Curious Gifts

AS FAR BACK as I can remember, I was “blessed”—or maybe burdened—with a vivid imagination. I put “blessed” in quotes because it took me no time to learn that imagination can be used for good or for self-interest. Once I discovered the power of it,  I leaned on it constantly, sometimes in ways that ultimately didn’t serve me well.

My parents saw where my line of thinking would take me, and though they were young, they did what seemed right at the time: they leaned into discipline. And to be fair, discipline was needed. (All children SHOULD learn the meaning of “NO!”) But Mom and Dad were also dealing a child born fully equipped with a strong will—what polite people might call determination and honest people might call stubbornness. You see, I didn’t experience discipline as a boundary; I experienced it as something to out-think. I admit, I’m still that person all grown up.

Looking back, I realize they likely viewed my tendencies as both a gift and a challenge. They also may have recognized parts of themselves in me and decided to guide those traits instead of breaking them. Early on, I met a hard truth that is so hard for all of us to accept : sometimes we are our own worst enemy.

It happened one day when I was disciplined for something I still believe I didn’t do. My parents stood together, and my attempts to explain myself only made things worse. The verdict was in. I was sent to my room, and in my young mind, justice had failed.

In anger, I barely slept that night. Lying there, my imagination went to work—not toward repentance, but toward escape. Before dawn, I got up, dressed quietly, and slipped out the back door with my bicycle. I avoided the main roads, pedaling through unlighted streets until I reached my grandparents’ home at daybreak. At that moment, it felt heroic. 

My grandmother, already fixing brakfast, listened kindly, as grandmothers do. She called my mother to let her know I was gone from my room and safe with her, and offered me the phone. I refused. I had decided I was moving in with people who were always nice to me.

I spent the day helping her with chores, but as the hours passed, fear crept in. I worried that my parents might be furious—and ground me for life. I braced myself for the worst.

What I actually received was grace.

When my parents came for me, my mother hugged me tightly and cried. She didn’t scold. "You don't understand." She spoke of how frightened she and my dad had been, imagining me riding alone across busy roads, navigating steep hills in the dark. She told me how empty life would have been if things had gone wrong. That moment has stayed with me to this day.

Neither Mom nor Dad ever talked about that day afterward. What they did was change their approach. Instead of trying to shut down my imagination, they began to encourage the positive aspects of it. They nudged my thoughts toward better choices, like including them in my thinking, promising that they would listen and not punish me if I did. Trust, with boundaries. Doubtless their efforts took far more restraint than I appreciated at the time.

But. You’re reading this story today because they chose the uncharted path less taken—and it worked. God bless them forever!

I still have rough edges as an adult, I'm a laughing, smiling, and loving person. Truly. People who try to hide inappropriate behavior, and other lies are hard for me to trust. My heart of hearts is always kindness and love. However, I harbor two firm boundaries that I've never advertised. Disrespect me, and I may never speak to you again. And betrayal of my trust? I may never trust you again. But, curiously, I may forgive and forget if God melts my heart toward you. How is that?! God has a way of humbling me by allowing me to view others' lives through His eyes, someting I cannot fully explain, but He asks me to make myself vulnerable. He wants me to be far less rigid and unempathetic when He has been so kind, generous, and forgiving of me and my often rebellious attitudes!

I’ve raised children and lived long enough to know God isn’t finished with any of us yet. I believe in hope. I often imagine how I must look to Him—still testing limits, deeply flawed. I apologize to Him every day. And He’s patient. He redirects my stubbornness toward mercy and faithfulness and is always inviting my curiosity toward things eternal.

Paul understood that tension well. He was a strong-willed man himself, and he wrote clearly about our future with language that stirs our imagination. He reminds that this life, for all its beauty and struggle, is not our final home: “We know that when our bodies are folded away like tents, they will be replaced by God-made, not handmade ones… The Spirit gives us a taste of what’s ahead. He puts a little of heaven in our hearts, so we’ll never settle for less.” (2 Corinthians 5:1–5, MSG)

As a father and grandfather—and as a man still becoming—I believe that “some” restlessness is holy. God uses it to keep us moving, trusting what we cannot yet see, and that causes us to long for what He’s been preparing for us forever.

I’ve raised children and lived long enough to know God isn’t finished with any of us yet. I believe in hope. I often imagine how I must look to Him—still testing limits, deeply flawed. And yet, He’s patient. He redirects my stubbornness toward mercy and faithfulness and is always inviting my curiosity toward things eternal.

Paul understood that tension well. He was a strong-willed man himself, and he wrote clearly about our future with language that stirs our imagination. He reminds that this life, for all its beauty and struggle, is not our final home:“We know that when our bodies are folded away like tents, they will be replaced by God-made, not handmade ones… The Spirit gives us a taste of what’s ahead. He puts a little of heaven in our hearts, so we’ll never settle for less.”(2 Corinthians 5:1–5, MSG)

As a father and grandfather—and as a man still becoming—I believe that “some” restlessness is holy. God uses it to keep us moving, trusting what we cannot yet see, and that causes us to long for what He’s been preparing for us forever.

© Copyright 2022, rewrite, February 2026 Gary Landerfelt, MyPericope.com