Children are not meant to carry crowns. They are not meant to rule. The burden crushes them in slow, invisible ways.
There’s a child in the house. Not yet grown, not yet lost. But already crowned. Not by grace or wisdom, but by silence, by guilt, and by the slow corrosion of trust and order. This child doesn’t pay the bills. They don’t lock the doors at night or carry the burdens that keep the lights on and food on the table. But, somehow, they rule the whole house.
Not because they are strong, but because everyone else is tired.
We’ve seen this before. Maybe even in our own homes. The child who speaks, and the air in the room shifts. The one whose moods decide the mood of the house. The one who has learned, from experience, that a well-timed outburst will scatter the grown-ups and buy them space to rule.
Of course, this doesn’t happen all at once. It comes slowly, through years of crisis and exhaustion. Through a parent who has been through too much. Through a world that rewards the loud, excuses the cruel, and calls rebellion “growth.” One day, the child is crying in a crib. The next, they are deciding what the family watches, eats, talks about, and even believes.
And most households don’t even see it happening. Parents think they’re doing their best. They say things like, “I just want them to be happy,” or “They’ve been through a lot,” or “It’s just a phase.” But underneath the phrases is something more dangerous: abdication. The handing over of authority.
We’ve built a culture that places the child at the center of the house. A thousand self-help books and soft-spoken influencers will tell you to “follow their lead,” to “honor their truth,” to “never crush their spirit.” But what if the spirit ruling the house is not holy? What if, by following their lead, we’re leading them into a wilderness with no guide, no bread, no mercy?
Children are not meant to carry crowns. They are not meant to rule. The burden crushes them in slow, invisible ways. Anxiety grows where God intends for them to have security. Then, anger festers where they’re intended to have structure. And what’s most tragic? They know. Deep down, they know the house is upside-down. They test it every day, not because they’re evil, but because they’re afraid. They want to know whether anyone is strong enough to say “no” and mean it.
Authority is not cruelty. Order is not abuse. Structure is not a trauma. These are the walls and roof that make the house safe.
But to reclaim the house, a parent must be willing to be resented. Not forever. Just for a while. They must be willing to hear the tantrum, to weather the cold shoulder, to be called unfair, unkind, and even evil. And they must not flinch. Not when they love that child. Not when they want them to be free.
This isn’t about power. This is about truth. The truth that the home is not a democracy of moods. The truth that the child is not a moral equal with the parent. The truth that the one who still cannot drive, vote, marry, or pay the gas bill must not determine the shape of the family’s life.
More than anything else, they need to know that we love and trust our Heavenly Father more than we fear their outbursts.
We don't need a new method. We need repentance.
Repentance for letting screens parent our children.
Repentance for letting schools disciple them.
Repentance for trusting algorithms more than the Holy Spirit.
Repentance for being so worn out, we’ve forgotten the joy of saying no in the name of something better.
Because here’s what so few have the courage to say nowadays: children long to be led. They long for someone to step between them and the void and say, “This is the way, walk in it.” And more than anything else, they need to know that we love and trust our Heavenly Father more than we fear their outbursts.
We don’t have to be perfect. We just have to be planted. Rooted. Unshakable. That is what forms a child. Not a gentle tone or a perfect bedtime routine, but a mother or father who stands on the Rock and says, in his name, “This house belongs to the Lord. And so do you.”
Yes, they’ll resent us for it, or say they hate us. For a season. Maybe longer.
But hate can be cracked and healed by Jesus’ forgiveness and mercy. Chaos just festers.
The crown must be removed, but not with scorn or fury. But with the love of Christ. The kind of love that bears all things, believes all things, endures all things. The kind of love that kneels beside a trembling child and says, “You were never meant to be in charge. That’s my calling. And I won’t run from it anymore.”
And what the child may rage against in that moment, they will thank us for in time. When they are older. When they have children of their own. When the world has tried to deconstruct them and sell them back to themselves. Then they will remember we gave them an option. We gave them discipline and mercy. We gave them Jesus.
They’ll remember that in their house, someone stood firm. In their house, someone prayed through the noise. In their house, someone laid down the crown and picked up the cross.
Because that is what parents do. Not as tyrants. Not as victims. But as servants of the Living God.
And when Christ reigns, the home is not perfect. It’s better than perfect. It’s alive.
Not with mood, but with mercy.
Not with fear, but with faith.
Not with tantrums, but with the truth.
And not with the crown of a child, but with the light of a King who was once a child himself, who obeyed, who suffered, and who rose.
Every house can be restored.
But only Christ does the restoring. Still, someone has to go first. Someone has to stand up and say, “This house belongs to the Lord.” And mean it. And die for it, daily. And trust that Christ alone will raise it up again.
