Flee to the Cross
Sometimes I like to think of myself as a refuge for my kids, a safe place they can run to from the storm of the world. I can hold them while they cry for friends back in Africa, or back in Minnesota, depending. I can kiss skinned knees and pray when the words of bullies sting. I hold the soothing power of band-aids and hot chocolate and tickles at the tips of fingers.
But I am not, ultimately, the safe place they need.
Sometimes it is also easy to seek refuge in my kids, a safe place where I can find hope and meaning and love. They snuggle in the crook of my neck, warm and damp after a bath, and I think everything is right in the world. They run to me so I will be the first to hear their victory story and I know I matter. They…