The bell over the door of The Shepherds Cafe chimed, and Barbara felt the familiar warmth settle around her—coffee and cinnamon in the air, pendant lights casting a soft amber glow on dark wood, the low murmur of conversation underneath the steady hiss of the espresso machine. It was the kind of place that made you breathe slower without realizing it. She chose her usual table near the side wall, close enough to see the entrance, far enough to talk without feeling like the whole room was listening.
She had just opened her notebook when she noticed a young mother hovering near the counter, shifting her weight as if she was trying to talk herself into staying. A diaper bag hung from her shoulder like a burden she’d carried all day, and her eyes scanned the room with a guardedness that didn’t belong in a café. Barbara recognized her from worship. Faithful. Quiet. The kind of sister who showed up even when she looked like she’d slept in ten-minute pieces.
Barbara stood and gave a small wave. “Hey. Come sit with me.”
The young woman’s face softened with relief, like someone being offered a chair after standing too long. She walked over, set the bag down carefully, and sat with a slow exhale that said she had been holding herself upright on sheer will.
Barbara didn’t start with small talk. She smiled gently and asked, “How are you doing—really?”
The young mother tried to put on the polite script. “I’m okay. Just busy.”
Barbara didn’t push, but she didn’t let the script stand. “You don’t have to perform with me.”
Something in the woman’s shoulders released. Her eyes dropped to her hands and then lifted again, glossy. “I’m not okay,” she admitted. “I’m trying to keep my house from turning into a revolving door of attitudes I didn’t invite.”
Barbara’s expression warmed, but it also sharpened with focus. “Tell me.”
The young mother took a breath, and when she spoke, the words came fast at first, like she was afraid she’d lose her nerve. “It’s like rebellion is everywhere. The news celebrates it. TV shows make parents look stupid. School tells kids they don’t have to listen if they ‘feel’ differently. And I’m raising three children alone. I’m outnumbered every day.”
Barbara nodded slowly. She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t correct. She listened like someone taking the weight seriously.
“I love them,” the mother continued, voice breaking a little. “I really do. But I’m tired. And I don’t want to raise three little people who think rules are oppression. I need help drawing lines. Clear lines. Biblical lines. Not ‘mom is in a mood’ lines.”
Barbara leaned forward. “Start by telling me your name.”
The young woman blinked, like she hadn’t expected to be asked something so simple. “Hannah,” she said quietly. “Hannah Miller.”
Barbara nodded. “All right, Hannah. And tell me about your kids. Their names. Their personalities. Tell me what you’re dealing with—in your words.”
Hannah gave a short laugh that wasn’t funny. “Okay. Their names are Ethan, Lydia, and Caleb.”
Barbara repeated them softly, as if naming them mattered. “Ethan. Lydia. Caleb.”
Hannah nodded, and now her words came with the familiarity of daily battles. “Ethan is nine. He’s smart—too smart sometimes. He asks questions that feel like cross-examinations. He watches one video at school and suddenly he wants to debate everything I say like I’m on trial. If I tell him to do something, he’ll say, ‘Why?’ but not because he’s curious—because he’s testing whether I have authority. He’s confident. He wants to feel like he’s his own boss.”
Barbara held her gaze steady. “So he leans into challenge.”
“Yes,” Hannah said quickly, grateful to be understood. “And he’s not mean. He’s just… always pushing the edges.”
Hannah continued, “Lydia is six. She’s sensitive. She picks up everything. If I’m stressed, she knows. If her brother gets corrected, she gets nervous. She’s sweet, but she’s also learned how to cry at just the right time to avoid consequences. And if Ethan is pushing against me, Lydia sometimes joins in because she doesn’t want to be left out.”
Barbara nodded once. “So she’s impressionable—and she’s learned what works.”
Hannah exhaled hard. “Exactly. And Caleb is three. Caleb is… fire.”
Barbara’s eyebrows lifted. “Fire?”
“Pure energy,” Hannah said, and now the words came with weary affection. “He climbs everything. If you tell him ‘no,’ he looks right at you like he’s deciding whether you mean it. He throws things when he’s frustrated. And lately he’s started repeating phrases he hears from cartoons—little sassy lines—like he’s auditioning for a show.”
