The tide of doubt in parenting is crushing at times until I’m reminded of the limitations of even perfect parenting.
I think of God birthing his children, naming his boy and girl, walking in the Garden with them. I imagine him planting those delicious trees, providing food enough. I see him talking with Adam and Eve face-to-face, spending quantity and quality time with his kids every day. I hear him protecting them, setting those all-important boundaries: you can do all this but definitely don’t do that over there.
And they still didn’t believe he had their best interests in mind.
They still didn’t trust him.
They didn’t eat right.
And they’re own kids wound up in a fight to the death.
Even perfect parents aren’t guaranteed an all-happy ending without regret, distrust, pain, and dysfunction. Oddly, I take great comfort in such pessimism. And I want to call my mom and dad and tell them they did a good job…no matter how I turned out.