This is an opinion column.

The one hole is there because my son put it there out of anger. To further demonstrate his displeasure, he picked up a stick and knocked another few for good measure. On the adjacent wall is a perfectly round hole created by another son. He wanted to show how hard he could throw a weighted training ball at our punching bag. He missed.

The imperfections in my garage wall represent 2022 quite well, and they hold an important lesson for 2023.

Other Columns by Cameron Smith:

Serving as a foster family for a teenager has been truly challenging. Being a teenager who has already endured a life’s worth of challenges is far more difficult. The situation simply isn’t fair. Three of the boys in my house have every privilege imaginable. One has been forced to endure a decade-long gauntlet. None of them did anything to deserve what life meted out.

The experience has helped me realize my previously impoverished understanding of the Gospel. I want…no, I expect my sons to be grateful for what my wife and I do for them. For quite some time, we’ve operated under an unspoken exchange. My wife and I take care of them, and they mostly behave according to the standards we set out.

“F—, you, motherf—–!” coming from a son was a new experience for me in 2022. I’ve walked with the newest member of my household through more than a few dark nights. I’ve been called about every name under the sun. My wife has as well. We’ve had counselors and case workers constantly in and out of our home. .

At some point, we’ll laugh about some of it, but this year has been emotionally raw.

My son’s rage, pain, and darkness beg for more of the same in response. Hurt people hurt people who too often return it or pass it down the line. For much of the last year, I’ve battled that reality. As my son tested our resolve, my jaw would set, feet would plant, and I’d prepare for the worst. Too often, I was a mirror rather than a mentor and father.

That’s not how Jesus treated me.

While we were still sinners, Christ died for us. While I was unlovable, he bled. As our souls touched by darkness nailed him to a cross, he begged God to forgive us.

I, in contrast, struggle to love through unkind words, uncomfortable outbursts, a broken sheetrock.

Brutal love. It’s the kind that never gives up. It does not boast. It is not proud. It doesn’t insist on its own way. It rejoices with the truth.

It’s one thing to know such love exists. It is another to see its transformative power in the lives of all my sons. They endured much this year, but they are so much stronger for the experience. Each understands the cost of serving as the hands and feet of Christ. They know what it means to love and be loved deeply.

At first, I thought about patching the holes my newest son put in the garage wall, but it’s an unlikely monument to love itself. Every time I see them, I’m reminded of the Gospel. I’m admonished to love unconditionally because that is precisely how God loves me.

The hole in the other wall is different.

The perfectly round void is a reminder that family is a worthy work in progress. Engaging developing brains and disordered emotions is a frustrating experience. As my oldest biological son goes through puberty, I remember what it was like to have giant feet, a cracking voice, and the absolute worst facial hair imaginable. His younger brothers are figuring out that he’s a lot stronger than them. For the older two, women have entered the scene as importantly and wonderfully different.

The Council of Smith Men becomes truly weird some days. My wife rather enjoys quietly observing my struggles through discussions on topics like gender identity, what to do about hair growing in new places, and why girls want to talk about everything.

If you think some of the headlines we experience are weird as adults, imagine being a teenager in the era of social media and constant information. Some of these topics are absolutely wild, but our children deserve our time and attention to sort it all out.

Sometimes my wife and I fail to meet that responsibility. It’s also easy to get depressed as a parent. Many of us spend an inordinate amount of time focused on our own shortcomings. Like my son who had no intention of throwing a ball through the wall, we wonder why our best efforts at parenting our children whiff with uncomfortable regularity.

If all I see in my garage are the holes, I miss the rest of the wall, the sports gear in the cubbies, the games we play as a family, and the home that’s attached. Frankly, the amazing life surrounding the imperfections is so much greater than the voids.

Sure, I could patch everything up. I grew up in a rough and tumble house, so I learned to patch sheetrock. At my home now, we’re continually wiping dirt off the walls, filling in cracks and dents, and painting. The ones in the garage get to stay. We need the reminders. Who knows? They just might help us make fewer holes in 2023.

Smith is a recovering political attorney with four boys, two dogs, a bearded dragon, and an extremely patient wife. He engages media, business, and policy through the Triptych Foundation and Triptych Media. Please direct outrage or agreement to [email protected] or @DCameronSmith on Twitter.