Yesterday Ashley and I loaded the girls into the van and ferried them to my old high school stomping grounds at North Park. Our pastor Roger met us there, and we did a vow renewal for the girls. Since they weren't able to be present at our actual wedding ceremony (due to the recommendation of our adoption lawyer), we wanted to treat them to an intimate renewal that put them Square and Center. The renewal, in truth, was more about the girls than Ashley and me. Roger talked about the responsibilities of husbands and wives, fathers and mothers, and children. It wasn't so much a celebration of Ashley and I coming together but of the Barnhart Family coming together: in September I officially adopted the girls, and this ceremony was all about them being an integral part of our family. I got each of the girls a silver turtle necklace and wrote them personalized letters extolling my love for them, praising them for their virtues, and promising to never abandon them or hurt them, to protect them and fight for them, and to always be there for them (even when they want nothing to do with me). I promised to raise them up as God desires and to forgive them every time they mess up. I reassured them that when Ashley and I have more children, they will NEVER be second best. They will always be my oldest children. At the end of the ceremony we filled a bottle with different color sands, each representing one of us with white representing God, who binds us together. It was a moving, touching ceremony--but the girls treated it like a joke.
I mention that for two reasons. First, I mention it because it's so easy in our era of social media to be "pretenders," to live lives full of pretense. The definition of pretense is, in a nutshell, Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter. We use social media to present our best faces to the world, and through them we paint our lives up and make them appear the way we want them to appear. It would be easy for me to make my family life look like something straight out of a Thomas Kincaid painting; all I have to do is cherry-pick what people see. Zoey's temper tantrums and Chloe's moments of sass don't make it to Instagram (unless they're really funny), and I could end this post with the bit about the Unity Sand Bottle and anyone would reading would think, "Oh, how sweet and sentimental! Such a cute and loving family!" Yes, we're cute, and yes, we're full of love for one another, but we're certainly not perfect, and I don't want anyone to think we are. We have our imperfections, our abrasions, our cuts and bruises. We have moments of sin like everyone else. Family life isn't perfect; a lot of the time it's frustrating, disheartening, and infuriating; but at the end of the day it's the best thing that's ever happened to me.
I mention that the night was "soured" by the girls' disrespect and bad behavior because it is an excellent portrait of divine fatherhood. After Roger departed and the girls were strapped into the van, I gave them a good dressing-down while affirming that I loved them and forgave them and sealing that affirmation with hugs and kisses. Both of them were heartbroken when they realized how wrong they had behaved, especially Chloe. But by the time the night was over, and the girls were in bed, they were wearing their turtle necklaces and clinging to their framed handwritten letters as if they were life-jackets. I tucked them in, gave them hugs and kisses, and my heart was filled with joy to call them my own. As I fell asleep that night, I thought about how the whole evening modeled our relationship with God.
The girls are my adopted children, just as God has adopted me through Christ. All of us who are in Christ have been adopted by God, and we'll mess up, and we'll mess up often. And when we do, it's tempting to think He's done with us, that we've gone too far this time. I was hurt and disappointed with the girls' behavior, but I never stopped loving them, and I wouldn't trade them in for anyone or anything. There's nothing they could do that would make me stop loving them, fighting for them, and forgiving them. I know they'll mess up. I don't expect them to be perfect. But I do expect them to try and be good. I forgive them when they fail, and God is the same with us. Even persistent failures on the girls' part don't make me love them less. The discipline may get more intense, but I discipline them for their good. I don't want them to become enslaved to bad habits that will be to their detriment down the road. I want them to flourish and grow and become the women God wants them to be. And (here's the tie-in again) that's the same way God is with me.
I mess up all the time.
I do stuff, say stuff, think stuff I know I shouldn't.
And yet God forgives me, each and every time.
Sure, He may discipline me; and when He does, I deserve it.
But His discipline isn't born of wrath but of love.
He wants me to become the man I'm supposed to be.
He wants me to flourish and grow into maturity.
My pitfalls, mistakes, and sins don't cut me off from His grace.
He doesn't write me off when I do wrong.
And He certainly doesn't love me any less.
