I gave the boys haircuts tonight. Since we’ve lived in the city now for awhile, and since they go to a pretty mixed school (where being white makes us a minority), they’ve started caring a little more about hair. Every Latino boy with caramel skin has good hair, made perfect for gelling up and slicking over to the side. I’ve only every buzzed the boys’ hair, so I didn’t know exactly what would happen when they decided to grow it out. I can’t say I was surprised that Jubal’s tendency was to grow bangs straight down his forehead. “Just trim the front, Mom!” he begged, but I couldn’t make him see that it wouldn’t work that way, wouldn’t make his hair any thicker or darker. I had to give it to him straight–his hair, like his skin, eyes, heritage–it’s all different than his friends. It isn’t a bad thing! I told him, it’s just different! He eyed me, dubious.
They want so badly to fit in. I remember it all exactly, mostly because I’m only a couple years on this side of not caring. Oh, I pretended I didn’t care for a long time, probably from the time I lived in a group home with ten foster kids. When someone spit in my hair on the bus in kindergarten. When I realized I wouldn’t get the fringed Roper boots in third grade like everyone else.
But I realized as an adult I still did care a lot about identity. Why is it we morph into the people around us so easily? I began looking like everyone else in southwest Colorado–eating organic, unprocessed food, growing my hair, buying “natural” deodorant, giving birth unmedicated, homeschooling. I ordered my life needs off Amazon and pretended I was still a great steward to the earth when I flattened and recycled all the boxes. I cloth-diapered and ran half marathons and tried to be nonchalant about it all. It wasn’t a bad way to live except for the fact that it was costing me my sanity. It took four babies to realize how unrealistic it was to live on the side of a north facing mountain seventeen hours away from my mom and thirty minutes from the nearest grocery store. How insane it was to wake up in the morning to three feet of snow trapping my un-garaged car in the driveway. I had snow tires on my Pilot year round and a bad back from hauling kids up the road in an Ergo carrier while pushing a double stroller.
Still, the whole package of mountain living had an admirable sheen, we weren’t willing to yet trade it in for anything less shiny. My kids could grow up to be skiers and ultra runners or mountain lion trappers and wear flat brimmed hats and have summer jobs getting tan as rafting guides. We lived a dream, snow dumping on our cozy home, staring at the mountains while sipping coffee near the woodstove. The kids might’ve blissfully never known what it was like to share Doritos with a hungry kid at school (too many preservatives and unnatural coloring). We would’ve been fine, and we could’ve convinced ourselves for awhile we were happy. Pride leads you up that sort of mountain where it becomes something to conquer–the idea of making it to the top before you’re satisfied that the people around you know you never took the easy route. Before you know it, you’ve left the valley and forgotten your redeemed self, the one who knew by heart that “whoever loses their life for [the sake of Christ] will find it.” (Matt.10:39)
Identity can be forged, sure, in enjoyment of the mountains, in the unspoiled idea of “living our best life.” If you can keep yourself busy enough, you never really come face to face with how empty you feel. It’s an illusion, a trick as old as the hills. It was Satan’s first words to Eve, the first deception breathed into God’s perfect creation, “Did God really say….?” (Gen.3:1) A serpent planted that seed of doubt in a heart that previously only knew the Lord’s provision. She took the bait–what if God isn’t really good? Why would He keep things from us if He is good? She gambled the only identity she knew, her pure-hearted, unblemished reflection of God’s love–for the lie that if she knew more, she could really and truly be living her best life.
In 2017, southwest Colorado had the highest suicide rate in the state, more than twice the national average. It wasn’t druggies or alcoholics. It was kids and moms and grandpas. Every death in the local newspaper dealt a shocking blow. Why? Everyone in town whispered. But the unspoken questions were louder: How could you be unhappy in a place like this? Joe and I looked at each other, and we knew. If identity points to who we are truly and factually on the inside, then pain will always eventually overflow from inner self to outward expression. No rocky mountain high, season ski pass, or any amount of self-actualization can hide a broken heart. The liar from the garden lures people up the mountain even today, his voice sweet and compelling. The Bible says Satan disguises himself as an angel of light (2 Cor. 11:14) and he is prowling around like a lion, looking for someone to devour (1 Peter 5:8). He has his bachelor’s in psychology and his master’s in business, selling us on the idea that one’s identity can be found in something other than knowing the Creator.
Fitting in can be dangerous; living our “best life” can send us right down the path of self destruction.
These old roots under me have expanded the soil like a big maple tree ripples a sidewalk after decades of growth. I tripped right over it–Joe did too–and we stared down at the ground in front of us. This wasn’t the direction we were supposed to be walking. Something in our past made us remember. That skinny little 4-H boy with the huge glasses. The little girl who was poor and ashamed. Those kids didn’t know it, but their biggest blessing was their disadvantage. It stamped a longing in their souls to be known and loved fully as they were. It protected them for a long time from the love of money and prestige, and it led them back home when they strayed.
We want our kids to have it, too, an identity deep inside pointing them home. A warning system flashing red when they care more about what others say than what God says. We sit and talk about how to grow discomfort in their lives so they might know their Father in heaven, the true Comforter. I’m certain this isn’t popular. Who am I kidding, it sounds absurd. But discipline, the goal of being intentional, isn’t to harm. It is to train to prevent a greater injury. I can’t think of a worse outcome than suicide, which is the ultimate act of despair in masking hopelessness.
God, may they be poor in spirit, so they might recognize the kingdom of heaven. May they hunger and thirst for righteousness, that you might fill them up.
