When my first son was born, I held his tiny hand in mine and thought, “The world is going to try to harden you.” From that moment on, I made it my mission to teach my boys that strength and softness are not opposites. They are companions.

The world clouds the meaning of strength and gentleness. It teaches that to be strong, you must be dominant, aggressive, or loud. And that to be gentle, you must be passive, quiet, or easily overrun. But I wanted my boys to know they could be both. I wanted them to grow into the kind of strength shaped by good leadership, humility, and quiet confidence. The kind of gentleness that offers grace and mercy without becoming a doormat.

They came into the world with soft hands and wide eyes, and from the beginning, the world whispered to them, “Be tough.” But I whispered louder, “Be kind.”

I didn’t want to raise hard men. I wanted to raise whole ones.

From the time they were little, my boys were told in a hundred different ways to tuck their feelings away. To “man up.” To brush it off. To stop crying. But I had lived long enough to know that tears were not a weakness. They were a release. And emotions were not something to hide. They were something to steward.

Gavin, my oldest, has always been deeply rooted. Even as a baby, there was a sense of awareness in him, as if he had already learned a few things about the world before he arrived. He was composed, dependable, and always seemed to carry a quiet wisdom that exceeded his years. He approached life with care, never reactive, but always responsive. He listened more than he spoke, and when he did speak, it carried weight. He wasn’t just thoughtful. He was discerning.

Born in the middle of a snowstorm, he brought with him a kind of calm certainty. He didn’t demand attention, but his presence was felt. He would sit beside me after long days, offering comfort not through words but through stillness. Now I watch him lead his family the same way, with honor, intention, and a deep respect for others.

Spencer, my second, was the opposite of Gavin. He was ornery and curious, always pushing boundaries, always asking why. His mind moved fast and his feet even faster, rarely still. Dirt clung to his knees, and his shirt was usually untucked by noon. His eyes sparkled with mischief, and that sheepish grin was a silent confession before he ever said a word. But tucked inside that boldness was kindness and an almost instinctual grace.

He has always been the type to rush in to mend a heart without ever stopping to count the cost. Danger and risk didn’t slow him down when someone needed help. Whether it was a scraped elbow on the playground or a friend left out of the circle, Spencer moved with urgency toward people’s pain, not away from it.

I remember him, maybe four or five, chasing fireflies in the yard just after bath time. The air was thick with summer and smelled of fresh grass and citronella. His hair was still damp, his pajamas clung to his legs, and he held that glowing bug like it was a treasure. “Do you think it knows I caught it?” he asked, eyes wide. And then, almost immediately, he opened his hand and let it go. Because he didn’t want it to be afraid.

He felt things deeply even then, but he never let it stop him from letting go.

Gavin and Spencer were best friends growing up. They fought like brothers do, over toys, space, and who got the last word. But when push came to shove, they stood shoulder to shoulder. If one got in trouble, the other wasn’t far behind, either backing him up or trying to talk him down. Their bond was built in bunk beds and back seats, in backyard games and late-night whispers when the house was still. It was the kind of friendship that didn’t need many words, just presence.

And then there’s Maddox.

He is my quiet one. He doesn’t fill the room with noise, but he fills it with awareness. He feels before he speaks and observes before he acts. There is a tenderness in him that doesn’t seek attention but sees everything. He leads with empathy, often picking up on the moods and needs of others without being told. He isn’t loud or showy, but his insight runs deep.

Though he is much younger than his brothers, their bond is strong. He grew up trying to match their pace, not just physically but in character. When they ran, he ran. When they trained, he trained too. He is fast and athletic, not because it was expected of him, but because he believed he could be. They taught him that. But more than that, they shaped his spirit. He became emotionally resilient because he saw what steady love looked like up close. He has always stood up for what is right, not out of defiance, but from quiet conviction.

I prayed often while raising them. That God would give them strength, yes, but not the kind the world peddles. I wanted them to have the kind that listens, that yields, that knows when to speak and when to simply sit beside someone in their sorrow.

And I tried to live it too. I didn’t always get it right. There were days when the bills were late and the fridge was empty, when stress turned to short tempers and I wasn’t the mother I wanted to be. But they saw me cry. They saw me get back up. They saw me pray when there were no answers and serve when there was little left to give. They saw that strength doesn’t always look like control. Sometimes it looks like surrender.

Now, I watch them become men, one by one. I see that gentle strength in how they speak to their partners, in how they show up for their families, in how they treat people who can’t offer them anything in return. I see it in their patience, their faith, and their humility.

I didn’t raise boys to be hard. I raised them to be whole. And by God’s grace, they are becoming just that. Strong, soft-hearted men who know that real power is found in kindness, conviction, and love that mirrors the heart of Jesus.