It’s day 28 of the series 31 Days of Lessons Learned from My 20’s. If you want to read all the posts in this series, you can find every post listed here. If you want to have all the posts delivered to your email inbox, subscribe here.

I remember when I taught first-grade one of my little six-year-old students asked me one day where I slept. I looked at him perplexed and answered, “I sleep in my bed.” “But where’s your bed?” he replied as he looked around the room. I then realized he thought I slept at school.

To him my entire life was wrapped up in the walls of that school and the role in which He experienced me. He only saw me as a teacher.

I used to think the same thing about my parents.

It wasn’t so much that I thought my parents were only parents. I saw the other roles they filled as spouses and employees and siblings and friends and children to their parents.

But in my mind, their entire essence was confined to my existence. Before me there was nothing and without me there was nothing.

This made my expectations of them impossible. 

I knew my parents weren’t perfect. I knew they were human enough in that sense. But I thought that their love for me should trump all else. And if it didn’t? I assumed I wasn’t loved. 

For example, my mom was a smoker. I was one of those pretentious-type kids that came home and demanded my mom stop smoking because one day she would die from it – which she did three years ago. When she didn’t stop smoking, I came to the conclusion that she didn’t love me. After all, who would ever want to jeopardize the opportunity to live a healthy life with their children? Not to mention the negative effects it has on the children themselves. For many years, even into adulthood, my mind couldn’t wrap around the reasoning.

Then one day, I had a revelation. 

My parents are human and broken.

I was in my late 20’s, and from the outside looking in, I was an upstanding, morally dignified, successful person. I had two degrees. I supported myself. I had friendships. I served in the church. I prayed and studied the Bible. I loved Jesus so much. 

But on the inside I knew that despite all my “goodness” I was still rotten to the core if left to my own self. I struggled with insecurity and pride. I was haughty at times and judgemental. Cigarettes weren’t my drug but food was. I binge ate and then went for a seven mile run the next morning (A socially appropriate lifestyle, right?). 

I desperately wanted to figure out what this is inside me that makes me yearn for God and in the same breath do the exact opposite of what I want to do (Romans 7:15).

My conclusion?

I am broken. Without Jesus I am nothing.

And so are my parents. 

Life didn’t start for my parents the moment I was born. There was a lifetime before me that shaped them. Some of it was good. Some of it was bad. But regardless they struggle just like everyone else. Just like me. 

And so there is grace. 

When I came to my own brokeness and need for grace, I could much more quickly extend grace to my parents. Grace doesn’t condone actions or make sin “right”. Grace just recognizes that just like me, they’re broken too. They’re in need of Jesus, too. And so like Jesus, I can offer grace to them. 

Is it hard for you to offer grace to your parents? Why or why not?