How do you realise and appreciate the hard work your parents did to provide for you?

From a parenting and pastoral counseling perspective, I’ve learned that we don’t usually realize or appreciate our parents’ hard work all at once. My own children rarely appreciated what their mother and I accomplished for them until they were well into their late 20’s. For most of us, and I am speaking of myself here, that appreciation grows with time, maturity, and responsibility. Scripture frames this clearly: honoring our father and mother is not merely an emotional posture but an active, lifelong calling with real consequences and blessings attached (Exod 20:12; Eph 6:1–3; Deut 5:16). Honor, in the biblical sense, means recognizing the weight, value, and cost. It means acknowledging that who we are did not emerge in a vacuum but was shaped by years of unseen sacrifice. 

I’ve found that appreciation deepens when we begin to understand what our parents carried. As we step into adulthood and face bills, stress, exhaustion, and responsibility ourselves, we start to see the quiet decisions they made, working jobs they may not have loved, stretching limited resources, setting aside their own desires, and showing up day after day anyway. Scripture invites us not to discard their wisdom once we’re independent, but to bind their instruction to our hearts so that it continues to guide us, protect us, and speak to us throughout life (Prov 6:20–22). Their labor was not only about provision; it was about formation. 

The Bible repeatedly teaches that parental instruction is meant to shape character, not just behavior. A father’s instruction and a mother’s law are described as a graceful ornament and a protective chain, something that distinguishes us and guards us, not something that confines us (Prov 1:8–9). When we begin to live out those values, integrity, diligence, faithfulness, and perseverance, we are honoring the work they poured into us. In that sense, gratitude becomes embodied rather than merely spoken. 

Scripture also reminds us that appreciation does not expire when parents age or can no longer provide for their children. We are commanded not to despise our parents when they are old, but to listen, care, and show reverence even when the roles begin to reverse (Prov 23:22; Lev 19:3). Paul echoes this by teaching that caring for one’s parents is an act of godliness and something pleasing to God (1 Tim 5:4). Honoring them later in life is not repayment born of guilt; it is the natural continuation of a relationship built on love and sacrifice. 

Throughout Scripture, we see this lived out in real lives. Joseph honored his father by providing for him and his entire household during the famine, using the position God gave him to protect the one who once protected him (Gen 47:11–12). Ruth’s devotion to her mother-in-law was publicly recognized as costly, faithful love, and God honored that sacrifice (Ruth 2:11–12). These examples remind us that honoring parents often involves tangible action, not just internal appreciation. 

I’ve also learned that gratitude grows when we speak it. Saying out loud what we noticed, asking our parents about their struggles, listening to their stories, and acknowledging what they gave, even imperfectly, brings clarity and healing. Scripture warns strongly against contempt, mockery, or neglect toward parents (Prov 20:20; Prov 30:17), not because God is harsh, but because contempt corrodes the soul. By contrast, a wise son or daughter brings joy to their parents by living wisely and receiving instruction with humility (Prov 15:20; Prov 13:1). 

Ultimately, we realize and appreciate our parents’ hard work most deeply when we become the kind of people their sacrifice made possible, people who value wisdom, carry responsibility well, and pass on what we were given. Children’s children are called a crown to the aged, and a parent’s glory is seen in the lives their children go on to live (Prov 17:6). When we honor our parents in word, action, and character, we honor not only them, but the God who used their imperfect faithfulness to shape our lives. 

It’s also important for us to acknowledge, honestly and gently, that not all of us grew up under ideal or even safe circumstances. I include myself in that. Because of the abuse I experienced, my early perspective was shaped more by pain and survival than by gratitude. For a long time, I could not see my adoptive parents clearly, let alone appreciate what they had done for me. It wasn’t until I was in my mid-thirties, after significant healing and reflection, that my perspective began to change. With that change came the ability to separate sin from struggle, brokenness from intent, and failure from effort. 