Barbara’s mouth tightened with concern. “So your youngest is learning rebellion as entertainment.”
Hannah’s eyes watered. “Yes. That’s exactly it.”
Barbara let that sit, then spoke quietly but firmly. “You’re not imagining the pattern, Hannah. The culture is discipling your children every day. The question is whether your home is going to disciple them louder.”
Hannah stared at her coffee like it might answer for her. “I don’t know how to be louder,” she confessed. “I feel like I’m always reacting.”
Barbara opened her Bible like someone opening a map. “Then we’re going to get you out of reaction and into leadership. Not harshness. Leadership.”
Hannah leaned in.
Barbara kept her voice calm, the kind of calm that gives tired people permission to breathe. “Law and order begin with God, not your mood. Your children must learn that authority is real because God is real. Scripture teaches that God values order and peace over chaos and confusion. That’s true in society, and it’s true at the kitchen table. Your home is the first government your children will ever experience, and what they learn there will shape how they respond to teachers, employers, police officers, elders, and ultimately the Lord Himself.”
Hannah nodded slowly, as if something inside her had been waiting to hear that stated plainly.
Barbara continued, “The Bible is clear that children are to obey their parents in the Lord. That means obedience isn’t optional when what you’re asking is righteous. And the Bible is also clear that parents are not to provoke their children—meaning you don’t discipline in cruelty or in inconsistency. You don’t move the goalposts. You don’t punish based on your stress level. You don’t use sarcasm to embarrass them. Parenting isn’t provoking. Parenting is loving structure.”
Hannah’s brow tightened. “I’m afraid of being too strict.”
Barbara didn’t sugar-coat it. “Your children don’t need a strict mother. They need a stable mother. They need you to be predictable. Unpredictability creates anxiety. Predictability creates peace.”
Barbara pulled a notebook toward her and began to write while she talked. “Now, here’s how you draw clear lines without turning your home into a prison. Keep your rules few, firm, and repeatable. Five rules. Not thirty.”
She wrote them and slid the notebook slightly so Hannah could see. “Obedience the first time. Respect in words and tone. Truth—no lying, no hiding. Hands and feet stay calm—no hitting, throwing, or breaking. Screens are a privilege, not a right.”
Hannah stared at the page like it was water in a desert. “That feels… doable.”
“Doable is the point,” Barbara said. “You can’t enforce what you can’t remember. And your kids can’t respect boundaries they can’t understand.”
Hannah hesitated. “But how do I enforce it with three different personalities?”
Barbara’s eyes stayed focused. “You tailor the approach, but you don’t change the standard. Ethan needs calm firmness. Not louder volume. Defiance is not a debate club. You tell him: ‘You may ask sincere questions, but you may not challenge authority as a sport.’ And then you teach him the order: obey first, talk second. If he obeys, you’re happy to explain. If he refuses, there’s a consequence. But you don’t argue. Arguing teaches him that authority is negotiable.”
Hannah pressed her lips together, as if she was already imagining Ethan’s face. “He’s going to push back.”
“He will,” Barbara said. “And that’s exactly when your calm is the lesson.”
Barbara continued, “Lydia needs correction that doesn’t crush her sensitivity but doesn’t reward manipulation. You tell her: ‘You can cry, but crying doesn’t erase truth.’ Comfort her feelings without canceling the consequence. She learns security when your love is steady and your boundaries are steady.”
Hannah nodded, eyes widening. “She cries so fast.”
Barbara answered plainly, “Because it works. You’re going to retrain what works.”
Then Barbara’s tone turned even more practical. “Caleb is three. You don’t negotiate with three. You redirect and enforce. When he looks at you after ‘no,’ he’s asking, ‘Is Mom real? Does Mom mean what she says?’ Every follow-through teaches stability. Toddlers are built by repetition.”
Hannah sighed, rubbing her temple. “I’m exhausted from repeating myself.”
Barbara didn’t pretend otherwise. “Yes. But that repetition is not wasted. It’s construction.”
