disability, death, or other circumstances may necessitate individual adaptation.” It’s not inconceivable to me that one family might choose to have mom work and dad stay home with the kids because of their individual circumstances, for instance. In another family (in many families today), both parents may need to work, and then they’ll have to sort out how to nurture and provide. Families with only one parent in the home (for whatever the reason) will have to sort out how to carry the whole load of parenting. (Elder Baxter’s words from this past conference still ring in my ears.) It would seem that in some geographic areas, exceptions are the rule, and the Proclamation makes clear that that’s ok.

4. Even the covenant breakers will be accountable to God. Covenant breakers do exist, and God knows that. And He will deal with them. It is not up to me to judge someone else. I cannot judge a single dad, wondering what failed in his marriage to put him where he is. I cannot judge a teenage mom and wonder why she made the choices she did. All I can do is follow the admonition of the Proclamation and teach by my example respect, love and compassion. I’m not suggesting that covenant breakers get a pass. They will pay appropriately for their transgressions. But unless I’m in law enforcement, the aggrieved party or the bishop, it won’t be my decision or my concern how that happens.

The Proclamation itself allows for exceptions and teaches clearly that we will not all measure up all the time to the standards of the proclamation. Does that diminish the ideal? No, of course not. Does it change my aspiration to work to have one of those “successful marriages and families”? No, of course not. Does it give me license to teach the ideal and turn a blind eye or deaf ear to the concerns of those who are not living the ideal? No, of course not.

One might argue, if families are “central to the Creator’s plan for the eternal destiny of His children” that the stakes are so high that we should only teach the ideal with rigor, letting the chips fall where they may. But in my view that would be wrong (and inconsistent with the example of the brethren and the Proclamation itself). Indeed, if families are central to that plan (and I believe they are), we should do all we can to lift up the hands that hang down, to comfort those who stand in need of comfort, and to work so that all families of every stripe realize as many blessings taught in the Proclamation as possible. We are among the responsible citizens called upon by the Proclamation to “promote those measures designed to maintain and strengthen the family as the fundamental unit of society.”

Let us work to promote families in which parents can nurture their children, as well as provide for and protect them. Let us teach one another to practice faith, prayer, repentance, forgiveness, respect, love and compassion – within our families and from one family to the next. Let us accept the standards as aspirational blessings that we seek and take steps to realize those blessings as far as we can, relying that the Lord will recognize our efforts and can make us whole where we fall short.

Tales from the Dark Side (of the moon, that is)

I wrote a while back about how teenagers (boys, especially) seem to go to the dark side of the moon during their adolescence. And by the dark side of the moon, I mean out of radio contact. And by out of radio contact, I mean they simply aren’t connecting with the things we parents think they need to connect with.


Sometimes the dark side of the moon and lack of radio contact means they don’t want to associate with parents and siblings (leave me alone!). Or they don’t want to live in a social society (leave me alone, and stay out of my room!). Or they know better than their parents (you just don’t get it!).

While out of radio contact, they will often question and challenge family norms and mores. They may challenge house rules and they may reject the faith of their fathers. (As Latter-day Saints we are sometimes pleased and even impressed when a young person does this and joins the church; we are horrified when one of our own does it and leaves.)

Parents, of course, wonder how to reach kids when they are out of radio contact. And I wish I could tell you how to do it. I can’t. But I can share some things I learned along the way. Last time I wrote about the need to fill our kids’ well so that when they are out of touch with us, they will still have some of “us” in reserve.

Here are three more ideas:

1. Use other voices (that is the voices of others, not becoming Mel Blanc, though if a Bugs Bunny impersonation gets their attention, go for it!). We rely on our friends, the parents of our kids’ friends, to reinforce lessons we teach our kids. This is true for our LDS and non-LDS friends. Of course as kids grow older and become more independent, it’s increasingly difficult to keep track of friends and their parents. We rely on church leaders and teachers to help. Studies the church has done have shown that seminary teachers have consistently scored at the top of the list of key influencers for those who have served missions. And we hope that good friends (in and out of the church) will also be a voice of reason for our kids. (Of course this last one is the most challenging, since our kids’ friends are all similar ages and may be in their own period of radio silence.)