As my understanding deepened, I was finally able to see my parents as whole people, imperfect, wounded, limited, yet still used by God in real and meaningful ways. I began to recognize the challenges they faced, the resources they lacked, and the burdens they carried, often without support. Even in the midst of those challenges, God was at work. In ways I could not see at the time, He was using their provision, discipline, and presence, however flawed, to shape my life toward what would ultimately be pleasing to Him. That realization did not excuse the harm that was done, but it did redeem the story. 

Because of that shift, gratitude became possible, not rooted in denial, but in truth. I can now say with sincerity that God used my parents, even through their brokenness, as His hands in forming me. For that redemptive work, I am eternally grateful. 

How can a person who loves God fall into sin?

When I am asked how a person who loves God can still fall into sin, I do not have to look far. I look inward. I see the same struggle the apostle Paul described when he said, “For what I am doing, I do not understand… For the good that I will to do, I do not do; but the evil I will not to do, that I practice… O wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death?” (Romans 7:15–25, NKJV) That passage is not abstract theology to me. It is an autobiography. I love God. I desire to obey Him. Yet I still feel the pull of my flesh. I still see pride rise in me. I still see selfishness, fear, and old patterns trying to reclaim ground. The tension is real. Loving God does not remove my capacity to sin; it exposes the war that is already inside me. 

Scripture is painfully honest: “If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us” (1 John 1:8–10, NKJV). My greatest danger is not weakness — it is pretending I am strong. “Therefore let him who thinks he stands take heed lest he fall” (1 Corinthians 10:12, NKJV). The moment I trust my own heart, I step onto unstable ground, because “the heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked” (Jeremiah 17:9, NKJV). Sin rarely crashes into my life all at once. It grows quietly. James explains the progression: “Each one is tempted when he is drawn away by his own desires and enticed. Then, when desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and sin, when it is full-grown, brings forth death.” (James 1:13–15, NKJV) 

I see that process in myself. It begins with a thought I entertain too long. A resentment I rehearse. A compromise I excuse. Scripture warns me to guard my interior life because “out of it spring the issues of life” (Proverbs 4:23, NKJV). When I neglect that vigilance, I drift. And drift is dangerous. “We must give the more earnest heed… lest we drift away” (Hebrews 2:1, NKJV). Even the strongest men in Scripture were not immune. David loved God, yet he fell into adultery when he stopped watching his heart (2 Samuel 11:1–4). Solomon began with wisdom and ended with divided loyalty (1 Kings 11:1–4). Their stories are not there to shame me; they are there to warn me. Pride truly does go “before destruction” (Proverbs 16:18, NKJV). 

The flesh is not passive. Paul tells me plainly: “The flesh lusts against the Spirit, and the Spirit against the flesh… so that you do not do the things that you wish” (Galatians 5:16–17, NKJV). That conflict does not mean I do not love God. It means I am still in the process of being transformed. But here is the mercy: the Christian life is not defined by falling — it is defined by returning. When I sin, I am not cast away. I am called back. “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness” (1 John 1:9, NKJV). I come to Christ not as someone pretending strength, but as someone admitting need. Scripture invites me boldly: “Let us therefore come boldly to the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy and find grace to help in time of need” (Hebrews 4:15–16, NKJV). 

Even Peter — who loved Jesus deeply — denied Him. Yet Christ prayed for him: “I have prayed for you, that your faith should not fail; and when you have returned to Me, strengthen your brethren” (Luke 22:31–32, NKJV). After Peter failed, Jesus restored him (John 21:15–17). That restoration is my hope. Failure is not the end of the story when repentance follows. So my task is not pretending to be sinless. My task is vigilance and dependence. I must watch and pray (Matthew 26:41, NKJV). I must submit to God and resist the devil (James 4:7, NKJV). I must discipline my body (1 Corinthians 9:27), hide God’s Word in my heart (Psalm 119:11), flee temptation (2 Timothy 2:22), and put on the whole armor of God (Ephesians 6:10–18). And yet even with all of that effort, my ultimate confidence is not in my discipline. It is in grace. “Sin shall not have dominion over you, for you are not under law but under grace” (Romans 6:12–14, NKJV). 

