It is one thing to choose less for oneself. It is another thing entirely to make that same choice for your children.

We always want more for our children. More than we had. More than we are.

More.

What kind of parent holds their child’s small hand and walks in the direction of less?

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In some ways we have chosen less. We try (and fail, and try again) to choose less noise, less hurry, less stuff. We choose fewer activities, fewer commitments, fewer toys.

We limit sugar and entertainment (which, paradoxically, makes apple cider doughnuts sweeter and family movie night more fun).

But, mostly, and perhaps most significantly, less is chosen for us.

There is never enough money and there is never enough time for all that I want for my kids.

Yes, I want sewing lessons and music lessons and art lessons. Yes, I want a pool pass and movie tickets and restaurant meals. But I have four children and limited funds, and I say “no” a lot because “no” is the only thing I can say.

When I choose less for myself, I must trust in God’s provision. His protection. His presence. Yet I seem to believe that I am meant to be God for my children. As if I am the one who provides. As if I am the one who protects.

But my provision is faulty. My protection imperfect. Even when present I give myself with impatience rather than love.

Yet I would fill all those gaps with more. I would build a high wall – made of stuff and experiences and extra curricular activities – in order to launch my children into a future I cannot even begin to see.

It turns out that having less to give requires letting go.

Having let go, having placed my children in the hands of the only provider and protector, the one who has secured a future for each of them, I am freed of so much fear.

I am released to love them. Freed, even, to give good gifts without worrying that I must give every gift.

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Living with less where our children are concerned might sound peaceful. It might sound idyllic. And, at times, it is.

Without the pool pass, there is the creek and the slip ‘n slide. Because of severe food allergies, there is more made-from-scratch food enjoyed together around our own table.

But often it feels as if we are jagged pebbles tossed together in one of those toy rock tumblers.

We cannot escape one another (because there are fewer camps and activities to take us in different directions).

We cannot stop hurting each other (perhaps because we are bored, or because we are not distracted by a screen, or because we are human).

This, then, is my prayer, this is my hope: that through constraints and tears and a thousand petty squabbles, we are becoming gems.

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