"I Want to Be Known as a Christian" — A Letter to My Son

 

My Dearest Son,

This morning, something happened that brought me to my knees. I need to write this down while my heart is still so whole it might burst—not just so I remember it, but so that one day, when you're older, you can read this and know the exact moment your mama realized you were growing into the man God created you to be.

You're only ten years old, baby. Ten.

I came to you with medicine in hand, ready to treat that little scar on your face—the one you got when you and your brother were playing and things got a little too wild. You remember that day. A toy thrown in the heat of the moment, boys being boys, and then blood and tears, and my heart sinking as I realized it was going to leave a mark. I've been trying to fade it ever since, worrying over it, wishing I could erase that split second that changed your face forever. I said, "I need to put some medicine on that scar on your face."

You looked up at me with those beautiful eyes and said, simply, "No."

I pushed a little, the way mothers do when they think they know best. "But I don't like it on your face, sweetheart."

And then, my precious boy, you said something that absolutely wrecked me.

"A friend told me it looks like a cross... and I want to be known as a Christian."

All I could say through the tears was, "That's good, baby. That's a very good reason to keep the scar."

And then I had to walk away. I had to turn around because the tears came so fast I couldn't stop them.

You see, son, you're not the loudest kid in the room. You're thoughtful. Reserved. You choose your words carefully, and when you speak, it's because you have something important to say. So when you spoke those words—with such conviction, such sincerity, such quiet strength—it wasn't just what you said. It was the way you said it. Like you'd already made up your mind. Like this wasn't up for debate. Like your faith was more important than anything I could offer you.

My ten-year-old baby, my reserved little boy who still asks for extra hugs at bedtime, just chose Jesus over vanity. Just chose his witness over his appearance. Just decided to carry a mark—a literal mark on his face—because it points to the God he loves.

Do you know how rare that is, son? Do you know how many grown adults spend their whole lives trying to hide anything that makes them different, anything that might make people look twice? And here you are, at ten years old, saying, "I want to keep it. I want people to see it. I want to be known as a Christian."

While I was seeing a scar that came from a moment I wished I could erase—a toy thrown too hard, playtime that went wrong, a mark I've carried guilt over since the day it happened—you were seeing the hand of God turning something painful into something purposeful. What came from an accident during play, you've chosen to wear as a testimony. Where I saw a mark that needed fixing, you saw a story that needed sharing.

And can I tell you what makes this even more beautiful? You forgave your brother. You hugged it out that day, even through the tears and the pain. You never held it against him. You never threw it back in his face during an argument. And now, you've taken that scar—the one he accidentally gave you—and you've decided it means something sacred. You've turned a moment that could have caused division between brothers into a testimony of grace and forgiveness.

That's Christ-like, son. That's the heart of the Gospel right there.

I've prayed over you since before you were born. I've asked God to give you a bold faith, a courageous heart, and a love for Jesus that the world can't shake. But son, I never imagined He'd answer those prayers so powerfully in a ten-year-old who would rather keep a scar than hide his faith.

You're teaching me what it means to follow Jesus with reckless abandon. You're showing me what it looks like to care more about eternity than appearances. You're reminding me that faith isn't something we talk about on Sundays—it's something we wear every single day, even when it costs us something.

That scar came from pain. It came from a moment that hurt. But you've taken that pain and said, "God can use this." That's the Gospel, baby. That's precisely what Jesus did—He took the cross, an instrument of death and shame, and turned it into the most significant symbol of love and hope the world has ever known.

I don't know what God has planned for your life, son. But if this is who you are at ten—if this is the kind of faith you already have—I can't wait to see the man you become.

One day, you will be a man. You'll face challenges, pain, and moments that test your strength in ways I can't protect you from. My prayer is that you remember this moment—that God is in your heart and that every scar, every hardship, will be used for His glory.

Life will teach you many lessons, and each one will shape you. But this truth will remain: God turns scars into stories of grace.

That scar is staying. Not because you told me no (though I'm respecting your choice), but because I'm not going to stand in the way of what God is doing in your heart. If you want the world to see that cross, then let them see it. Let them ask about it. Let them wonder. And when they do, you tell them about the God who loves you, the God who uses even the accidents and the painful moments to write His story on our lives.

A Prayer for All Our Children:

If you're reading this and you have children of your own, would you pray with me?

Father God,

Give our children the kind of faith that doesn't hide. Give them boldness that the world can't understand and courage that doesn't come from themselves, but from You.

Let them be more concerned with being known as Yours than being accepted by anyone else. Let them wear their faith openly, proudly, unashamedly—even when it costs them something, even when it makes them different, even when it's not the easy choice.

Protect their tender hearts, Lord, but don't let us protect them so much that we shield them from the beautiful risk of following You wholeheartedly. Give them the strength to stand firm when the world tells them to blend in. Give them voices that speak truth when silence would be easier. Give them eyes that see Your purpose in every circumstance, even the painful ones.

And God, help us as parents to get out of the way when You're doing something in their hearts. Help us stop trying to fix what you're using. Help us to see our children the way You see them—not as projects to perfect, but as souls already being shaped by Your mighty hand.

Raise up a generation that looks like my son—children who, at ten years old, already know what matters. Children who would rather carry a cross than hide one. Children who love You more than they love comfort, acceptance, or appearance.

Use them mightily, Lord. The world needs their light.

In Jesus' name,
Amen.

I love you so much it physically hurts sometimes. I'm so incredibly proud of you, I could shout it from the rooftops. And I'm so grateful God chose me to be your mom.

Thank you for reminding me what matters. Thank you for showing me what courage looks like. Thank you for loving Jesus more than you love fitting in.

You're only ten, but you just preached the best sermon I've ever heard.

Forever and always,
Your mama, who's crying happy tears