How Suffering Grows Us... and Our Kids

By Dr. Dan Allender

Aging is inevitable, while becoming mature is uncertain. Our bodies grow from infancy to old age in mere decades. This process of physical growth, however, is not always matched in the inner person. Some die when they are old without having truly advanced beyond adolescence. Others die young with souls having gained a weight and a depth that far exceeded their years.

Growing up, as opposed to merely growing old, compels us to embrace both joy and sorrow. To mature we must learn to suffer and not yield or turn hard. To mature we must learn to engage joy and not demand that it hang around, nor fabricate a counterfeit when it departs. There are many other ways to measure maturity, perhaps, but they all dance to the music of sorrow and joy.

How we embrace - or refuse to hold - sorrow and joy will define our lives. If we capitulate to sorrow, we will become cowards. If we allow sorrow to make us hard, then we will grow cold and eventually cruel. If we demand that joy remain constant, we will become self-consumed. And if we create a counterfeit joy, our lives will be riddled with impulsivity and addictions. Life demands that we either grow or stagnate. As difficult as it is to face this truth regarding my own life, it is harder for me to grasp regarding my children. I know I must suffer, struggle, grow, and sometimes fail in order to mature. But when this reality shows itself to be just as true for my children, I can barely endure it.

The Voice of Sorrow

I heard the sound of muffled tears coming from my sixteen-year-old daughter's room. The door was closed, and her CD player tried to provide a cover for her pain. But when the music quieted between songs, I could hear her crying. My ear was pressed against the door, as it is whenever I fear that harm is threatening one of my children. (Try to picture my oldest daughter's shock and disdain on another occasion when, after secretly plotting either the overthrow of the government or a clandestine rendezvous with friends, she opened her door to see her unbalanced father topple to the floor. If you are spying, don't lean against your child's door.)

As the sobs continued, I stood against my daughter's door, frozen and uncertain. Should I knock? Should I wait and ask her about her day later at dinner? Should I go off somewhere and pray, get busy with some task, or simply try hard not to worry? Why doesn't someone tell me exactly what to do? I know enough to love my children, provide boundaries and consequences, and be patient with them. But what am I to do with tears? Do I let her work it out on her own, or do I boldly enter where no man, especially a father, has gone before?

I knocked, and there was silence. The music continued, but the tears dried up at the first sign of a potential intruder. When the intruder knocked again, my daughter answered the door, furious at being interrupted. A quick look told me everything. She was in pain, and she didn't want help. I was now the issue, and it was best to disappear. But as I do when I'm skiing, I had already aimed the pointy ends downhill, and due to certain forces of nature, I was fully committed. I was headed down the slope no matter what my daughter did or said.

I don't know what your parental default mode might be, but mine, whenever in doubt, is to state the obvious. "I heard tears," I began. "The door was closed. You are now not crying, but frowning. I know privacy is more important to you than food. You are now grimacing, and your lower lip is jutting out farther than your nose."

That last remark turned the tide. She broke, slightly. A smile rose and then departed like the winter sun in Seattle. But for a brief moment, a glorious moment, we made connection, and she let me stand in the doorway as a person, not merely as a parent.

I was never invited in, but I did hear a sketchy outline of a run-in with two of her girlfriends that had humiliated her in front of a guy she liked. Perhaps I wasn't invited into her room because she could see the fury rising in my eyes. I knew both of the friends in question, and I wanted to corner them in some public place and give them a taste of the same poison they had fed my daughter. How dare they hurt her after all the times she had stood beside them as they suffered with parents, boyfriends, school, and other calamities of life!

I'd rather take a bullet than see my children suffer. But I can't. I can protect them at some points, but those moments are too few and much too far between. Often, in fact, my efforts to warn them of impending danger or even to jump in front of the oncoming train actually intensify their suffering and intrude on the process of maturing. So when do I jump to protect them, and when do I stand back and, in anguish, just watch and wait? I want answers and solutions!

There are times when I can't do anything other than offer a heroic gesture, no matter how futile; and there are other times when I can easily do something, yet I must stand back and let the process play itself out. I want my children to mature; I just don't want them to have to mature through suffering. But you can't have one without the other.

Excerpted from the book How Children Raise Parents.

Dan B. Allender, Ph.D., is the father of Anna, Amanda and Andrew; and the husband of Rebecca. He is president of Mars Hill Graduate School in Seattle, Washington, where he serves as professor of counseling. He is also a psychologist, speaker, writer, and fly fisherman. Dr. Allender is the author of The Wounded Heart, Bold Love, Intimate Allies and The Healing Path. Visit his website at www.danallender.com.