Hannah’s shoulders slumped. “What about all the influences? The stuff they watch, the stuff they hear at school. It feels constant.”
Barbara lowered her voice. “You cannot disciple against a constant stream of anti-authority. You’re not just managing noise—you’re inviting a worldview into your living room. I understand you’re tired. I understand screens can feel like survival. But if television and internet do daily teaching in your home, your five minutes of correction won’t overpower it.”
Hannah’s face tightened with guilt. “I do use it when I’m exhausted.”
Barbara reached across the table and rested her hand lightly on Hannah’s. “I’m not condemning you. I’m calling you to be intentional. Set boundaries for screens and replace them with something that trains their hearts. Read to them. Bible accounts. Proverbs. Short passages. Let Ethan read Scripture out loud—he’s wired for words and logic. Let Lydia help you—she’ll feel included and valued. Let Caleb act it out—he’ll burn energy and learn through motion. Make Scripture normal in the home, not ceremonial.”
Hannah blinked, surprised by how practical it sounded. “That would actually work for them.”
“It will,” Barbara said. “Because you’re not just stopping bad influences—you’re filling the space with something better.”
Hannah swallowed. “They ask questions about what they see. Protests. Disrespect. People yelling at authority. What do I say without sounding like I’m ranting?”
Barbara’s tone was steady. “You tell them the truth in plain words: ‘Our world often celebrates rebellion, but God blesses obedience.’ You explain that authority can be abused, yes, but rebellion is not the answer. You teach them that God is a God of peace, and peace doesn’t come from everyone doing what they feel like doing. Peace comes from hearts trained to obey what is right.”
Hannah sat back, processing. “So the goal isn’t to make my life easier.”
Barbara shook her head. “Not primarily. The goal is to train your children to recognize authority, submit to what is right, and control themselves. That’s not merely parenting. That’s discipleship. Discipline isn’t punishment for your convenience. It’s training for their future.”
Hannah’s eyes filled again, but this time the tears weren’t only exhaustion. There was relief in them too. “I don’t want them to grow up and hate me.”
Barbara’s voice softened, but it didn’t weaken. “If you do this with love—consistent, calm, fair—they won’t hate you for boundaries. They’ll thank you for stability. They may resist in the moment because children resist restraint, but you are building a foundation God can use. You’re not failing because it’s hard. It’s hard because you’re doing something holy.”
Hannah looked down at the five rules again. “I think I’ve been reacting instead of leading.”
Barbara nodded. “That’s normal when you’re tired. But you’re going to lead now.”
Hannah took a slow breath. “So… what do I do first?”
Barbara answered immediately. “Tonight, you call a reset meeting at your kitchen table. You tell them you love them, and that because you love them, your home is going to be a place of peace and order. You introduce the five rules. You explain them in simple language. You tell them the consequences ahead of time. Then you enforce the first boundary that gets tested—calmly, immediately, without negotiation. You don’t yell. You don’t lecture for thirty minutes. You follow through. Then you move on.”
Hannah nodded, eyes focused now. “No debate. No mood. Just consistency.”
Barbara smiled. “Exactly. And tomorrow morning, you start the day with a short Scripture reading and a short prayer with them—two minutes. Not because it’s magic, but because it’s alignment. You are putting God’s order at the top of the day.”
Hannah was quiet for a moment, then whispered, “I’ve been feeling like I’m losing my house.”
Barbara met her gaze. “You’re not losing it. You’re reclaiming it.”
Hannah stood and lifted her bag, tired but no longer defeated. “Thank you,” she said. “I needed someone to tell me I’m not crazy for wanting order.”
Barbara stood too. “You’re not crazy. Order is not oppression. Order is a form of love when it’s righteous.”
As Hannah turned to leave, Barbara added one last line—simple enough to remember when the chaos returned. “Your children are watching to see whether you mean what you say. If you mean it kindly, consistently, and biblically, they will learn that God’s lines are good.”
The bell chimed again as the door closed behind Hannah, and Barbara sat back down with her Bible still open, quietly praying that peace would return to a small home that had been fighting a loud world.