And these words that I command you today shall be on your heart. You shall teach them diligently to your children, and shall talk of them when you sit in your house, and when you walk by the way, and when you lie down, and when you rise. (Deuteronomy 6:6-7, ESV)
I was raised to see people.
I didn’t fully understand that was unusual until I was older. My parents — not perfectly, and not without their own blind spots — but genuinely, consistently modeled what it looked like to notice people that other people walked past. People who were different. People who were inconvenient. People the world had somehow agreed to overlook.
So when I was a child and befriended a girl with an intellectual disability who lived nearby, it wasn’t a conscious act of virtue. It was just — of course. She was funny and kind and worth knowing. My sister and I loved spending time with her. We didn’t see what there was to work around.
When I was friends with a boy I believe now was probably autistic, who got made fun of regularly and who would tell the same long stories in circles — I listened. Because I’d been taught to listen. Because I’d watched adults in my life listen.
When my closest friend happened to be Black and people gave us grief for it — including, heartbreakingly, some of her own family whom, I guess, weren’t sure about my motives — I didn’t understand the complexity of what was happening, but I knew enough to keep showing up.
None of that came from me. It came from what was built into me. Like Lois and Eunice in Paul’s life (2 Timothy1:5), my parents built genuine kindness into my life and an understanding of every person having value.
Here’s the thing about formation: it works the same way in your house as it did in mine. Your children are watching everything.
They watch how you talk about the family with the kid who has the loud meltdowns at church. They watch whether you slow down for people or speed past them. They watch what you say in the car after a hard interaction with someone who is different or difficult. They watch whether you treat the child with the greatest needs in your home as a burden to manage or a person to love.
They’re not going to do what you tell them. They’re going to do what they see.
So what does it look like to actively form your children into people who see others?
Narrate your own choices. When you choose to stop and help, say why. When you show patience with someone who is hard to be patient with, name it: “That was frustrating for me, but I wanted to make sure she felt heard.” Your inner life, spoken out loud, is one of the most powerful teaching tools you have.
Tell them your own stories. The friendships you had that cost you something. The times you chose the less popular thing because it was the right thing. The people in your life who didn’t fit the mold and who turned out to be some of the best humans you’ve ever known. Your children need to know that you didn’t arrive fully formed either — that you learned this, over time, from people and experiences that shaped you.
Let them see you get it wrong and recover. When you’re impatient with your ND child, say so. “I didn’t handle that well. I was frustrated and I took it out on you. That wasn’t fair.” This teaches repair. It teaches that relationships survive mistakes when we’re honest. It teaches them what accountability looks like from the inside.
Protect your family culture around difference. Humor that punches down on people who are different doesn’t get a pass because it’s “just a joke.” Language that diminishes people gets corrected — not with a lecture, just with a “we don’t talk about people that way.” Small moments, consistently held, add up to a value system.
Show them what it costs — and do it anyway. Real friendship across difference costs something. It costs you comfort. It costs you the easy path. Let your children watch you pay that cost, and let them see that you think it’s worth it.
I can’t promise that if you do all of this, your children will turn out exactly as you hope. They’re their own people, and some of what shapes them is outside your hands. But the formation you do now — the modeling, the narrating, the stories you tell, the culture you protect — that goes deep. It stays.
My parents built something into me that has held up for decades, across countries and cultures and circumstances they never could have predicted.
We’re building something too. We must build it on purpose.
We will not hide them from their children, but tell to the coming generation the glorious deeds of the Lord, and his might, and the wonders that he has done. (Psalm 78:4, ESV)
If you’re ready to build something more intentional in your home, the Family PEACE Plan: 7-Day Challenge to Fewer Blowups in Your Home gives you a practical place to start. 7-days, just 7 minutes each day to start seeing some real change. Find out more at here.