Kingdom Harbor

Ford tough,” the deep-voiced man repeats in the classic TV commercials selling F150 Ford trucks between beer commercials showing skimpy dressed supermodels chasing after the tough guys who drive big trucks. Not to be outdone, Chevrolet recruits Bob Seger to help sell their trucks singing his classic line and Chevy truck slogan “Like a rock.” 

Many boys like me came of age and tried to grow up to be “strong men” with these images of “toughness” in the air we breathed. Toughness means an impenetrable rock-like exterior, a bullet-proof teflon covering, a stoic demeanor and stiff upper lip approach to the many challenges we face. While this brawny toughness might serve us well on the athletic field, it will leave us on our heels and ill-prepared for the relational challenges that await us. 

Because soon enough these tough beer-drinking guys fall in love and get married, begin having children, and suddenly find themselves trading in their big truck for a minivan with automatic sliding doors and a DVD player—a luxury feature you paid extra for only to have your 3 year old shove pennies into the DVD slot three days after driving off the sale lot. So I’ve heard. 

I made the mistake of blinking, and somehow my son, Isaak, went from that bite-sized 3-year old penny-pusher to a tall and stringy 11-year old wonder boy. Full of wonder himself—curious and inquisitive, a sponge soaking in facts and figures, a sensitive soul feeling life’s uneven terrain deeply. Wonder boy also keeps the rest of us wondering about his quirky ways and multitudes of moods and emotions.

Each child is unique and requires a different parenting toolkit. The “Isaak” drawer in our family tool chest is filling up as we continue tackling new and interesting challenges together. We love this amazing, gifted, complex bundle of energy and angst so much.

Today on his 11th birthday I want to share a significant lesson Isaak is helping me learn: the difference between tough love and tender love. Isaak struggles with anxiety and for years he has crawled into our bed in the middle of the night. This habit was cute when he was 2 or 3 years old. It was getting annoying when he was 4, 5 or 6 years old. The habit grew alarming and, to my eyes, unhealthy when he was still crawling into snuggle next to mama as a 9 or 10 year old. 

Worried that we were coddling him and enabling a habit he needed to overcome, I took on the role of the firm boundary-setting parent, putting my foot down, and exerting what I would call some “tough love.” “You can do hard things,” I would say. We started asking him to sleep on the floor next to the bed some nights, while other nights I’d lock the bedroom door and find him curled up against the door the next morning.

I worried we were hindering his development by not making him face and overcome his fear. Since mom was a softy on the sleeping issue, I felt I had to balance her out by being extra firm—the bad guy or mean dad in Isaak’s eyes. I considered it the “tough love” Isaak needed to grow up and grow out of this habit. 

Then a scary, life-threatening medical emergency changed everything. On October 22, 2023, after an agonizing night sleeping on the floor next to our bed with abdominal pain, I rushed Isaak to the ER and then onto Children’s Hospital where he would spend the next 30 nights in an ICU bed fighting for his life. Our anxious child who desires snuggles and the warm sanctuary our of king-sized bed at home, was suddenly marooned on the island of a twin-sized hospital bed made for one.

For 30 nights mom and dad were now tempted to crawl up into his hospital bed in the middle of the night to feel his warmth and to soothe our own fears. All I wanted was for Isaak to get well so we could bring him home so he could drive me crazy again crawling into our bed at night. 

Throughout this ordeal the bed situation became more of a metaphor for our human longing for security and warmth. I’m focusing less on the behavior these days, and more on the underlying psychological struggle. For years I have wanted to “fix” the problem (i.e., stop the habit) to make Isaak more “normal.” Then on a spiritual retreat two weeks before Isaak’s medical emergency, a wise person told me Isaak was a special kid who would require a special approach to parenting. Trying to “fix” things to make Isaak more “normal” was the wrong goal. Acknowledging Isaak’s uniqueness and learning how to love him well was the new and better goal. 