2. We have also found that talking to the kids constantly helps. And listening. Whenever they want. I remember ten or eleven years ago when our youngest was an infant and our oldest kids were older teens. The baby would nurse and go to bed and then the older kids would suddenly want to talk to their mom into the wee hours of the morning. Frankly, I don’t know how my lovely wife survived those years of teenage boys and babies. But her constant willingness to talk and to listen (even when she hated what she heard) was a huge factor in our kids’ staying connected even as they separated from some of the things that were most important to us.

My oldest daughter went through a phase in which she did not talk to her mother. Sometimes for days. And my lovely wife would not know why. Sometimes I would come home from work and get the assignment to figure out why the cone of silence had descended and excluded my lovely wife. Fortunately, that period was very short for our daughter.

3. That experience points out another tool in our toolbox, namely that we both have roles to play. I don’t know if it’s Freudian or normal or if we’re victims of stereotyping, but the boys always had a better relationship with their mom in those years, and the girls have gone through periods of time in which they seem more willing to talk to me. We are very lucky to have both of us around to share the task of parenting, and sometimes one of us can do what the other can’t.

It took some time for me to learn that it was more important to me for my kids to want to be at my dining room table than on the bench next to me in sacrament meeting, but that has made a huge difference in how we related to our kids, especially those who have not followed us in church activity. (I’ve blogged about that here and here.)

Happy to hear your thoughts about how to communicate with those who are in radio silence.

UPDATE:  Ardis has posted a second installment on Vanguard Scouting.  The first section of the post does a nice job of explaining some of the signs of movement to the dark side of the moon.  You can find her post here.

The Dark Side of the Moon

Teenagers are remarkable creatures. During these developmental years, they double in size, physically mature, lose all sense of reason (and then begin to regain it), question everything, think they know everything, and believe themselves to be alternately all-knowing and totally inept. Most adults I know would not choose those teen years as the best time of their lives. Many have said they would never wish return to that time in their lives.

I observed in myself (after the fact, of course) and my sons a tendency to go to the dark side of the moon during some of the teen years. You remember when the Apollo space capsules went around the moon there was that period of radio silence as the moon was between them and the earth. I’ve watched each of my teenage boys go through that period of radio silence in their lives. (My daughters have flirted with a similar condition, but not nearly in the same way as my boys.)

While they are on the dark side of the moon, teenage boys seem to forget that they have parents or siblings or responsibility or consequences for their actions. Some find themselves making terrible and long-lasting mistakes during this period that have long-reaching consequences. Others are just dumb and insensitive. I figured in my own case I was really lucky that I wasn’t good friends with anyone who drank or did drugs (that I knew about anyway – or maybe I was just too clueless to know) during that phase of my life, so I avoided those snares. But I had plenty of ways to be stupid nonetheless.

As a parent I’ve thought a lot about how to get through to a kid who is on the dark side of the moon. The fact is, if he’s really on the dark side of the moon and out of radio contact, you just can’t get through to him. And that’s frightening as a parent.

What I came to realize instead is that as a parent I need to do everything I can before my kid enters radio silence to get as much of me into his head as I can. A friend of mine talked about filling our kids’ wells, and she suggests that parents need to fill their teenagers’ wells with the parents’ goodness so that as the teens encounter the evil that is in the world, the good in their wells can counterbalance it. (Her well-filling lesson was very specific: fill the well with good things, positive encouragement, love and comfort, not nagging or lecturing or correcting.)

I think my folks did that with me. I can’t count the number of times I thought of doing something incredibly stupid as a kid and then having an image of my mom come to mind, and imagine myself trying to explain myself. That image of my mom and the fear of having to explain myself kept me out of a lot of trouble. (Not all trouble, of course. I was still stupid and I made plenty of mistakes.)

Something else my kids have taught me, and I think it’s supported in gospel teaching, is that each of our kids comes as an individual. In some families, all the kids look alike (my siblings and I are that way, for instance – everyone can tell instantly upon seeing us that we’re related), but that doesn’t mean they think alike. My kids don’t look a lot like each other (well, some do, but we’re not a cookie cutter family like mine was), and they don’t really think like each other, either. They all grew up in the same home, but each one has a different approach to life, to the gospel, to problems and to me as a parent. As a result, I’ve had to try to figure out how to reach each one in a language he or she can understand. Now that Number Six and Number Seven are the only ones still at home, I’m getting better at it. (Thanks for the lessons, Older Kids!)

