Yesterday at the salon, I overheard one of the most interesting conversations I’ve heard in a while. A woman was talking about her son—the one she said she had planted a seed in church for, believing that this act would bless his life and keep him safe. But now, she said, he’s the one disturbing her the most. He’s wild, stubborn, and completely different from what she prayed for.
What struck me was the way she said it—not just in frustration, but in confusion, as if she couldn’t understand how a child she sowed a seed for could turn out like this. And then something funny happened. Nobody sympathized with her. The whole salon burst out laughing. Not cruelly, but knowingly. Everyone there had reached the same conclusion—that the church has become the biggest scam. One woman even said churches thrive because of people’s insecurities, and everyone nodded.
I just sat there, quietly thinking. The more I thought about it, the more I realized how deep this thing goes. We’re taught to “give our children to God.” It sounds so noble. You pray, you fast, you sow seeds, and then you say, “God, I leave it all in your hands.” But what that really means is that you stop holding it in yours. You stop showing up as a parent who is supposed to guide, teach, and be present. You convince yourself that praying for your child is enough, that God will do the rest.
It’s like outsourcing your responsibility to an invisible being. We call it faith, but really, it’s avoidance. We say, “I’ve given it to God,” and something in us switches off. We stop paying attention. We stop being intentional. We stop seeing what’s happening right in front of us. Then later, when things go wrong, we say the devil attacked our children or God is testing us—never realizing that it was our own absence all along.
I think about that woman a lot. She must have loved her son deeply. But maybe all those prayers, all that fasting and sowing, kept her so busy trying to please God that she forgot to actually know her son. Maybe that’s what many of us do. We hand our children to God, and then wonder why they grow up craving attention, acting out, longing for connection. Because what they really need is us.
When I left the church, my daughter Grace was four and a half. She’s five now. I’m glad I woke up early enough to see what was happening. I used to say things like, “I cover her with the blood of Jesus,” or “I commit her to God.” Now I just say, “I’m here.” I cover her with my love, not my fear. I show up. I listen. I watch her grow. I take responsibility.
Sometimes I sit and just watch her—her little hands busy drawing or her voice humming some tune—and I feel at peace knowing I didn’t hand her over to anyone. She’s mine to raise, not through prayer, but through presence.
Grace, if you ever read this one day, I want you to know something. I never gave you away to anyone. I kept you. I chose to raise you myself—with my imperfect love, my clumsy patience, and my human strength. You’ll never have to wonder if I was there. Because I always was.
Love doesn’t pray from afar. It stays.