When I came home from Cambodia, I wouldn’t have thought for one second that I was a Pharisee.  If anything, I was the one that had it together.  I’d been away for five months and not once during that time did I butt heads with someone.  I got along with people.  I liked people.  And they seemed to like me.  So if anyone was in the wrong, it had be my parents.  And I couldn’t wait for them to see it.  I couldn’t wait for them to start treating me like I deserved to be treated.

But you know what?  They never did.

After six months of that, I got a job.  It was a part-time job, but it was a job.  I took over my own bills.  I could no longer spend every cent I got on whatever I wanted.  I had to make a budget.  I had to throw away Apple ads for new iPods because I had to pay for gas and car insurance.  And somehow, through the course of all of that, my attitude started to change.  I started to see my parents in a different light.  My resentment started to fade.  It was replaced by something stronger: gratitude.

Like I said, my parents didn’t change.  I’m not even sure they needed to change.  If they did, it was none of my business.  I changed though.

I started doing things like wrapping my arms around my Dad’s neck as he sat down for dinner and saying: “Thanks for working so hard, Dad.” One night after my family had finished watching a movie, I looked over at him and said, “Dad, thank you for working so hard to keep a roof over our heads when we were little.  There had to be days when you woke up and you didn’t want to go to work.  But you did anyway.  You did it for us.” My Dad was and is an incredibly hard worker.  But when I was younger, all I could see was him waking me and my sisters up at 7:30am during the Summer to pulls weeds on the rock driveway.  His strong work ethic was burdensome to me, because he expected the rest of us to work hard too.  And I never realized what a blessing that was to my character.  Not until recently.

I started attempting to cook dinner at night.  And boy, it was a rocky start.  I’m not sure if that was the sort of blessing my Mom was looking for, but my intentions were good.   And even if it was a total failure, instead of making up some excuse for why I had to duck out after dinner, I stayed and cleaned up the whole mess.  Today I actually like to cook.  Back then, I didn’t.  And I couldn’t.  It was a sacrifice.  But that’s what real love is, my friends.  That’s my point.  I had no problem loving orphans or AIDS patients or sending money across the ocean to help them, but I didn’t know how to love my own family.  I’d hand a fifty-dollar bill to a stranger on the street that I’d never met in my life, but when my own Mother needed me to take out the trash, I had better things to do.

A few months into this, I can remember feeling guilty that I no longer had time to listen to sermons all day and worship God for hours, like I did when I first came home from Cambodia (and was toting around resentment).  But I don’t feel guilty anymore.  I’m worshiping God by loving those He’s put closest to me.  I’m living the sermons.  I’m not a white-washed tomb that looks and smells nice on the outside, but reeks of garbage on the inside.

I don’t know why I feel so compelled to share all of this, but I do.  This one revelation has changed my life in so many ways.  And there’s more I want to share.  Two and a half years ago, I had such resentment towards my parents.  And now, I can honestly say, these two people who gave birth to me and raised me (and woke me up at 7:30am during the Summer, while the rest of my friends slept till 11:00am) are some of my heroes.  When I went to pick up my friend for church last Sunday, a part of me was sad.  I wanted my parents to come too.  I enjoy them.  I haven’t just learned to “make it work”.  Obligation does that.  Not love.

Tags: family, hard love, Jesus, loving when it hurts, Pharisees, real love, tough love, worthwhile

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