The times my boys have been on the dark side of the moon have been the white-knuckle periods of my parenting. For a dad who loves to have predictable outcomes, it’s been particularly tough to know that they are out there making their own choices and there’s not a thing I can do about it. (Well, it’s not completely true I can do nothing, of course. I can pray as Alma the Elder did for his son, and I can create consequences where necessary. But I cannot make choices for them, and I cannot force them to choose what I want them to.)

I reflect on my Father in Heaven and how white his knuckles must be. Of course, he has the advantage of knowing how things will turn out in the end, but I imagine he’s shaken his head at me and wondered if I’ll ever come around from the dark side of the moon. Even at age 50-something I know I still go into periods of radio-silence with him, and I know that’s my doing and not his.

I’m interested in hearing your thoughts about how to communicate when your kids are on the dark side of the moon, or how to prepare them for that period. I’ll share some specific things I’ve learned in subsequent posts over the next little while.

My experience as the father of non-believers (Part Two, in which the atonement works)

In my last post on this subject, I described my emotional response to the choice of some of my children to leave the church. And I postulated that my emotional response might have led (at least some of) my kids who left to question my love for them.

Of course I did love them, and it was out of my love for them that I felt the distress I did. And it was my misguided understanding of how to show that love that I likely confused them.

When I was a boy, I had a covered wagon lamp kit, which I decided to assemble myself one evening. I put the wagon together, and then I put the lamp fixture and cord on the wagon. At some point, I realized I had not strung the cord through the hole in the bottom of the covered wagon. I decided the easiest way to remedy this situation was to cut the cord, string it through the hole, and then re-tape the wire. So I took my wire cutters and cut the cord.

Oh, did I mention it was plugged in? As I cut the cord, the lights went out. We lived in an old house with fuses (not circuit breakers) and we probably only had one or two fuses at that. So a lot of the house went dark. I sat in the darkness, not quite sure what had happened. My father came downstairs to check the fuse box and asked me what had happened. When I told him, he (in an astonishingly calm way, now that I think about it) taught me about electricity and told me I had shorted out the system. He also pointed out that I was lucky I didn’t get shocked. (The wire cutters, thankfully, had insulated handles.)

He then explained something that has always stuck with me. He said that when people grab a live wire, they can’t let go because the electricity causes their muscles to contract, tightening their grip on the wire. That’s why, he explained, that electricians who don’t know if a wire is live, might touch it first with the back of their hand, so if their hand closes, it won’t be on the wire.

When my children began to leave the church, I tightened my grip, as if I were clutching a live wire. And I could not let go.

Until, that is, the Savior finally helped me.

A year or two after my oldest son left home to go to college (and about three years since he’d last been to church), I was serving as bishop. I had interviewed a couple who was working on the repentance process, and it was our final meeting as they and I had all received a witness that they had done what the Lord wanted them to do, and they could return to full fellowship.

The brother observed that that day happened to be Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. On my way home from church that night, I contemplated the blessings of the atonement. I reflected on a letter I’d written my son year or two earlier in which I’d written about how much he needed the atonement in his life. On that night, the Lord taught me in no uncertain terms that it was I who needed the atonement in my life.

I had never felt more like Nephi in 2 Nephi 4 before that night. I had laid out to me very clearly where I had acted out of pride and anger as a father, and where I needed to repent.

Thus began a long process in which I discovered the power of the atonement to heal me. Over time, I learned to accept my children’s choices for what they were – their exercise of God-given agency over which I had no control. Over time I came to have faith that if and when God needed them to return, He would oversee that change in them, not me. I developed greater faith in the power of the sealing ordinance, and greater understanding of the Lord’s mercy as it related to my weakness.

The change in me was not overnight. In fact, it has been about a decade since that realization, and God’s not done with me yet.

During the process, a good friend spoke in our sacrament meeting. She reminded us that there will be no wards and stakes in heaven, only families. In that moment, it occurred to me that I needed to do what it took so that my children (all of my children) could be comfortable in my family, even if they were not comfortable next to me on a bench in sacrament meeting.