I fall because I am human. I rise because Christ is faithful. A person who loves God can fall into sin because love does not erase the battle with the flesh. But love does change what happens after the fall. I grieve my sin. I confess it. I return. I run again with endurance, “looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith” (Hebrews 12:1–2, NKJV). That cycle — fall, confession, restoration, growth — is not proof that I do not love God. It is evidence that His Spirit is still working in me. And I thank God — through Jesus Christ our Lord — that the story does not end with my weakness. It ends with His mercy. 

What’s One Thing Out Of Life That You Want More Than Anything?

What’s One Thing Out Of Life That You Want More Than Anything?

How Can Know That I Can Be Known By God, 

And Accepted As I Am, And Live In His Presence?

 

The one thing I want out of life more than anything is simple to say, but it took me years to understand: I want God Himself. Not what He gives me. Not the life He can build for me. I want Him. The psalmist said, “One thing I have desired of the Lord… that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life” (Psalm 27:4, NKJV). That verse stopped being poetry to me at some point and became a hunger. 

We can spend our entire lives chasing security, approval, comfort, or success, and still feel empty. Scripture is honest about that. “Whom have I in heaven but You? And there is none upon earth that I desire besides You” (Psalm 73:25–26, NKJV). Paul reached the same conclusion when he said everything else was loss compared to knowing Christ (Philippians 3:8–10, NKJV). When we put God first, Jesus promises that the rest of life finds its proper place: “Seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added to you” (Matthew 6:33, NKJV). 

But the deeper question isn’t just about desire. It’s about acceptance. Can I actually be known by God and still be welcomed? The answer is yes, and not because I cleaned myself up enough. I am accepted because God moved toward me first. “By grace you have been saved through faith… not of works” (Ephesians 2:8–9, NKJV). Our belonging does not rest on performance. It rests on God’s decision to love us. 

The Bible explains this with the language of adoption, and that is not abstract to me. I am an adopted child. I remember what it felt like to live out of uncertainty, never knowing if the place I was in would last. When I was adopted, I stopped being temporary. I had a home. I had a name. I belonged. That is exactly the picture Scripture gives us. “You received the Spirit of adoption by whom we cry out, ‘Abba, Father’” (Romans 8:15–17, NKJV). We are not spiritual outsiders trying to earn a seat at God’s table. We are brought into His family. The Spirit Himself bears witness that we are His children. That means we do not approach God as strangers. We approach Him as sons and daughters. 

Paul says God chose us intentionally: “Having predestined us to adoption as sons by Jesus Christ to Himself, according to the good pleasure of His will” (Ephesians 1:5, NKJV). Our acceptance is not reluctant. It is joyful on God’s side. And, as with earthly adoption, there is both a present reality and a future hope. We already belong, but we are still growing into the fullness of what that means. “We… eagerly wait for the adoption, the redemption of our body”(Romans 8:23, NKJV). We are secure now, and we are being completed over time. 

I think about inheritance sometimes in the same way. As the only surviving son in my family, I will one day inherit what my parents leave behind. Not because I earned it, but because I belong. Yet the greater inheritance I already received is not material. It is what they gave me in life: stability, guidance, protection, and the shaping of who I became. Spiritually, that mirrors what God has already given me: faith, identity, and the promise of a permanent home with Him. So when I ask how I can be known by God and accepted, the answer is not found in striving. It is found in receiving. We are already invited. We are already named. We are already loved. 

And the desire to live in His presence, that longing itself is evidence that He is drawing us. The life we want more than anything is not built by chasing experiences. It is built by walking daily with God, who has already made us His own. That is the life I want. That is the life we were made for.