Raising Luminaries — Our Bible App

Day 1 of 5: Trusting Our Children to Carry the Torch of Justice

It took all of my will not to encase my first kid in bubble wrap and cryogenically freeze him until the world got a little safer.

Around six months, he hit that semi-wobbly stage where he could sit himself upright on the floor, teetering side-to-side in the nest of my limbs. When he got tired, he’d collapse back into the cushion of my soft tummy. I kept his nest loose—space for him to sway, to test his limits. I fought that instinct to hold him tight, to confine him to a hunk of baby furniture that left no room for error.

(I fantasized plopping him into one of those constrictive plastic chairs. The freedom of luxuriously eating a sandwich with TWO hands!)

But I kept that nest loose, his movement on his terms. We had a system, a predictability to his movements. And then he decided to switch it up and fall forward. While I was distracted, he keeled through the tiny crack between my hands, his skull hitting the floor with a SMACK.

And he wailed. It was a super hard floor. It was a very loud smack. He was quite angry with me.

I had left an empty crack in his armor. I had failed to keep him safe. I had one job! Was that so hard?

Now, years later, I realize that space between my hands wasn’t empty. It was filled with trust.

I had trusted him not to fall forward. The same way, I eventually trusted him enough to walk on his own, and then to bike. Sometimes he fell, and sometimes he made it—but each time, I had to take a shaky leap of faith in him. I never knew whether letting him go was a good idea or a horrible mistake until I heard his whoops of joy or his cries of pain.

I still remember that single nauseating SMACK of his squishy forehead against hardwood. What I’m hazier on are the moments when he’d dip, and then right himself, grin, and squeal with pride. These memories are fuzzier because they were countless. I don’t remember the last time I lowered my arms and backed away, testing to see if he could handle this sitting business on his own. I don’t remember all the times I trusted him to right himself and the trust paid off.

Our children grow. So we gotta keep that nest loose. They need to see and breathe through to what lies beyond.

Over the years, I’ve tried building strategically-placed cracks for him to fall through, with the other side lined with pillows and ice-packs. Manufactured gaps filled with something that looks like trust, but smells like manipulation. Hoping I can trick him into making good choices.

But it’s hubris to think that we can control when the cracks appear, where they lie, and the shape they take. It’s silly to think we can even see the cracks or calculate the projection of a fall.

Our kids fall, and sometimes they don’t bounce back. They get scars. Despite this, it would be a mistake to stop trusting that they will learn to catch themselves. If we don’t show our trust in them, how will they learn to trust themselves?

Without falling and pulling themselves up, how else can they build the strength and resilience the world needs?

It’s hard to imagine these small, busy humans ruling the world. But they will. At some point, we’re going to have to let go and hand them the torch. I like to think it will be a secure and confident hand-off. They will be ready. We will be ready. We will be satisfied that the world is in good hands, and we can leave this world at peace.

But it doesn’t work like that. As a parent, I’ve been tasked with nurturing, raising, guiding this young person. Preventing him from waddling into traffic and eating the dried toenails he finds on the bathroom floor. The truth is—I am not confident that this kid is going to do a good job running the world.

And if history has taught us anything, it’s that previous generations don’t hand the reins over gently. We humans are a controlling beast. Handing off power, control, and agency to the next generation is a risk. We risk our values crumbling. We risk global devastation. We risk injustice taking over the world. We risk becoming irrelevant as the next generation sets us aside.

So here’s what I’m thinking. What if we handed the torch over—not in fear and hesitation—but with grace and generosity? What if instead of ushering our kids along to walk in our footsteps, we walked behind them and trusted them to lead the way? What if we set a better example for how to lead?

We can trust in them—just a little, to take the torch before we feel ready. We can teach them that power is something to be distributed with generosity, not hoarded. We can show them that even though we know they sometimes fall and fail, we trust them to do this.

I am an autistic Asian feminine person raised in America. From birth, I was trained to obey, to comply, to assimilate, to serve. But never to ask, and certainly never to demand. Otherwise, my misbehavior could upset the way of things. But I’m not okay with the way of things in this world right now. Are you?

Prayer is an opportunity to upset the way of things. To chisel our own cracks in the constrictive plastic system that won’t let us experiment and fly.

This prayer is not a moment to wish, nor request. It is a moment to demand.

Give us strength to let go before we’re ready, to trust our children to and have faith in their strength.

Ashia Ray

Day 1 of 5: Trusting Our Children to Carry the Torch of Justice

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