Especially in the early years, we teach our children not just by what we say, but by who we are. Children are mirrors. But they do not simply imitate—they absorb. Their earliest sense of safety, identity, and worth comes from reflection—how we reflect love, how we carry ourselves, how we live. Your child will reflect your love, imitate your surrender, and mirror your nurture. He will be joyful if you are joyful. She will be secure if you are grounded. They will be strong if you are strong—or fearful if you are anxious.

And they will not only mirror our strengths—they will mirror our weaknesses. A cynical tone toward your husband will become the tone they later use toward you. A sigh of overwhelm at the duties of life will teach them that life is “too much,” instead of a privilege to be embraced with gratitude. A distracted heart—always half-present, half-elsewhere—will teach them to disconnect from you, from their father, and from God.

Children do not only copy what we hope they’ll remember; they absorb what we never intended to teach. But take heart—because the power of repentance, tenderness, and beginning again shapes them just as deeply as our failures do. Even our imperfections can become teachers when grace finishes the lesson.

Just as we are made in the image of God, our children pour themselves into the mold of our example.

If your child is to understand the church—the Bride of Christ—let them first see it in you. When you demonstrate what it means to be a bride to your husband, your children begin to understand what it means for the church to belong to Christ. The attentiveness with which you listen to your spouse becomes the attentiveness they’ll learn to offer others—and to God.

The beauty with which you prepare a meal shows them how to prepare their hearts for the Lord.

The surrender with which you lay down your own agenda to come under your husband’s mission teaches them what it means to yield to Christ.

The transparency with which you speak in love shows them how we relate to God—with honesty, reverence, and trust.

Your willingness to offer yourself as a living sacrifice—holding nothing back, without reluctance—makes Christ’s sacrifice real to them.

I saw this growing up.

At night, I would lie in bed and hear my father pray. He would walk the floor, whispering, rejoicing, at times groaning or weeping—words I couldn’t always understand, but a presence I could feel. The Spirit of God passed through the wall and into my room, and I knew—without anyone explaining—that God was real. He was near.

And I learned how to listen by watching my mother, in the way she paused. The way she answered. The way she touched the hearts of those who reached out. She didn’t dismiss or rush. She leaned in. And because she listened, I learned how to reach out.

Then came a time in my own mothering when I had to learn all this again.

Your brother, still small, had already been diagnosed with autism. For many years, it felt nearly impossible to find even a square inch of common ground—to understand how he thought, what frightened him, or how he made sense of the world. His responses baffled me. His silence sometimes broke me. But through that long, humbling journey, I began to learn a deeper dimension of love.

In our efforts to connect with him, I began looking for even the smallest thread that could bind us together. I had once read that mirroring your child—literally copying their actions—might draw their attention. So when he sorted blocks, I sorted blocks. When he crawled on the floor, I crawled too, hoping for even a glance.

One of the few things that brought him comfort was crawling inside a pillow sham—pillow and all—and...