“I don’t want to go to school!” our firstborn declared from his bed this morning.  We have been prepping him for weeks now, to try our best to comfort his nervous little heart about this new experience at Pre-K.  Jude is a rambunctious little boy, but he is also shy and tender-hearted.  And this morning felt like we had a teenager all of a sudden.  “Are you feeling sick, buddy?” my wife asked.  “No,” he declared.  Amy pressed on, “Well, then what are you going to do all day?”  “I just want to sleep all day,” Jude said.

We have pulled out all the stops – we started him in Kids Day Out this year so that he would get used to being in a ‘school-like’ environment one day a week. We have a ‘surprise’ awaiting him if he has a good first day.  I went in and coaxed him into getting dressed with the enticing offer of a donut stop with Dad along our way to the drop-off.

And he started doing better.  He perked up.  We got out the door, got a photo, got some donuts, did our catechism questions and sang hymns in the car (which has been a Monday tradition for several weeks now, on our way to KDO each week).

We got to school.  I checked him in.  We walked into the gym area, and I could see him get a little bit shyer once more.  But as I handed him off to his teacher, he gave me a hug and kiss, and he took her hand and went on his way.

I lingered and watched him walk off until I couldn’t see him anymore. And right up until that moment, I was focused on shepherding him as he entered this new journey.  But when I kissed my boy and watched him go in, Daddy had some… unexpected allergies flare up.

I have been praying for that kid about this for weeks, and I am still nervous. I know it is okay to have the tears at this new journey for us as parents.  I know it is okay to have nerves on the first day.  But I have needed to preach the Gospel to myself this morning already.  Because all the thoughts come flooding in.  “What if he has a meltdown today?”  “What if he refuses to engage in the teaching time?”  “What if he won’t eat the lunch they provide?”  “What if he won’t take a nap?”  “What if a kid is mean to him?”  “What if he is mean to another kid?” “What if the adults don’t understand some peculiar aspects of my boy’s personality?”  “What if something terrible were to happen?”

And then I realized that I was rehearsing the wrong questions. I needed to be rehearsing hope rather than fear.  And the Lord brought to mind the very catechism question I had just reminded Jude of this morning to comfort his nerves.  “What is our only hope in life in death?”  It’s the first question we learned a couple years back when we started catechizing.  It is the one question that he & his little sister have no trouble with.  They’ve got it down pat.   But it is one that I am clinging to today as well.

“What is our only hope in life and death?”  My only hope is not a promise that everything will go perfect.  My only hope is not a promise for everything to be smooth and for Jude to thrive in every possible way.  My only hope is not a promise that nothing bad will happen.  “What is our only hope in life and death?”  The answer is “That we are not our own but belong to God.”

My hope isn’t in my ability to manage every detail of Jude’s life.  My hope isn’t that he would have perfect teachers and perfect friends and perfect experiences and that no harm would befall him.  My hope is that he is in the Hands of someone much greater than I.  My hope is that God loves my son even more than I do.  My hope is that God wants my son to grow to trust and love Jesus and to be a man of God, even more than I want that for him.

And the Scripture that God brought to mind is the doxology from the very book of the Bible that my boy is named after.

Now to him who is able to keep you from stumbling and to present you blameless before the presence of his glory with great joy, to the only God, our Savior, through Jesus Christ our Lord, be glory, majesty, dominion, and authority, before all time and now and forever. Amen.

Jude 24-25

I am not the one who is able to keep my kids from stumbling.  I am not the one who is able to present my kids blameless before God.  But my Jesus is.  And that is why all glory, majesty, dominion, and authority from all time belong to him… and not to me.

Through mixed emotions and on the verge of tears, I am reminded of my frailty.  I am reminded of my utter dependence on a God who I trust is good.  Who is the definition of good.  Who will hold me – and my boy – in the face of whatever may come our way.  Our only hope in this life – and even in death – is that we are not our own but belong, body and soul, both in life and death, to God and to our Savior Jesus Christ.