I will add that my standards have not changed. I still live by them, and the minor children who live in my home still live by them. But I recognize that my children – those at home and away – choose how they will live; I cannot dictate those choices for them.

As I mentioned in a comment on the previous post, I had a stake president who counseled me during those turbulent years in our monthly stewardship interviews. He reminded me regularly that eternity is a long time. I’m grateful for that, because I may need a long time to get it right

My experience as the father of a non-believer

Recently there have been a number of news stories (and subsequent blog posts) about those who are leaving the LDS church. In the normal course of departure stories is sometimes an account of the negative reception the exiting member receives from family, friends and fellow congregants.

I have written before about the fact that some of my children have chosen to leave the church. (Actually “leaving the church” suggests action on their part: in truth they have simply stopped participating and do not self-identify as church members, but as far as I know, they have taken no official action with regard to their membership.)

In this post, I wanted to explore my feelings as the family member who stayed. My intent is to record behavior, not to justify it.

My children who left the church did so in their teen years, each about the same age. I have other extended family members who have left as adults, and my experience with them was quite different than with my children. My plan here is to tell my story, not my children’s; they can tell their own when and where they see fit.

When faced with my first child who began to walk away from the church, I felt like I was drowning in the ocean. I was that victim of a sunken ocean liner and had neither a life raft nor a life preserver. I became completely disoriented in the cold, relentless, churning sea as I realized that my child was slipping away.

Some of my feelings were engendered by my own testimony: I had a firm testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel and the need for its saving ordinances. I had faith in Jesus Christ; I believed the restoration story; and I earnestly sought the blessings of an eternal family for myself and for my children. My departing child threw that in my face: he – by his actions and his apathy – made clear that what was important to me was not important to him. I feared for him, and for myself.

Secondarily, I felt blame. Surely his choice to walk away was related to something I had done wrong. After all, we had family home evening, family prayer, scripture study; he went to seminary and Sunday meetings (until he stopped). No Success Can Compensate For Failure In The Home. I had obviously failed in the home. I had screwed up the most important role I would ever fill.

Finally, I also felt embarrassment. I must point out that this was completely self-induced. No one ever said anything to me at church that would have led me to believe that someone judged me or my wife for my son’s decisions. In fact, they were sympathetic to us and loving toward him always. (I suppose it’s possible that someone spoke behind my back, but if they did, I don’t know anything about it.)

In this storm of feelings, I am certain that I sent crazy messages to my son. I am well aware that I tried to control his behavior long after he had made his choice. That desire for control is perhaps my greatest human weakness. It is my instinctive response when faced with anxiety or uncertainty, and it has taken me years to recognize it and to improve. I never ever stopped loving my son, but I did stop liking him for a while. And in that period, it might have been hard for him to know of my love.

At the point when I finally let go, he stopped attending church all together. And he became increasingly difficult to live with. He was approaching the end of his high school years, and I concluded that it was all part of his adolescent rebellion, and perhaps one day he would return. My sense was that he was no more comfortable with us than I was with him. He did not like our rules for the house, let alone what he saw as our slavish attachment to church values which he rejected.

I am sympathetic to those who leave the church and feel they are treated poorly by active church members in and out of their family. It shouldn’t be that way. We ought to love one another more, regardless of where we are on the continuum of testimony. But I also understand the panic that parents in particular feel when a child walks away from what the parent feels is really the very best thing for him.

I’ve had more than one child walk away. Each of them went through a period of time where they felt discomfort as they walked away regardless of how I responded. (For instance, I was much better with #3 than with #1 – much more supportive and kind.) It sometimes took years for them to realize that I really did still love them despite their choice to go a different way, regardless of what I said or did.

I cannot explain this completely. Perhaps one day I’ll get enough courage to invite one of them to write about their experience. I don’t know if they felt some guilt (imposed by a lifetime of standards and practices) as they left, or if they felt the discomfort of the Light of Christ or the Holy Ghost warning them not to walk away, or if they simply felt the anger of teenage anger and applied it to this choice among others.

