When We Can’t Protect Our Kids From Everything

This past week I had one of those weeks.

The kind where you go to bed emotionally exhausted but somehow can’t sleep because your brain is already planning tomorrow’s conversations. The kind where your stomach lives somewhere up around your throat. The kind where you realize that no matter how organized you are, no matter how prepared you are, no matter how fiercely you love your children…you cannot protect them from everything.

Earlier this week my daughter had her phone stolen at camp and ultimately it was found days later discarded by the thief because its useless once in lost mode (likely a fellow camper or counselor) in a garbage. She had done nothing wrong. She put it away the way we always tell her too. She put it in a locker room locker and went to swim time only to return and it had been stolen. It was the kind of moment that steals a little innocence—not because of what was taken, but because she was now acutely aware of the bad that can be in the world even when you take steps to protect yourself.

I found myself on a busy workday fighting for answers with camp directors that simply didn’t care and ones that even tried to victim blame that “she probably just misplaced it.” It was incredible how little they cared.

At the same time, my son’s allergy test results came back and I suddenly found myself learning more about epi pens and anaphylaxis, reading ingredient labels, wondering if I would know what to do in an emergency, and realizing that something as simple as grabbing a treat at a bakery now required a different level of vigilance. I know so many parents live in this world and its an extra level of worry that I’ll never again take for granted. Not that I ever had. We’ve always been hypervigalant with friends’ kids but I now worry if I’ll be the one that accidentally tells my son to try this delicious whatever it is and cause him to get sick. Just one more thing to carry and somedays it all feels too damn heavy.

Neither of these situations was life-shattering, but together they carried a weight that only a parent understands. Parenthood isn’t just about the big moments, it’s about carrying a thousand invisible fears while trying to smile through dinner, answer homework questions, show up for work, fold laundry, and somehow convince your children that everything is okay, even when you’re not entirely sure it is.

It made me think of something from church the other day.

“I lift up my eyes to the mountains—where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth.” - Psalm 121

I’ve always loved that Psalm, but this week I noticed something I’d overlooked before. David doesn’t say his help comes from having all the answers. He doesn’t say his peace comes from controlling every circumstance. His help comes from the Lord. Not because life is predictable. But because God is.

I wish I could promise my children they’ll never be hurt. I wish I could promise that people will always be kind. That no one will ever betray their trust. That they’ll never receive difficult news from a doctor. That friendships won’t break their hearts. That they’ll never be anxious or afraid.

But even I know that I can’t.

And maybe that’s one of the hardest parts of being a parent.

We eventually discover that our job isn’t to eliminate every danger, it’s to faithfully walk beside them through whatever comes. To teach them to look up.

That realization has driven me back to another verse I’ve prayed over my children countless times:

“God you are our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.” —Psalm 46:1

Ever-present.

Not occasionally present.

Not only when life is easy.

Ever-present.

Building my resilience and theirs.

I spent much of this week trying to hold everything together. Trying to anticipate every possibility. Trying to think three steps ahead.

Trying to control things that simply cannot be controlled. And somewhere in the middle of all of that striving, I felt God gently reminding me:

You were never meant to carry this alone.

Not because He expects less of me as a mom. But because He knows I was never designed to be my children’s savior. He already has that job.

One of my favorite passages has always been Psalm 23. Even after all these years, one line still stops me in my tracks:

“Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for You are with me.”

Notice what David doesn’t write.

He doesn’t say God keeps us from every valley. He says God walks us through them. There’s a profound difference. As parents, we desperately want God to remove every hard thing from our children’s lives. But sometimes His promise is something even greater: His presence.

This week didn’t end with every answer.

There are still questions.

There are still things I wish had happened differently.

There are still moments where my mind starts spiraling into “what if.”

But I’m learning, again, that peace isn’t found in finally controlling every outcome.

Peace is found in remembering who is ultimately in control.

If you’re reading this after one of those weeks, I want to remind you of something I needed to hear myself and you probably do to:

Take the next faithful step.

Pray the next prayer.

Have the next conversation.

Love your children well.

Then place them back into the hands that loved them long before you ever held them.

Because those hands have never once let go. And neither will He.