Tuesday night, I writhed in anguish over one of my senior son’s quarterly grades. I’m not one to push at a teacher, especially when it’s a matter of an A versus a B—or even a C. But this was a matter of going into the final thinking he had a 93 average, then seeing a failing grade as his final average due to an overweighted zero on a review sheet it wasn’t clear was to be turned in before the final. (He wasn’t the only one, so I know it wasn’t made clear. After all, the rest in the class are girls!)
It was night when we discovered it. Nothing to do but wait until morning to check it out. And I would send my child in first, as is my modus operandi. (I want them to be ready to face their college professors with their questions, not always rely on their parents as their advocates.) But still, I worried. After all, this is my hard-working son. An average student but not a slacker student. My mama bear hackles rose and I wanted things made right. So in the quiet of the night, I tossed and turned—and I cried out to God. Please, I prayed. Please fix this. Don’t let all his hard work be for nothing. It isn’t right. Finally, I fell asleep.
When I woke the next morning, my stomach already churning over my son’s meeting with his teacher, I opened my Bible to the bookmarked place where I’ve been reading. Psalms. Psalm 61, to be exact. And here are the first words that met my eyes:
Hear my cry, O God; listen to my prayer.
From the ends of the earth I call to you, I call as my heart grows faint;
Lead me to the Rock that is higher than I.
In those words I knew God had heard me. I was still nervous, but more peaceful. We would deal with whatever happened, good or bad, for I knew that my Lord heard me and was working in our behalf, no matter the circumstantial outcome. Maybe there were lessons even in unfairness that my son or I or both of us needed to learn. But I prayed if it came out wrong, it wouldn’t have long-reaching consequences. Not after all of his labor.
My son, ironically, wasn’t worried at all. When he came home almost an hour later, he said it was all good. When I checked his grade online at lunchtime, it reflected the work he had done—he had not only passed the class, he had a fair grade as compensation.
One day I hope my faith will override my tendency to worry. But until then, the Lord graciously continues to remind me that He hears—and that He loves and cares for my children even more than I do. And for today, that’s enough.