In time, we have found common ground. My home is a place each of my kids likes to return to. My dinner table is a place where they are welcome, and they (now) know it. There are certain things we do not discuss, sometimes by unspoken agreement, and I’m willing to live with that. One of my sons says that his mother and I are “enough church” for him. I’m ok with that, because that’s where he is in his life. Those Isaiah chapters in 2 Nephi remind me repeatedly of the attitude of my own Heavenly parents, and it is one I try to adopt in my family, as well: my arms are "outstretched still.”

Helicopters: Bad; Thanks, Dad: Good

A quote from my daughter, who has recently moved on her own for the first time (previously she’s either lived at home or in college apartments with roommates):

“I don’t like asking other people for help, except you.”

I’m flattered, of course (I guess), that my daughter wants my help. And she’s half-joking, because she did actually get someone else to do the thing she said I could do when I came to visit.

But there is a broader point: part of the independence we hope our kids will learn is building their own systems of support apart from their parents. It’s not that parents don’t want to help (we do!), but we also know our kids will not always have us to rely on.

If the helicopter parents of the world had their way, their children would never have to do anything for themselves. Bad, bad idea.

I know my wife was a little proud inside when our oldest complained that he was the only one among his freshman roommates who knew how to clean a bathroom. She was proud, of course, that he could do it. (Whether the others couldn’t do it or just didn’t isn’t clear.)

Another son quickly became the prime chef in his community of young adults when they realized what a great cook he was. (Thanks again, Mom!)

I know we watched with nervousness when another son moved out right after high school, refusing our help, except to cosign his first lease. Yes, he had bumps along the way. He had to kick out that deadbeat roommate. (Did we warn him or did we bite our tongues? It doesn’t matter; had we warned him he would have ignored us, but in the end he learned the lesson he needed to learn.)

Part of a kid’s job growing up is to separate from his parents, to become independent. I know few parents who, at a child’s 18th birthday, write them off forever, but we do want our kids to need us less and less.

My wife grew up in a family of 12 kids. There just wasn’t much time for helicoptering in that home. My own mom had a favorite mantra when I was a kid: “Fight your own battles.” I don’t remember her ever intervening, even when I was a high school sophomore and my “fighting my own battles” ticked off certain students at my high school who broke into my locker and stole everything – textbooks, notebooks, my winter coat. She did not stop me, nor did she rescue me (well, she did buy me a new coat). Thanks, mom.

To be sure, there are some scary moments when we allow our kids to make their own choices, fight their own battles, blaze their own trails. They sometimes make choices we think are dumb (and maybe even dangerous). I’m not advocating that parents allow their children to live recklessly, but that they allow their children to enjoy the dignity of the consequences of their choices.

Teaching truth (to our kids)

I had a conversation with a reader on another blog post a couple of weeks ago. He asked about my thoughts on how to prepare our kids for “surprises” in church history. His question caused me to think about how I teach my kids the gospel and how I teach others (for instance now I teach occasionally in the High Priests group, and I share teaching of the Gospel Essentials class; in the past I’ve taught seminary and institute).

When it comes to exposing students (or our kids) to apparent inconsistencies in church history, here are some thoughts:

1. The setting matters. I would deal with this completely differently in an institute class or a High Priests group (where I’m more likely to be open) than in a Gospel Essentials class (where my charge is to teach basic doctrines). That said, I still accept the mandate to “teach from the manual” so I’m not interested in declaring whatever arcane historical things I’ve learned at the expense of the scheduled lesson. (I’ve blogged before about what teaching from the manual means to me, so I won’t belabor that point here.)

2. Age matters. I think whatever we teach our kids, we need to be aware of where they are. Just as the facts-of-life talk can be age appropriate, so can other issues, and I think church history issues are like that.

3. We don't have to know everything. I have had unanswered questions over time. And I think it's ok to admit to our kids or our students that we don't have every answer, and that we are looking. It's especially valuable if we can demonstrate that we have resolved some issues, but have other unresolved ones, suggesting that issue resolution takes time.

3. Encourage questions. I really believe that it's ok to ask questions. But it's also good to wait for answers, and to seek them in reliable places. (I acknowledge that one man's reliable may be another's biased source...)

