Wendy Ward Osborn
No matter the amount of laughter that wafts from the back seat, the loneliness in a mother’s heart hangs heavy. Desperation is a close companion as she remembers how the community that used to feel like home is now a reminder that her people do not fit the mold.
I am writing a book for those parents. In that car.
It is for parents whose children have refused the formula the church handed to them. It is for families whose kids have come out and feel sent out or who just walked out of their own accord. It is for the moms and dads who need to remember it wasn't their faith that failed them but the narrow theology the community they deeply valued had fed them.
It is for parents who wonder who and where God is in a moment like this and where they fit into His plans.
It is for parents who fear losing God if they choose their child and for parents who fear losing their child if they choose God.
It is for the ones who are terrified of ending up all alone.
I think there's a Jesus who comes in this moment. For this mom.
A Jesus who doesn't stay tucked away inside the conformities of the church and who also doesn't collude with the uncertainty of what to do with her children while she's feeling ripped in half by the two things she holds most dear.
I think there's a Jesus who not only rides home in the car with her, but who crams His scarred body right smack in the middle of her unorthodox children, belting out Ed Sheeran's "love can change the world" lyrics as they take the long way home.
The Book
We all have plans for the years we get to spend on this earth, both for ourselves and for the families we hope to raise. Much to our dismay, life has a way of changing course without warning. As Christian parents traveling down the road of Good Christian Parent Dreams, we unexpectedly find ourselves at a standstill, having to merge onto a lane we did not choose. In those moments, when the plan for our journey has been abruptly interrupted, we may have only a few options. We might drive on the shoulder to continue our trip at the pace we were originally journeying, or we may demand that Google Maps find an alternate route that won't cause any extra time or stress. We had a destination in mind, and we are committed to getting there even if we are fueled by Bible verses in silent supplication or curse words in a raucous rant.
But what if God is the One behind the unforeseen change of plans, and what if our kids are not potholes but portals through which we will get to know Him more authentically? What if God stacked their choices and behaviors right smack in the middle of our windshield of vision because He wanted us to realize that our eyesight is not as clear and our desires not as holy as we thought? What might it mean about Him, about us, and about our children if God has more profound priorities than creating another generation of Faith Professors who look pleasing to the eyes of others who don't look too closely or ask too many questions? Is it possible that He wants His people to speak about Him less authoritatively and trust in Him more meditatively? To be less certain, less rigid, and more open to unexpected changes of plans?
Wendy Osborn, mother to three LGBTQ+ adult kids, mental health counselor, and former church planter in a conservative evangelical denomination, knows this story well. She neither planned for the roadblocks in the beautiful suburban avenue she was traversing, nor for the ways other Christians would fail her when the car she was driving crashed and burned. In losing the things she most thought she couldn't live without, Wendy collapsed in the arms of a mysterious and profoundly trustworthy God she had spent two and a half decades in a buttoned-up faith seeking. She now prefers to drive in wide open fields rather than submit to painted lanes on the parkway because she finds the air fresher, the sun brighter, and the Godhead more beautiful out here.
About
I write for parents whose child has not conformed to the faith they raised them in. I don't write to fix people or situations. I don't write to argue them or you or anyone else out of or back to certainty. I write merely as a way of joining you around the ash heap of your broken dreams, and waiting there with a tenacious hope that unexpected beauty may rise from what seems dead right now.
Once you've had the conversation with your child at home, there is a specific kind of loneliness that joins you in the meet-and-greet portion of the service at church. It comes on again, maybe even stronger, in the car on the drive home. As your kids cram into the seat behind you, the painful questions ring loud in your ears. Where is God in this, and is He still good to my family?
I know these moments firsthand. I've walked into my sanctuary hugging other mothers hello while my arms were trembling under the weight of fears for our family's future. I've cried through sermons wondering if the promises were for me and mine after all. I've made that drive home, feeling just as confused and alone as you are.
I'm a mental health counselor and a former church planter. I'm also a facilitator with The Allender Center, where I was trained in storywork and narrative-focused trauma care under Dan Allender. That work — sitting with people as they name what happened to them and discover where God has been present in the story all along — shapes everything I write. I'm not writing to you as an authority. I'm writing as a woman who left the tables that were set for someone different than I turned out to be. I'm writing as a mother who left rooms in which theological power was wielded against my children. I write as a deep lover of Jesus who went looking, and found, Him at a shockingly spacious table. One that has a seat for every single one of us.
My words are intended as a sort of Holy Feast that offers goodness to us all.
Pull up a chair and exhale.