This is the last of a four-part series.
When I was 11 or 12, I was riding with my little brother and my father in his pickup when a cat ran into the road. I exploded when I felt the bump — I was a very sensitive boy — and my father, in his effort to quell my angst, told me he had run over a branch.
Now, I was no idiot. But, while my senses told me otherwise, I believed him … because he was my father.
Leaving his house the next morning, we drove along the same stretch of road where, sure enough, there lay the dead feline. It was an amazingly visual indictment of his dishonesty, one I can still see today.
I never said anything about it. I never forgot it, either. It was the first time I knew my father lied to me.
From that moment forward, I regarded his words with skepticism. Subsequent mistruths would only harden my disbelief and eventually build resentment.
The erosion of trust is the greatest fallout of a lie.
There is virtually nothing as precious or important between parent and child than trust. I put trust even ahead of love — if Maddie cannot trust me, how can she know I love her, or to what degree?
Without the trust of your child, all else is lost as a parent. Why would Maddie listen to me about drugs or sex or any of the choices that will define her life if she doesn't believe in me? How can I demand honesty from her if she questions my truthfulness?
Yes, at times the truth can be a little overwhelming and distressing to a child whose lack of life experience makes processing abstractions such as the soul or heaven difficult. But aren't the moments when we get to teach our kids right in our wheelhouse? Lying will not spare anxiety and trauma, it will only delay growth. In fact, lying is far more likely to create anxiety when a child loses faith in a parent.
If my father had been willing to talk with me about the deep emotional reaction I had that night instead of seeking an easy way to quiet me, our story line might be different. If he had taken the time to help me find the cat's owner or bury it, maybe it could have been a moment that brought us closer instead of building a divide. If he had given an effort, even if he stumbled through it, I could now, at least, respect him for it.
It can be easy to think that the lies you would tell your child are of little consequence, like those convenient and harmless "white" lies I wrote of to start this series. But how great would your regret be if your child loses faith in you because of something you deemed inconsequential?
As parents, we are blessed with many gifts when our children are born. Their implicit trust in us is one — regardless whether we've deserved it from anyone else. Those blessings, however, come with tremendous responsibility.
Of course we are fallible. Of course we make mistakes, do things wrong, occasionally provide poor examples. But the trust Maddie has in me, I had from the moment she was born.
It's mine to lose.
Lying to your child is a choice. And it is always — always — the wrong one.