4. Remember what you know. It's good for us, our students and our kids to remember the things we do know (or feel, or have faith in). For me, the sweet spirit of the temple is what helped me to hang on as I tried to resolve open issues about Joseph Smith, for instance. When we keep moving forward without complete knowledge, I think that's walking by faith, and it's ok.

5. The more we know the more we know what we don't know. Elder Theodore Burton taught me this principle on my mission years ago. As our testimony grows, the border between what we know and what we don't know also grows. And that's ok.

Some of my kids had no interest in talking about these things with me. Carlfred Broderick observed that these issues just don't matter to everyone, and that's ok. I have other family members for whom history issues were highly significant. Not every student will respond the same way, and for that reason, I think we need to be prudent in how we proceed as teachers.

For me, my period of discovery of church history matters began after high school. Having supportive and positive (but not dictatory) voices was helpful to me as I found my own way through it.

Our children will not always be happy

When I was a young father, I had a strange expectation. I don’t know why, but I had it in my head that when I corrected my kids, they’d be happy to have me do it.

I had always dreamed of a happy home – Mom and Dad smiling and playing with good natured kids who loved one another and got along. Frankly, I grew up in a really happy home. I got along with my siblings (they were extremely kind to me; I was the youngest), and I got along with my parents. My folks had disagreements, and I know that my dad, in particular, went the rounds with my older brother. I guess by the time I rolled around Dad had either tired himself out or figured better which battles were worth fighting.

But I was not always happy as a child. When I did something wrong, I was punished. I had been sent away from the table or sent to my room, or even gotten a swat on the behind more than once. My parents were measured in their discipline, and I never felt that I was punished out of anger. (Maybe I was, but I don’t remember it that way.)

My mom was around more that my dad, both because he worked and she was at home, but also because he traveled a lot, so she was both Mom and Dad sometimes. And I learned at an early age not to cross Mom. Although punishment was measured, her words could sting sometimes. But she was consistent and I learned the boundaries pretty well. And there were plenty of happy and fun times, too.

Somehow, though, I assumed that my own kids would either always instinctively do what is right, or be glad when I corrected them. And when they weren’t, I was surprised, and often quite defensive, even with a strong willed two-year-old. When that strong willed two-year-old was a surly teen (with a couple of more surly teen siblings at the same time), my expectation hadn’t changed much, but my disappointment continued to brew.

It took some time for me to learn that it’s not my job as a parent to make sure my kids are happy all the time. Sometimes they need to learn hard lessons and it’s better for them to learn them in the safety of my home than in the “real” world. And sometimes I need to let the real world lessons come home to roost.

It’s better for me to help a ten year old learn a hard lesson about responsibility, even if it brings a moment or two of discomfort, than to let her grow into an irresponsible teen or adult, less prepared to accept responsibility for her choices.

The fact is, I cannot make my kids happy. I can be honest with them. I can love them. I can provide them a safe place of shelter and acceptance, but I cannot shield them, nor should I. Of course, to everything there is a season, and I don’t expect the same of an eight-year-old as I would of an eighteen-year-old.

At the same time, I should not be (and do not need to be) the source of their sadness, if they feel it. I can’t take responsibility for the choices they make. I can mourn with them, and I can even offer to share their burdens when I am able. But just because I can’t make something better doesn’t mean I’m the source of their pain.

It’s a lesson that seems so obvious to me now. But it took me years to learn.

Helpless Children; Helpless Parents

I have seven children, five of whom are adults. As our kids have worked through the normal stages of development, we've often cited the oldest life-stage we're dealing with and pronounced it as the "hardest time to parent children" – you know: toddlers are the hardest children to parent; no, teenagers are the hardest to parent; no, young adults are hardest to parent.

In fact, they're all hard. Because the stakes are so high. I am certain, looking back, that my parents also had sleepless nights wondering about the choices I was making. Not that I was doing awful things, but just wondering if it would all turn out all right. Whatever hang ups my parents may have had (and I'm sure they had some, but I'm happy not to enumerate them), I do know that my parents genuinely wanted what was best for me, and that generally meant something better than what they had as kids.

And they delivered. My father worked hard to provide a comfortable life for us. We weren't rich (as Mom regularly reminded us – "We can't afford that!"), but I always had shoes that fit (even if my pants didn't, since that pre-school year trip to JC Penney had to last all year), plenty to eat (though there were a lot of casseroles – shepherd's pie was my least favorite followed closely by tuna noodle casserole), and a family that loved me.

