We Haven’t Turned Out Yet

Looking back now, through the years of raising children and the sweet, humbling blessing of being a grandparent, I’ve come to realize something that time keeps teaching me again and again—we never really “turn out.” Not fully. Not completely. Not this side of heaven, anyway. We’re all works in progress, learning, growing, and finding grace in the middle of our imperfections.

I think about those early years as a parent, when the kids were small and life felt like a whirlwind of laughter and exhaustion—sticky fingers, late nights, and endless questions. Back then, I wanted so badly to get it right. I prayed that the lessons I was trying to teach would somehow stick, even when I was too tired or too unsure to know if they were. There were moments I felt like I was failing, like I wasn’t enough. But then, something beautiful would happen—a hug, a whispered “I love you,” or one of those deep, innocent questions that made me see the world through their eyes again—and I’d remember why it was all worth it.

The other day, I heard an old song that brought it all rushing back. It started with a little boy telling his mom not to worry about him—that he hadn’t “turned out yet.” It made me smile because it was so simple, and yet so true. I could picture my own kids saying something like that when they were little, trying to reassure me after a tough day or a tearful talk. “Mom, you don’t need to worry. Mom, don’t give up on me yet.”

I can still remember those moments—those parenting days when worry seemed like a permanent part of my heart. Every mistake they made felt like a reflection of me. Every challenge they faced felt like something I should have prevented. I didn’t realize then that they were still learning, still figuring it out. I was too.

But I love that idea—“I haven’t turned out yet.” It’s not an excuse; it’s a promise. A reminder that growth takes time. That love requires patience. That faith, family, and forgiveness are lifelong lessons, not one-time achievements.

I remember when one of my kids went through a rough patch, and I couldn’t help but worry. I prayed hard. I tried to fix things. But eventually, I learned to trust that the seeds I had planted would grow in their time. And they did. The roots had been there all along—they just needed room to reach deeper.

Now, as a grandparent, I watch my children walk through their own journeys of parenting, and I smile because I see the same worry in their eyes that once lived in mine. I see them trying so hard to balance love with discipline, freedom with guidance, grace with structure. And sometimes, when their patience wears thin, I remind them gently—“Don’t be too hard on yourself. None of us have fully turned out yet.”

It’s funny how life comes full circle. The same words that once belonged to a child can bring comfort to a parent. “Don’t give up on me yet.”

There’s something deeply comforting about knowing that we’re all still growing. My parents once worried about me. I’ve worried about my kids. My kids will one day worry about theirs. And through it all, God keeps whispering to each of us, “Be patient. I’m not finished with you yet.”

That part of the song where the mom and dad kneel beside their bed hits me hardest. “Lord, forgive us. We were kids not long ago, and we’re not grown up yet. Please help us to be kind and not do things we’ll regret.” I think every parent has prayed something like that at one time or another.

Because love doesn’t make us perfect—it makes us aware. It humbles us. It brings us to our knees in gratitude and sometimes in exhaustion. Parenting has a way of showing us just how much we need grace. And grandparenting reminds us how much of it we’ve already received.

We look back at our own parents and realize they were just doing their best too. The same fears that kept us awake at night once kept them awake as well. They prayed the same prayers, felt the same guilt, carried the same hope—that we’d grow into good people who’d find our way, who’d love deeply and live kindly. And we did, not perfectly, but beautifully enough.

And now, watching my grandchildren grow, I see the same unshaped promise in them. They’re little right now—full of curiosity, imagination, and boundless energy. Sometimes they make mistakes, sometimes they act out, sometimes they test every limit. But I see in their eyes that same truth: They haven’t turned out yet.

They’re becoming who they’re meant to be. And isn’t that what life is—a constant becoming?

If I could go back to those years of raising my own kids, I think I’d spend less time worrying about whether I was getting it right and more time soaking up the moments. I’d laugh a little louder, stress a little less, and remember that growing up—both theirs and mine—was always meant to be messy and miraculous at the same time.

But that’s the beauty of grace—it meets us in the middle of the unfinished. It gives us space to learn, to stumble, to begin again.

And as I look at my family now—at my children raising theirs, at the laughter around the dinner table, at the way love has stretched across generations—I can see that God’s been faithful through it all. Even when we doubted, even when we failed, even when we prayed, “Lord, please be patient with us—we haven’t turned out yet.”

Maybe that’s the secret to family—knowing that we’re all in different stages of turning out, all being shaped by the same loving hands. The parent learns from the child as much as the child learns from the parent. The grandparent sees what patience looks like. The child learns what unconditional love feels like.

And someday, my grandchildren will look back, maybe even with their own children, and they’ll understand what I mean when I say that we never stop growing, never stop learning, never stop needing grace.

We’re all in process—becoming who we were made to be.

So, when I think back to those long nights when I tucked my kids into bed, worried about what kind of people they’d become, I smile now. Because I know the truth that only time and faith can teach: They were already becoming, even then. And so was I.

Maybe that’s why God never gives up on us. Maybe that’s why love is patient—it has to be. Because we’re still turning out.

So, tonight, when I say my prayers, I’ll borrow the words of that song and whisper them back to heaven:

“Lord, forgive me when I forget how far we’ve come. Help me to remember that none of us are finished yet. Be patient with us, please, Lord—we haven’t turned out yet.”

And I’ll thank Him—for my parents who tried their best, for my children who grew into grace, and for my grandchildren who are still writing their stories.

Because in the end, that’s what life really is—a long, beautiful work in progress. And the miracle is not that we’ve already turned out.

The miracle is that He’s still turning us into something beautiful, one generation at a time.