On that same retreat, God began to challenge my tough love approach and invited me to consider a more tender love with Isaak and his challenges. Tough love isn’t bad. Firm boundaries are sometimes necessary. Pushing kids out of their comfort zone and helping them overcome their fears is noble and a proven way to build character. But tough love at the wrong time and in the wrong way can prove to be a weaker and lazier love than the self-denying tender love that demands more from us.

There is a tenacious tenderness that doesn’t wait for the anxious child to come crawling into our bed. This tender love leaves the warmth and comfort of my own bed in order to go crawl into the bed of the anxious child. The question is: What kind of love does our Father in Heaven show his weary and anxious children? 

Tough love is a kick in the pants to help people become more independent and self-assured. Tender love is a warm embrace reminding people it’s okay to not be okay and assuring them they are not alone in their struggle. Tough love kicks the birds out of the nest. Tender love covers one’s children with warm wings of love and protection.

Tough love is the mindset of the Prodigal Son when he concludes he’s no longer worthy to be a son and will be his father’s slave instead. Tender love is the Father running down the road with tears of compassion to wrap his loving arms around his wayward son. For me, tender love is crawling into an 11-year old’s bed to be a warm and reassuring presence, even when my tough love mindset says he shouldn’t need me in this way anymore. 

When I pause long enough to listen to my own soul’s longing, I admit that this 44 year old still desires to be wrapped in tender love and held in another’s embrace. Many mornings I don’t want to leave the comfort of bed to face an often cold and cruel world. I try to be “like a rock”, but I’m more like a soft dinner roll. The world tells me to put on a tough teflon exterior, but inwardly I’m a bubbling cauldron of chaotic and hard-to-control emotions. 

A strong person is sometimes described as “tough as nails,” which has me thinking about the One who had nails driven through his wrists and ankles out of love for me. Those nails couldn’t have broken through the supercharged exterior of Iron Man, Super Man or the Incredible Hulk. Their bulletproof exterior would have bent the nails in half and kept them from any harm. That’s Ford Tough; that’s strength “like a rock.” But that’s not Christlike strength.

Thankfully, the Savior was not tougher than nails, but willing to be pierced by them. Tender love dragged him out of the warm covers of Heaven, led him down the dark hallway to Earth’s fear-laden landscape. Opening the door into our sin-stained heart chamber, he allowed himself to be pierced by the nails for our transgressions and our healing. 

Once again, Jesus turns conventional logic on its head—this time in redefining what “tough love” really looks like. The toughest love of all, it turns out, is the tender love that allows oneself to be pierced for the sake of others. Pierced is to be burdened, inconvenienced, heart sick over another’s struggle.

Even if Ford and Chevy truck commercials missed it, it’s right there in red letters in the Bible: “No one has greater tougher love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends” (John 15:13). Thank God, Jesus’ heart toward us was soft, and not hard as nails. 

Our Isaak almost died this past year. I’m still trying to let that reality sink in. Our anxious son proved to be a very courageous and resilient fighter who came through the ordeal (hopefully) stronger and more self-confident. But still very anxious and vulnerable as well.

The “musical beds” routine continues more often than I would like. Once a week or so, I’ll find him next to me when I wake up. I’ve stopped fighting that battle for now. Likewise, a few nights each week he asks me to “snuggle” with him at bed time. I try hard to say yes most of the time, dragging myself up stairs and thinking about my Heavenly Father’s tender love toward me as I crawl in next to Isaak.

There’s an old proverb that goes, “You’ve made your bed, and now you have to lie in it.” It basically means that you have to live with the consequences of your decisions.  But in the light of the gospel and my image here of the bed being a place of refuge for anxious souls, the saying sounds too cold and cruel.

The gospel says that even though we sometimes find ourselves alone and afraid in a miserable bed of our own making, we never have to lie in it alone. Even better, Christ’s tender love has made a bed of grace available to us down the hall, and we can crawl up into the Father’s love and find refuge anytime. 

Happy 11th birthday, Isaak. Thanks for calling out of me the toughness of tender love and for your patience as I try to cultivate the heart of the Father for all of his anxious children—young and old.