My mother was a big believer in letting us fight our own battles. I remember coming home from the Junior High bus one day, after a near fist fight with a kid who had been picking on me. I had not been hit (our mutual friends separated us and saved me from injury, if not embarrassment). Mom pointed out that in that case she hadn't meant I should literally fight my battle, but she still didn't tell me what I'd done was wrong. And she didn't rush to call another parent to smooth things out for me. I don't think it would ever have occurred to her to do such a thing.

So you'd think I'd be able to sit and watch my kids make their own mistakes and patiently wait for things to resolve themselves. As if. I have to sit on my hands, bite my tongue, bide my time, and hope I don't explode with more "help" than they need.

The divine model is more like my mom. Heavenly Father allows us to flounder. He gives us a chance to learn truth and to practice it (and practice and practice) until we get it right. And he allows us not to get it right. I remember in a Fortran class years ago our professor suggested the computer was infinitely patient: as many times as we typed a line of code wrong, the computer would calmly respond: "Data entry error" (or whatever the error code was). Our Father in Heaven is also patient. The Lord reminds us that He is anxious to gather us as a hen gathers her chicks, and that his arms are outstretched still, but we must walk to Him. And He waits. And I hope I can learn to do the same.

On Section 121 and Children

You may be familiar with the key (and oft-quoted) verses from Doctrine and Covenants 121:

No power or influence can or ought to be maintained by virtue of the priesthood, only by persuasion, by long-suffering, by gentleness and meekness, and by love unfeigned; By kindness, and pure knowledge, which shall greatly enlarge the soul without hypocrisy, and without guile— Reproving betimes with sharpness, when moved upon by the Holy Ghost; and then showing forth afterwards an increase of love toward him whom thou hast reproved, lest he esteem thee to be his enemy; That he may know that thy faithfulness is stronger than the cords of death (v. 41-44).

The question came up in the comments section of another blog about whether these principles apply to children. The questioner wondered if it's ok for parents to be strict with their children, and to allow these principles to govern adult-adult relationships, as if those two things were separate.

My answer on that blog and here is that the most important relationships I have are in my own family. And the most likely place for me to abuse my power and influence is in my family. As a result, these principles are most important within the family.

Frankly, the "because I'm your father and I said so" reason for following my decrees hasn't ever worked well with my kids. My own parents did not play that card with me, and it took me surprisingly long to learn not to play it with my kids.

My own father taught me in word and deed from the time he joined the church that I should not respect him because he holds the priesthood or because he is my father. He taught me that I should respect him because he is worthy of my respect: he was loving, hard working, full of integrity, kind, and fair. Generally he spoke to me calmly (I was the youngest in my family, and it's likely that I benefited from my father's experience with my older siblings). There were few (if any) ultimatums.

That said, my father was not permissive. He had high expectations for us, and he communicated those expectations. He and my mother imposed consequences when I ran afoul of family rules. But I never questioned my parents' love for me. And looking back, I can see that they exercised restraint in their response to some of my youthful mistakes. Their corrections, which came with the clarity of a sharp photograph, not the harshness of an acid (to paraphrase Theodore M. Burton), were gentle but clear. And I was well aware of my parents' love for me because they told me and because they showed me in many ways.

If we believe that our families will last after this life, then we have all the more motivation to operate in a way that attracts our family members to us. A good friend pointed out the final verse of Section 121; when we operate according to the principles outlined above, then:

The Holy Ghost shall be thy constant companion, and thy scepter an unchanging scepter of righteousness and truth; and thy dominion shall be an everlasting dominion, and without compulsory means it shall flow unto thee forever and ever (v. 46).

This friend pointed out that our dominion as parents is our family. And having our family – our children – flow to us without compulsory means is a wonderful image, and is my goal.

Great Expectations

Here's a joke: How do you raise perfect children in two steps?

Step One: Find a perfect child.

Step Two: Pick him up.

My mother would remind that we rear children, we do not raise them (we raise livestock or crops), though my latest dictionary doesn't draw such a firm line between the two.

Here's a roadblock in child rearing: expectations.

