God, Are You Working in My Home?

I could easily chart the decline of good attitudes and peace in our home. For the past month, we’d struggled with sickness and ear infections, and I felt like we’d never recover. Discouragement increasingly filled my days. Surely, this was all my fault. The cacophony of uncertainty and questions grew louder: 

It’s been a while since we memorized verses as a family. Do they see me reading my Bible enough? Maybe we need to listen to worship music more often? When’s the last time we went over our catechism? We read a lot of books, but how many of them are faith-based? That other mom is more consistent at teaching the Bible than I am and her kids seem better behaved. What are we doing that’s good—does it even matter? Why aren’t we seeing any fruit? 

Am I doing enough? 

I hatched a plan. I laid the Bible memorization strategy of my dreams on the kitchen table. I convinced myself that this would solve all of our problems and inspire my kids toward godliness. Still, questions lingered in the back of my mind. Do my efforts even matter? God, are you working in my home? 

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In the basement of our church, we’ve gathered with Christians from all different nations. Our four children find their friends and an empty table while us parents ponder whether letting them sit together is a wise idea. Eventually, we relent. I’m convinced they’re not listening, but they’re quiet for the moment. They play with toys from their pockets and share secrets while someone shares his testimony. 

For many years, this man tells us, he lived unsure of who God was. He speaks a rhetorical question to the crowd, trying to capture his uncertainty: “Who was Jesus anyway?” A voice calls from our table, “He’s God!” 

My husband and I exchange a look as chuckles ignite around the room. We’re both dumbfounded and delighted at the same time—our smiles speak this clearly. My husband walks over to our daughter and squeezes her shoulder as she grins. 

She’s been listening. 

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On the way home from church, the kids struggle in the back seat. The morning has been long and we’re all ready to get home. 

From the back, a conversation emerges about God and his strength. 

“God can hold a lot of kids! He can hold like five or ten of them! He can hold the whole world in his hand!”

“He can hold a lot more than that! He can hold like a million people.” 

I listen quietly as they work out what they know to be true about God. I want to interrupt them and share what I know—that God can hold all the kids in the world. I want them to know that he can hold each one of them and that he wants to. Instead, I say nothing—I stay quiet and etch the moment in my mind for later. 

They’ve been listening. 

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My son’s ear infection has returned, and I’m unsure whether the new antibiotics are working. He’s only one and doesn’t understand where his pain is coming from. It manifests in fussiness and the need for more cuddles and nursing. 

At the end of a long night parenting solo, I find he does not want to sleep—he wants to cry, and I want to cry with him. Instead, in an act of desperation, I sing a song that has the potential to energize him. 

“The B-I-B-L-E, yes that’s the book for me! I stand alone on the Word of God, the B-I-B-L-E!” I sing it quietly, hoping he won’t shout out “Bible!” at the end and wake the others. 

He doesn’t. He listens and calms, leaning his head against my shoulder as we sway together in the darkness. I whisper the song over the top of his head and hug him tighter. 

When I put him in his crib, he calls enthusiastically, “Bible! Bible!” When I stop singing, he sings the song to himself—or, at least, his own version of it. 

He’s been listening. 

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There’s a moment when Paul writes to Timothy about his sincere faith. I suppose he could have left it at that, but he brings in Timothy’s grandmother, Lois, and his mother, Eunice—two women known for their sincere faith. 

Little Timothy grew up watching them, hearing their prayers, and witnessing their walk with God firsthand. Paul draws the connection between these women, their faith, and the faith that now lives in Timothy.[1] 

He was listening. 

I wonder if Lois and Eunice felt the weight that we feel now—the weight of uncertainty and discouragement that somehow we’re failing. The weight that we could do more for the spiritual lives of our families. The weight that everyone else mothers better than us and we’re always a step behind. 

But why belittle the seeds we’re planting? Why make small the ways we’re already tending to the hearts of our kids, ways God is free and able to use however he’d like? 

The fruit of faith may not come right away. The fruit may not look exactly as we’d like it to, but when God’s truth is spoken and lived out in our homes, it will always accomplish exactly what God wants it to.[2] 

God, are you working in these little hearts? 
I’m listening, Lord—I see that you are. 
And I know now that you’re working in mine. 

[1] 2 Timothy 1:5

[2] Isaiah 55:11