We’ve spent the last three days painting, or
rather staining, our house trim & deck railings. The division of labour is
pretty clear – Paul paints up high and I paint down low. Sasha holds the ladder
for Paul and fetches things. Finn tries his best not to work. (He did put in his time staining
both the picnic table and himself.) Jude
watches. He is the only child who really wants to help, but as he is five, we
needed to explain why it isn’t really a good idea. Nevertheless he has some
suspicious “Redwood” splotches on his hands and feet…
The first time I painted anything I was
twelve, like Finn. My mom and dad built a fence in our backyard, and I was invited
(or told, I’m not sure) to help stain it. The situation was probably quite
similar to the past few days around here – convincing the oldest child that
their assistance is crucial, (words like “responsibility,” “privilege,” and “allowance”
might be thrown around); finding odd jobs to make the middle child feel useful; and consoling the littlest one who is devastated at not being involved. I don’t
remember the actual work, but I remember my pants.
Of course when you paint, you can expect to
get drips and spills on your clothes. That’s why we send our kids to school
with paint smocks or one of Dad’s old shirts. We dig through our closets and find clothes
that are worn out or that we just don’t like anymore, that we are willing to
designate as painting clothes. I chose a pair of grey sweatpants – the kind with
an elastic waistband and tight leg cuffs circa 1986. By the end of the fence
project, they were splattered and speckled and smeared with brown wood stain.
Normally we relegate these painting clothes
to a basement closet until they are needed again, or they might even end up in
the garbage. But I wanted to wear my painting pants. And I wanted to wear them
to school. In those days most girls, me
included, were pretty concerned about wearing either stirrup pants or Levis,
certainly not sweats. But I was determined to wear these ratty old pants to
school. My mom was horrified that I would even consider going to school dressed
like that, and told me in no uncertain terms that I was not to wear those pants
out in public.
Why on earth did I want to wear those grubby
old pants? Looking back, I think they were like a badge of honour. They were a
symbol that I had done a grown-up job, meaningful work, physical labour. Of
course my parents knew that, and presumably thanked me for it, even if they had
to do a few touch-ups. But I wanted other people to know, to see the evidence
of my usefulness and perhaps even skill. It was becoming more and more
important to me what those in the category of people-who-are-not-my-parents
thought of me. Knowing that my parents loved me, and thought I was good and nice
was, well, good and nice. But as a pre-teen I wanted to be noticed and admired
and liked by an increasingly wider audience. I knew I was admired for certain
things… I was the smart girl. Everybody knew that. That label was firmly fixed
and becoming cliché. I wanted out of the box. Or I at least wanted some paint
on my box.
It is a normal phase of life as teenagers
seek validation from the world beyond their families. I’m sure most of can remember that sometimes
overwhelming desire to be noticed by someone, or that craving for attention or
approval or admiration. But it can become so all-consuming that if that
validation is not found in healthy and supportive relationships, teens (and
adults for that matter) can so easily turn to not-so safe people and
situations. Negative attention is still attention. And even if young people are getting positive attention,
like I was, sometimes they are seeking different attention. “Good”
labels are still labels. “Nice” boxes are still boxes.
At a workshop attended recently, the speaker
was impassioned that we understand that all teenagers are hurting, if not for
any other reason than the roller-coaster ride that is puberty. Now throw in
school, parents, jobs, media, pop culture, bullying, facebook, self-image, sex
and climate change. Now stick it all in a box and put a label on it. Hurting?
You bet. And what does God want us to do for hurting people? Love them. “So now I am giving you a new
commandment: Love each other. Just as I have loved you, you should love each
other.” John 13:34 NLT
God ‘s love is unconditional. He does not
love us “because” or “when” or “if.” God loves us so much He died for us. All
of us – me, you, young people. Moody teenagers and musical teenagers. Smart
kids and smart alec kids. Compulsive texters and compulsive liars. Kids on skateboards
and kids on drugs. Your neighbour's kids. The kind of kid you were. Kids in every kind of box with any kind of label. God loves them all and tells us to love them too. Love them like He
does. We need to let them know that they
are profoundly loved and valued, imperfectly by us, perfectly by God. You
are loved. Period. Not you are loved because you are nice or smart or
pretty. Not you are loved when you take your hat off in church or get good
grades or paint a fence.
I think it’s safe to say that if you started
walking up to all the teenagers in your neighbourhood and telling them you love
them you might get some weird looks, or worse. So how do you show the young
people in your life that you love them? “Dear children, let’s not merely say
that we love each other; let us show the truth by our actions.” I John 3:18. Spend time
with them. Listen to them. Support them. Pray with them. Be real with them. Get
messy with them. Learn from them.
And if you're young: seek God, stay out of the box and paint with every colour you can :)
“Don’t let anyone think less of you
because you are young. Be an example to all believers in what you say, in the
way you live, in your love, your faith, and your purity.” I Tim 4:12 NLT
