Being a pastor's daughter myself, I always tried to raise my children in a way that reflected how I had been raised: comfortable in their faith and participative in our church community.
I was often reminding them about church schedules and youth ministry activities. Participation was always encouraged, sometimes more firmly than they might have liked. Times have changed, after all. Distractions, especially in the form of technology, are everywhere, and giving faith a steady place in our children's lives can feel more challenging than it once was.
I wanted them surrounded by Scripture, by prayer, by people who would shape their hearts in ways I could not do alone.
Like many parents, my husband and I often wondered whether what they were hearing would stay with them, or if it was simply something they endured because we asked them to.
Then my daughter left for university. She was suddenly far from home, far from the rhythms we had built together.
Letting her go was its own quiet surrender. I was no longer the one arranging her days, checking her calendar, or nudging her toward Sunday commitments. Her faith life would now be shaped by her own choices.
To my surprise — and quiet relief — she joined a Christian fellowship on campus. Not because I reminded her. Not because I asked. But because she wanted to. She began attending Bible studies faithfully, building friendships rooted in shared belief.
I noticed, but I didn't say much. I was simply grateful.
One day, during a season when I was feeling particularly discouraged, she sent me a message. It wasn't long. Just a few photos.
She had taken pictures of her Bible — Matthew 6:28–34 — the passage about the lilies of the field and not worrying about tomorrow. The verses were highlighted. Marked. Lived in.
Seeing those highlighted verses on her page felt different from reading them on my own.
"Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin… Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself."
She added another passage, 2 Corinthians 9:10, a reminder that God supplies seed to the sower and bread for food.
It wasn't just the Scripture that moved me. It was the fact that the highlighting was hers.
The underlines were hers. As was the simple message that accompanied the images:
"Mom, in case you need some reminding."
I sat with that moment longer than I expected. I daresay a tear or two fell. Not only because of the situation I was facing, but because the encouragement had come from my daughter — someone we had always tried to protect and shelter from life's struggles.
Yet without my witnessing it, the faith that once needed prompting had become faith she carried on her own.
For years, I had pointed her to these same truths. Now she was pointing me back to them.
What I once felt responsible to maintain had taken root beyond my supervision. The seeds I hoped were being planted quietly had grown in ways I could not see.
There is a particular humility in being encouraged by your own child. It reminds you that faith is not something we manufacture in our children. We nurture it. We model it. We pray over it.
But ultimately, it becomes theirs — as we always hoped it would.
And sometimes, when we least expect it, it returns to steady us.
That day, I did not just feel comforted. I felt grateful.
Grateful that faith had become her choice. Grateful that letting go had not meant losing influence. Grateful that God's work in our children often continues far beyond our line of sight.
Perhaps this is one of the quiet mercies we do not anticipate: the day our children remind us of the truths we once taught them.