The Sacred Work of Staying

It had been a busy day. I had rushed everyone out the door that morning, hurried home to pick up the house, and then headed to the office to see clients. By afternoon, I was racing back to school, hoping not to be the last car in the pickup line.

As I pulled in, I tried to ground myself by noticing the leaves beginning to turn yellow. Fall was coming.

The car door opened.

“Mom, you said you'd bring a snack! I'm starving!”

I had brought one—just not the one she wanted.

The rest of the evening unfolded as so many did in those years: practices, dinner, baths, and finally bedtime. I was depleted.

My youngest had experienced a hard day with friends. My oldest wanted to tell me about difficult feedback she'd received from a teacher.

I listened while picking up clothes and mentally running through the next day's schedule. I offered some quick advice, kissed them goodnight, and headed out to clean the kitchen and answer emails.

They needed me to stay a little longer.

I didn't have it in me.

Looking back, I don't wish I had ignored my exhaustion. I needed rest, too. What I wish I'd understood was something different:

Staying was actually doing something.

I had spent the entire day doing. Staying felt different. There was nothing to solve or check off a list. In Beyond Blessed Parenting, I wrote about the difference between passive and active waiting. Passive waiting disengages; active waiting remains present in the here and now. I understand now that staying can be a form of active waiting. It may look like we're doing nothing when, relationally, something important is happening.

As parents, when our children hurt, almost everything in us wants to make it better. We reach for solutions because we love them. But not every feeling needs to be fixed, and not every difficult experience can—or should—be removed.

One thing I've learned, both as a mother and therapist, is to give the feeling space before giving it the final say.

That night, I couldn't give my daughters as much time as they wanted. But staying wasn't only about how long I remained in their rooms. I could have paused long enough to be emotionally present—to let them know I saw what they were carrying and we could return to it together.

I could have stopped moving, looked into their eyes, and said, “I hear that today was really hard.” Or, “I can see that feedback was a lot. Tomorrow, we will figure it out together.”

The words may vary, but what our presence communicates is: I have to leave the room. I am not leaving you alone with this.

Safety isn't created only by the absence of distress. It can also grow through experiencing distress within a safe relationship.

This doesn't mean we abandon ourselves. Staying is not the same as never leaving. Healthy emotional boundaries allow us to acknowledge our child's feelings without taking those feelings on as our own. We can be emotionally present while recognizing our limits.

Staying doesn't require abandoning ourselves.

Perhaps this is one reason God's presence offers us such a beautiful model.

Scripture doesn't promise that God will remove every difficult place before we walk through it. In Isaiah 43:2, God says, “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you.”

When you pass through.

The waters are still there.

The promise is His presence within them.

Sometimes we want God to fix what hurts just as quickly as we want to fix things for our children. Yet His presence does not always mean immediate relief or resolution. Sometimes His gift is the assurance that we will not walk through it alone.

He stays with us first. And in embracing His steady presence, we learn something about staying with our children.

Years later, I can picture that younger mother moving around those bedrooms while two little girls were trying to tell her about their worlds. I don't want to tell her to forget the dishes, ignore the emails, or stay there all night.

I'd simply tell her to stop for one more minute.

Sit on the edge of the bed.

Look into their eyes.

Listen.

You don't have to fix it tonight.

You don't even have to stay in the room.

Just let them know that when you leave, you aren't leaving them alone in what they are carrying.

Staying means remaining emotionally present—even when we cannot fix it or stay as long as our children want us to.

Staying is active. Presence is doing something. Connection can remain even when we physically leave the room.

Sometimes the most sacred thing we can do is stay.