Mature for My Age
Today my oldest son, Nicholas, is guest posting. Real as always, Nicholas shares openly about his struggle to reach acceptance, maturation, and sonship.
I’ve shared my story. Or really, a few chapters of my story. The quest for sonship/adoption from the Father was a fight. It was a struggle to move past individuals who, at various intervals, succeeded in impeding my attempts to achieve adoption. It sounds harsh. Well, it was harsh. I cannot apologize for the tone used here. This is my story. I am sticking to it.
This quest for sonship and adoption caused me to grow up. That is such a generality. I have felt so often that I was robbed of my youth. I lost my innocence. I lost all hope at being average, of this sense of normalcy. It crumbled into dust at my feet. At twelve, I had an effervescent spotlight cast upon me highlighting every single movement and action I took. I stood out on the front stage, alone and watched by the glistening eyes of the masses.
I became a pastor’s son. Stamped and labeled. Wearing the “Hello, my name is…” nametag perpetually. Their vigilant eyes were always watching. Always waiting. Never blinking.
I now had to fit someone’s expectations.
I wanted to be normal. Average. Regular. Plain. I wanted out from the limelight. I felt bombarded with questions. Why did I have to be held to higher standards? Why couldn’t I hangout with this group of friends? Why did I have to be active in serving the church? Why did I have to be the first to participate? Why couldn’t I say these phrases? Why couldn’t I talk about these books I read, or movies I’ve watched? Why was everyone so uptight when I was around? Did I do something wrong? Why was there a look of disgust when I made a mistake? Was I a failure? Did I screw up so badly? Was I beyond forgiveness?
It always intrigued me how grace was extended to every other person and yet I seemed to be without. I would curse, get into a scuffle, or worse, I had my ears pierced. One single step out of line and everyone knew. I was a poor example. Worse, my parents were seen as terrible role models. All because I had my ears pierced. What a joke! Or the time I obtained a Blink 182 album (I believe it was Enema of the State). Such uproar of disgust and horror was never heard before. By their standards, it was appalling. I was subsequently labeled, a bad seed. Whatever that means. Words.
I didn’t fit the model. I was different. I never seemed to fulfill any of their expectations. I just seemed to fail. Came up short. Time and time again. Cyclical. You get the picture?
I tried to measure up, but always came up short. Why was I different? I always wanted to know why.
The answers are never what you expect and subsequently, never what you want to hear. God has a knack for those sorts of answers. Simply stated, I was set apart. Beyond simplicity, I was being trained to pastor. I was being taught through situation and circumstance, how to extend grace to people who would much rather see me punished, than to be let off the hook. I learned how to love people despite their overbearing opinions and criticisms of what they thought about me. I learned how to be Christ in the midst of seekers.
I didn’t fit the model. Neither did he. I failed people’s expectation. So did he. His story and mine intersect quite a lot.
Being a pastor’s son, taught me how to be more like Him than I would have ever believed.
Who would have thought? I know I didn’t.
