While Generation X (Gen X) is often called the “latchkey generation,” I wasn’t technically a latchkey kid. My mother didn’t work outside our home, yet I still experienced that distinctive independence that shaped Gen X. We lived in a world where doors didn’t need to be locked, where trust was the default setting, and where a child could safely roam the neighborhood.
The “latchkey” term came from the keys children wore around their necks, symbols of their solitary homecomings after school because both parents worked outside the home. But whether you wore that key or not, we all shared something profound: we belonged to what I now understand was the last generation to experience childhood shaped by unwavering biblical principles, the final group of children raised on Ephesians 6:1-3: “Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right. Honor your father and mother, which is the first commandment with a promise, so that it may go well with you and that you may enjoy long life on the earth.”
At the time, being told that children should be “seen and not heard” felt restrictive. I carried a deep need to be heard that would follow me into adulthood, born from those years of swallowed words and carefully considered thoughts. But there was profound biblical wisdom woven into that seeming harshness, wisdom I couldn’t grasp as a small child but can now see through the lens of Proverbs 17:28: “Even fools are thought wise if they keep silent, and discerning if they hold their tongues.”
My grandparents, stern and unwavering in their faith, weren’t trying to diminish my voice; they were teaching me something essential about God’s design for authority and character formation. They understood that childhood isn’t just about being heard; it’s about learning to listen first to the Lord, then to those He places in authority over us. They were preparing me for a world where submission to righteous authority matters, echoing the truth of Romans 13:1: “Let everyone be subject to the governing authorities, for there is no authority except that which God has established.”
When my father said, “Because I said so,” he wasn’t dismissing me. He was teaching me that life itself would one day give me commands without explanation, just as our Heavenly Father sometimes calls us to walk by faith and not by sight (2 Corinthians 5:7). Your boss won’t always justify every directive. Emergency situations won’t pause for debate. But more importantly, God Himself often asks us to trust His ways that are higher than our ways, His thoughts higher than our thoughts (Isaiah 55:8-9).
Those summer afternoons when I walked home alone, when I spent hours in the woods behind our house, when I knew to pick up that piece of trash and stuff it in my pocket, these weren’t just childhood experiences. They were spiritual formation exercises, shaping me to understand the biblical principle of stewardship long before I fully comprehended Genesis 2:15, where “the Lord God took the man and put him in the Garden of Eden to work it and take care of it.”
The lesson was simple but profoundly Christian: leave everything better than you found it. Whether it was a path in the woods, a relationship, or eventually, an entire nation, we were being prepared to receive something precious and pass it on improved. This wasn’t just environmental consciousness; it was soul training in the image of our Creator, who looked at His creation and called it good.
I didn’t realize it then, but I was being raised by people who understood their role as temporary stewards in God’s eternal plan. My parents and grandparents saw themselves as links in an unbroken chain of faith, responsible for polishing their part of the legacy before handing it forward. They carried the weight of generations on their shoulders, understanding deeply the truth of Deuteronomy 6:6-7: “These commandments that I give you today are to be on your hearts. Impress them on your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up.”
The safety I felt as a child, that unquestioned trust in the world around me, wasn’t naive optimism. It was the fruit of a society still largely built on Christian principles, where people understood their interconnected responsibility as children of the same Heavenly Father. Neighbors watched out for each other’s children not out of obligation but out of recognition that we all belonged to something larger than ourselves.
Looking back, I can see the spiritual architecture of those formative years, built on the foundation of Proverbs 22:6: “Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it.” Every “because I said so” was a lesson in trusting authority, preparing me to trust the ultimate Authority. Every moment of enforced silence was an opportunity to develop the inner wisdom that comes from knowing “be still, and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10). Every solo walk home was practice in relying on the Lord as my shepherd, knowing I would not want (Psalm 23:1). Every picked-up piece of trash was a small act of stewardship that would grow into a life philosophy rooted in loving my neighbor as myself (Mark 12:31).
The discipline I received wasn’t harsh punishment; it was loving correction. My parents understood that true love sometimes looks like discipline, that preparing someone for life’s spiritual battles requires building character muscles that only develop under the resistance of godly correction.
I was being prepared, though I didn’t know it, to become a guardian of something sacred, not just American values, but Christian values that had shaped our nation from its founding. The country, the faith, the way of life that had been carefully tended by previous generations of believers was going to be placed in my hands. The weight of that responsibility would only become clear decades later, when I realized it was my turn to carry the torch, understanding that “to whom much is given, much will be required” (Luke 12:48).
What strikes me now is how intentional my upbringing was, even in its seeming sternness. My elders weren’t just raising a child; they were cultivating a future steward of God’s kingdom. They understood that biblical love sometimes requires saying no, that preparing someone for spiritual warfare requires building the armor of God piece by piece (Ephesians 6:11-17).
The trust they placed in me, letting me walk alone through neighborhoods and woods, was actually profound respect for the person God was helping me become through their faithful parenting. They believed I could handle freedom responsibly because they were simultaneously teaching me the principles that would govern that freedom, principles rooted in Scripture and lived out in daily obedience.
In those moments when I felt unheard, I was actually learning one of life’s most valuable spiritual lessons: that true authority comes not from demanding to be heard, but from having something worth saying when the time comes. The quiet child who learned to observe, to think before speaking, to find wisdom in silence, that child was being prepared for moments when words would carry the weight of God’s truth.
This understanding transforms everything about those early years. What felt like limitation was actually liberation, freedom from the constant need for external validation, freedom to develop inner strength through relationship with Christ, freedom to find my voice through careful study of God’s Word rather than constant chatter.
The spiritual foundation laid in those formative years would prove essential for the challenges ahead. When I eventually faced the overwhelming responsibility of stewarding something precious for the next generation, I would need every lesson learned in those moments of seeming silence, every character muscle built through godly discipline, every instinct developed through those solo journeys home with Jesus as my companion.
Gen X was the last generation to receive this particular form of childhood formation, and with that privilege comes the profound responsibility to pass forward not just improved circumstances, but the very faith and wisdom that made improvement possible. As Isaiah 58:12 declares: “Your people will rebuild the ancient ruins and will raise up the age-old foundations; you will be called Repairer of Broken Walls, Restorer of Streets with Dwellings.”
This is my calling, shaped by a childhood that seemed restrictive but was actually preparing me to be a faithful steward of God’s gifts, ready to restore and rebuild for the generation that would follow. My children’s generation, Generation Z (Gen Z), is that generation, and there are signs that a revival in America is brewing among Gen Z. That gives me hope and makes me want to obey even more my heavenly Father’s command, “Because I said so.”
MindWolves 