It was meant to be a fun getaway. At least that was my understanding. I was fifteen years old, from a small town, and harboring big hurts in my heart. So I leaped at the offer to visit my father.

I was angry at this point in my life. And my mother made a fine target for any and every negative emotion that welled within me. All of my frustration and wounds were hurled at her in a steady barrage of insults, eye rolling, back talk, and phone conversations held intentionally within her earshot where I would rail against what a nightmare I had for a mom — laced with copious amounts of cussing for good measure.

The way I treated my mother was appalling and completely undeserved. And I knew it.

But somehow I couldn’t stop myself. And neither could she.

So a trip to my dad, whom I hadn’t seen in years, seemed like a nice reprieve for both of us. Though I knew it would be a little awkward to spend time with a father I didn’t really know anymore, Las Vegas sounded exotic and exciting. Best of all, it was far, far away from the conflict and strife that dominated my everyday life in Wisconsin.

When I stepped off the plane, I was assaulted with the whirring and chimes of slot machines lining the terminal. My dad stood beaming in excitement at the gate. After exchanging a clumsy hug, we set off together to explore the city.

I took in the lights on the famous Vegas strip. I noted the desert, the dust, and the people everywhere. I was startled by the explicit billboards and sensed a desolation everywhere I looked.

This was not what I expected.

Part of my tour included a stop at the local high school by his home. The angular building stood stark and barren in a dusty field. There was no grass. Anywhere. I noted metal detectors and chain link fencing and wondered aloud if it was a prison or a school.

My dad just grinned and remarked, “You know, you could go to school here if you wanted.”

I thought of my beautiful high school back home, surrounded by trees and lush greens and scoffed, “Not on your life, Dad!”

Still, my dad prattled on and on about the virtues of Vegas as we drove off. It seemed as if he was trying to sell me on the city. And I wasn’t buying.

The next day, the purpose of my dad’s enthusiastic tour guide routine became clear. My mom phoned me to check in. And during our conversation she gently informed me that she had decided to have me to stay with my dad for a while. Possibly indefinitely. She told me she was weary of my constant abuse and nasty behavior towards her and it was time for a change.

My cheeks flushed and my ears rang as panic set in.

Though she kept talking and reassuring me of her love, I couldn’t hear anymore. My mind was a storm of shock, betrayal, and at the very core, fear.

And the worst part was, I understood. I felt the full weight of my attitude and actions towards my mother. I burned with shame at how I had treated her. I knew I deserved my fate.

I was painfully aware of how I had allowed resentment and bitterness to rule in my heart and spill out in my interactions with my mother. Worse, I called myself a Christ-follower and certainly knew right from wrong. And how could I blame her for deciding enough was enough from her belligerent and spiteful daughter?

I knew I had to change. And I knew there was only one way.

I sat in bed that night sobbing, my tear-stained Bible spread before me. I didn’t pray for God to change my mom’s mind. I begged God to change my heart.

I poured out my sin before Him and pleaded for forgiveness. I prayed He would show me the way to a new relationship with my mother. Nightly I prayed for God to radically change my attitude. And nightly God ministered to my fractured heart until a love and affection deep and sure for my mother took root.

And something else happened, too. Later that week, my mother heard my calm assurance that if she let me come home, things would be different. She believed me. And she gave me a chance.

Things were never the same between my mother and me — in the best possible way. Sure, we still sparred on occasion. But the hostility I felt toward her had vanished. And in its place stood a profound love, appreciation, and admiration for my mom that has never wavered.

Looking back as an adult, I can see more clearly why a teenager who was navigating a difficult childhood would lash out at her mother. And there would be truth there. But even so, I needed to change. It had to be a radical change.

Sometimes a radical change must be preceded by a radical realization of one’s own sin and culpability.

We are promised,

If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.” {1 John 1:9}

Inherent to this promise is a confession of sin. And God, in His radical faithfulness, not only forgives, but He cleanses us from our own unrighteousness.

My relationship with my mother is but one example of God taking a mess of my own making and restoring it, cleansing it, and giving it back to me whole. He is the great heart changer. And I am forever grateful.

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