Doing Hard

When Sam was 12 years old she had a purple belt in Shaolin Kempo Karate, training for a blue belt. She had already decided to take a break from karate - she was also playing field hockey and basketball and softball, so SOMETHING had to give. Also, at this level there were very few girls her age, so she had to spar mostly boys or adults, and this was beginning to feel awkward. But she had been studying for this belt for nearly a year, and she wanted to test before she turned her attention to other things.

The instructor warned us before the test that 1) it was an incredibly difficult test at least two, maybe three hours long, 2) they were rigorous in their awarding of belts so she might not pass, and 3) no other kids were testing. Only adults. Adult men. We had the option to back out, thank-you-very-much-we'll-stick-with-purple.

But Sam wanted to test. She had studied for that blue belt, training two, three, four times a week, sparring sweaty, stinky boys twice her size. So Trent and I dropped her off at the dojo, with instructors that I respect and trust very much. But as we watched the other students walk in, grown men in their 20's and 30's, everything in me wanted to grab my baby girl and haul out of there, back to the safety and comfort of our suburban home where we didn't need to know Pinans or Kata or how to break a two-handed choke hold.

Like most moms, I want my kids to be happy. I want them to feel successful and confident, to know they are loved and valued. I want them to feel safe and protected. I don't necessarily want them to spend two plus hours in a gym blocking attacks and throwing punches in rapid-fire combinations. It was a difficult wait.

When we picked her up her face was stoic, exhausted, set in that don't-even-look-at-me-or-I-will-cry-and-I-don't-want-to-cry-in-front-of-these-people expression. My heart plummeted. What had we done?

The minute she got in the car she did cry. I felt even worse. I didn't know what to say. I had let her go through with this and it had been terrible and I was an awful mom who had probably scarred her for life and why had I even allowed her to take karate in the first place.

"I'm so proud of you," I said lamely.

"That was so hard," she said. She told us some of what they'd had to do, the physical and emotional stress. "I hurt all over." Then she pulled out the belt from her duffel, the blue belt. "But I did it." And we both cried. Because she had done hard. And now she knew she could.

Cute but ferocious. My baby tiger.

Sometimes I talk to parents whose kids are struggling with academics or with friendships, with a teacher or a classmate, and I hear that this is so hard. Everything in that parent wants to make it right, to fix it, to switch classes or change teachers or redo grading policies to ensure that their kids are happy and successful. And sometimes it is a situation in which someone in authority needs to step in to confront meanness or address injustice. But sometimes, a lot of times, it is a situation in which a grown up needs to say, "Yes. This is hard. You might hurt. You might fail. But with God in your corner, you can do hard things."

Because when you know that you can do hard things, then you can do anything.

Edge of the volcano. Nicaragua.

I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength. Philippians 4:13