Have you ever said any of the following? "I expect my kids to treat me with respect." "I expect my kids to do well in school." "I expect my kids to be good workers." "I expect my kids to go to seminary." And on and on.

(By the way, I've said all these things. And I may have meant what I said, or I may have meant "I hope my kids….", but I doubt I said – especially to them – "I hope…")

My experience is that when I set an expectation, and then my free-agent child fails to meet my expectation, I'm disappointed, upset, and maybe even mad. And quite often my poor kid has no idea what has upset me.

I know parents who have their kids' life mapped out for them. And they're surprised when a kid wants to zig where the plan says zag.

You've no doubt seen at least one of those teen coming of age movies where the kid wants to grow up to do just about anything but what the parent wants him to do. And you end up rooting for the kid and thinking, "What dumb parents." But if you're like me, you may still have expectations.

As I get older, I find it's easier and kinder to drop the expectations. It doesn't mean I drop my standards, or even my hopes and dreams. And it doesn't mean I don't work with my kids to excel in whatever it is they're doing. And to set their own goals. And to find their own mountains to climb (instead of the ones I've carefully selected for them). After all, my hopes and dreams are mine, not theirs.

It's a lesson hard won. My oldest came home years ago with an eyebrow piercing. We had talked about it before it happened. He asked. We said no. He did it anyway. Fortunately (from my perspective) the thing got infected and so he had to take it out. One of his brothers decided he wanted blue hair. After the eyebrow ring, blue hair seemed very temporary (on the hair, that is – not on the bathroom walls where he splashed the hair dye). And it was. After a few years, occasional blue went to black, then finally back to his natural red.

Even though I learned tolerance on cosmetic issues, I also had to learn tolerance on academic, social and spiritual ones, too. In the end, here's what I've learned: my kids have their own life to live. I can offer guidance. I can offer support. I can be a sounding board. I can even try to squeeze my opinion in (except maybe when the boys are 15…). But I can't expect a certain outcome. It's just not mine to control.

In the end (and we're nowhere near the end!), things have a way of sorting themselves out. The redhead even finally repainted the bathroom with the blue hair dye on the wall. Years later. But he did it.

Because he wanted to, not because we expected him to.

To Life!

There is something about babies that just melts me. I'm the dad of seven. And in our extended family we have within the last few weeks had three more little ones join us, with another two on the way very shortly. Seeing photos of these little ones (all on FB; thanks very much techo-geeks who make all this possible) brings tears to my eyes. It's silly, really. These aren't my kids, or even my grandkids, but they are my niece and children of my nieces and nephews. And they are just amazing.

Over the years when my own children were born, we went from steel delivery tables to remarkable birthing suites. We watched with awe as the technology of disposable diapers moved from plastic-bag-with-padding-in-it to something that holds more liquid than a small camel. Our car seats evolved from the Bobby-Mac "barrel" design (I felt like I was strapping my child into a space craft) to five-point restraints in seats that doubled as strollers.

But in the end, it's the babies! All the fingers and toes and eyelashes and little pudgy knuckles and poofy hair that would rub off in the first few months. It was apgar scores and calling the help from "our friends in the neo-natal unit" when #2 wasn't breathing right (he did just fine after all) and bilirubin counts (and "the lights" for some). It was giving my wife space to nurse and then sitting with her when she nursed so she wouldn't feel alone. It was my son who didn't want anyone to touch him or my daughter who only wanted her mother to touch her, or others who didn't care who held them. It was anticipation fueled by the picture book A Child Is Born that couldn't even imagine the real thing, and it was the amazement every time that these babies are so small, so new, so fresh, so helpless.

When my first child was born, my mother said to me as she left after spending a week with us (my wife's mom had been there the first week), "Don't worry. You'll do fine. Just follow your instincts." I told her my instinct was to call her!

We stumbled as parents every step of the way. Our children taught us over time as much as we've taught them. And they continue to do so. They are still amazing in so many, many ways, continuing to surprise and delight us, even as many have entered adulthood, and some have chosen paths we would not have imagined for them.

But they all started – we all started – as these little tiny helpless bundles of new life. I consider myself fortunate to get to see it happen over and over again, and to remember what a blessing this life is, and what a blessing these little lives are in our world.