Binding Hearts, Building a Home

The beginning of a new year, like the slow breath of a tired soul finally at rest, always brings with it the quiet murmurings of hopes and goals, old and new. It’s in the cold air of January that one’s thoughts tend to scatter like leaves in the wind, but there’s something about the stillness of winter that invites the heart to settle, to reflect. So here I sit, on this first Sunday of the new year, looking over my household, and I reckon it’s time to set a course, one that binds this family of mine not to each other, but to the Lord—secure and undividable, like a knot too strong to ever be undone.

Raising children, especially teenagers, feels like tryin’ to piece together a quilt with squares of fabric cut from a dozen different bolts. You do your best to make it all fit, but one day you find that one square’s been turned inside out, another’s missing, and yet another has mysteriously transformed into something else entirely. It’s a puzzle, I tell ya, one that leaves you staring at the pieces in bewilderment, praying that one day, somehow, it will all come together.

But I’ve made up my mind this year. I am going to raise these children, these wild hearts, not just into good people, but into a home that is bound together with the love of Jesus Christ. I’m talkin’ about a home where the walls breathe with His presence, where the floorboards hold the weight of His word, and where each of us is rooted deeply in the soil of faith, so that when the winds of life blow hard—and they will, make no mistake—this house will stand firm, unshaken, undivided.

And now, with a house full of teens—bless their hearts—I know that the work ahead is as grand as it is humble. A house full of teens is a raucous place, full of loud conversations, music blaring, doors slamming, and tempers flaring faster than a firecracker on the Fourth of July. In the mornings, it feels like an army marchin’ through the kitchen, each of ‘em grabbin’ breakfast like they’ve been starvin’ in the desert. In the evenings, the din of their voices fills every corner, as if the whole world is turnin’ and tumblin’ around us, and I’m tryin’ to hold it all steady, like a shipwrecked sailor trying to patch up his leaky boat.

But I reckon, somewhere in the middle of the noise and the mess, is where the Lord works best. You see, the world will tell you that it’s in the silence and the stillness that you hear God’s voice most clearly. But I’ve learned that sometimes, He speaks loudest in the chaos—in the laughter, in the frustration, in the shouts of disagreement, and even in the quiet spaces between. And that’s what I’ve been prayin’ for this year: to let Him speak, to let Him bind us together, to let His voice be the one that rises above the din.

I look at my children, each one a soul so unique, so different, like a garden full of flowers that grow in their own time and place. There’s Ellie, the eldest, who’s got the world on her shoulders and a heart the size of Texas. She loves deeply, fiercely, and often without reservation. Then there’s Matthew, always with a quick smile and a wit sharper than a two-edged sword—he’s as tender as he is quick with a joke, always ready to ease the tension in the room. And then there’s Sophie, the quiet one, who’d rather read a book than do just about anything else. She’s got a wisdom beyond her years, though she’s not always inclined to share it, unless you’re askin’ real hard.

Each of them is a piece of the puzzle, and each of them needs something different. Ellie needs affirmation, words of encouragement that lift her up, because she’s got a heart that tries to carry the world. Matthew needs direction—someone to help him channel that sharp intellect and sharp tongue into somethin’ productive. Sophie, well, Sophie needs space. Space to think, space to be, and space to grow into the woman she’s meant to be.

And so, my goal this year is simple—though no task of any great ease. I aim to nurture each of them, individually, as God made them. Not with the same brushstroke, not with the same hand, but with the care that each heart needs to feel whole. I aim to build a home where their individual growth is respected, celebrated, and embraced as it should be. And if I do this right, I pray that it will lead us all, together, into a stronger union with Christ, a bond so tight that nothing—no storm, no argument, no rebellion—could ever tear it apart.

I reckon it’s time to start. I’ve already begun to make little adjustments, small things, here and there. For Ellie, I make sure that every day she knows she’s seen. I’ll leave her little notes, tucked away in her room, just like when she was a girl, reminding her that she is worthy of love, and that she doesn’t have to carry the weight of the world on her own. For Matthew, I’ve been tryin’ to catch him at the right moments—when he’s thoughtful, when he’s quiet, when he’s not tryin’ to be clever—to remind him of the gifts he has and how they are meant for something greater than just him. And for Sophie, I make sure she has time for herself—time alone with her thoughts, with her books, with the Lord—so that her spirit might flourish in the peace she needs.

It isn’t always easy. Lord knows, there are times when the house feels like a powder keg just waitin’ to explode. One minute, Ellie and Matthew are laughin’ together, and the next, they’re bickering like two cats fightin’ over a scrap of food. Sophie can be so withdrawn some days, you’d think she’d disappeared entirely, lost in her own world of thoughts and dreams. But I keep prayin’, and I keep remindin’ myself that this house, this family, is not mine to control. It’s His, and I must let Him do the work in His time. I can only plant the seeds and trust Him to make them grow.

There are mornings when I get up early, before the sun rises, to spend time with the Lord, prayin’ over each of my children by name, askin’ Him to help me guide them toward a stronger relationship with Him. I pray that they might see Jesus in all the small things—the way I speak to them, the way I treat their father, the way I tend to the little chores of the house. And when the storms come—and they will—I pray that the foundation we’re buildin’ will hold, and that we will always come back to one another, with Jesus as our center.

It’s a hard thing, raising children in this world of distractions, in a world that often seems to be pullin’ us apart more than bringin’ us together. But if there’s one thing I know, it’s that a house bound by Christ is a house that cannot be divided. It may sway in the wind, it may groan under the weight of burdens, but it will stand.

So here’s my prayer for this year: that we might come closer together, as a family, and closer to Jesus. That we might nurture the hearts of my children, individually, and that each of them might grow in the way that they were meant to. And when the year ends, I pray that our home will stand, stronger than it was before, undivided and bound together by the love of Christ.

For this year, I have only one goal—to make this house a home that cannot be divided, a union that is anchored in faith, a family whose hearts are bound to one another and to Jesus.

And if that ain’t worth ’ for, then I don’t know what is.