Exodus 20:5b–6
“…punishing the children for the sin of the parents to the third and fourth generation of those who hate me, but showing love to a thousand generations of those who love me and keep my commandments.”
I was recently listening to voice messages I had sent to a friend earlier this year. In one of them, I was encouraging him to trust God with the timing of dating. I remember referencing Psalm 127—how children are a blessing from the Lord.
But as I listened back, a question surfaced quietly but sharply in my heart: If children are a blessing from God, why didn’t I have them?
That message was from February. At that time, I was beginning to learn more deeply about some of the trauma I had inherited from my mother. I love my father dearly, but much like the letter I wrote to him, there were ways I grew up with my mother that taught me to be critical—of myself and of others. I knew, even then, that those patterns would not be healthy to pass down to my own children.
Loving My Mother While Facing the Truth
I love my mother. I admire her deeply. She sacrificed so much for her five children. She supported my siblings and me through a tumultuous marriage. She showed up when she felt unsupported and overwhelmed. She fought hard to give us a better life than the one she had—and in many ways, she succeeded.
That is what made this season so difficult.
As I began to uncover the trauma I carried, I struggled to even admit it—because she is my mother. Writing this still feels uncomfortable, almost like I am blaming her for everything. But what I am learning is this: if I do not acknowledge the sins and broken patterns I inherited and intentionally turn away from them, I am doomed to repeat them.
If I do not examine the ways my mother’s wounds shaped me—especially the unhealthy ones—I will never fully understand how my own children could be affected by my way of being. I do not believe I will be a perfect parent, but I hope to be a better one. And that requires honestly acknowledging the past and how it still influences my present, so it does not unconsciously control my future.
I wish I had better words for this.
Words, Wounds, and What I Carry
My mother grew up as one of nine children—often on her own. Some of her siblings—especially some of her sisters (not all)—were very unkind to her. She was raised in Haitian culture, where daughters are sometimes valued less than sons. I share this for context and for grace. I understand my mother more now.
In Haitian culture, directness is common—calling things out plainly. But often, what was meant to be “direct” felt harsh or cutting. My mother could be very critical. Her words could wound deeply. Things she said that likely meant little to her stayed with me for years.
I remember being in a beauty pageant and wanting to sing a song that required a big voice. When I told my mother what I planned to sing, she said, “She doesn’t have the voice for that.” Hearing that from the one person who is supposed to believe in you no matter what was a blow to my confidence. I wasn’t the singer I am today—but even then, I knew there was something in me.
Years later, when I finally sang for my family at Thanksgiving, they saw it.
Another time, after returning from a mission trip to Haiti, I wore a skirt and covered my hair out of respect for the church we served. When my mother saw my outfit, she said I looked like the people I was helping—and that I needed to look better. Image and presentation have always mattered deeply to her. Showing up well is important, yes—but at times it felt like looking right mattered more than being right.
There were comments about my hair, my appearance, and my presentation that were far from encouraging. They stung. Those words buried themselves deep inside me and quietly shaped how I lived—believing that if I didn’t look my best, I wouldn’t be liked or desired.
I want to paint a full picture. My mother was also my biggest cheerleader when it came to graduate school. She helped me in countless ways. And yet, in other ways, it felt like she tore me down—often in the same ways she herself had been torn down by her own family.
Even as we grew up, there was a disdain my mother often spoke of—how some of her sisters treated her. It was cruel. And I saw how that pain trickled down into both our extended family and our nuclear family.
As I’ve reflected more deeply, I’ve also realized something sobering about myself: I, too, can say words that cut quickly and wound deeply. I have had to confront the hurt in me that sometimes seeks to hurt others. Words spoken from unresolved pain can become weapons, even when that is not our intention.
I am learning to repent—to truly turn—from this pattern, allowing God to heal what was wounded in me so I do not continue wounding others. Because this sin—this way of using words—it ends with me.
This Ends With Me
This ends with me. My repentance—my change of mind—can turn a generation around. My words will bring healing. And the words of the generations that come from me will bring healing too.
Proverbs 12:18
“The words of the reckless pierce like swords, but the tongue of the wise brings healing.”
A Different Generational Story
In Scripture, there is the story of Korah’s rebellion. Korah and others challenged Moses and Aaron’s authority because they wanted more than the role God had already given them. Moses told the people to let God decide. The next day, God instructed the camp to separate from Korah and those who stood with him. God judged them by opening the ground and swallowing those who rebelled (Numbers 16).
Yet later, in Numbers 26:11, we are told something striking: the sons of Korah did not die.
This means they either chose to separate themselves from their father’s rebellion—or God, in His mercy, gave them space to repent. We don’t know exactly how. But we do know this: they lived differently than their parents.
Though rebellion was in their lineage, they turned away from it.
The sons of Korah became prominent figures in Israel’s worship—serving as singers, musicians, and doorkeepers in the temple. They went on to write Psalms 42, 44–49, 84, 85, 87, and 88.
Psalm 84:10
“For a day in your courts is better than a thousand elsewhere.
I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God
than dwell in the tents of wickedness.”
Their fathers rebelled, dissatisfied with their role. But the sons of Korah declared that simply serving in God’s house—even as doorkeepers—was enough. One generation’s turning changed everything.
Scripture tells us that God “visits the iniquity of the fathers on the children to the third and fourth generation.” I believe that when sin goes unrepented—when it is repeated and agreed with—it continues. But when a son or daughter turns away, repents, and chooses a different path, that sin is no longer held against them.
Deuteronomy 24:16, Jeremiah 31:30, and Ezekiel 18:20 all affirm this truth: we are not punished for our forefathers’ sins unless we choose to walk in them ourselves.
Mercy Greater Than the Past
We cannot choose our family or lineage—but we can choose how we respond. While God speaks of generational consequences, He also declares that His mercy extends to a thousand generations of those who love Him and keep His commandments.
The blessing of obedience far outweighs the trespass.
Romans 5:16
“Nor can the gift of God be compared with the result of one man’s sin… the gift followed many trespasses and brought justification.”
God is gracious and merciful—slow to anger and abounding in love.
This is the heart of the gospel.
That God sent His Son so that whoever believes in Him would not perish but have eternal life. Redemption is possible. Change is possible. One person’s repentance can alter the trajectory of generations.
Perhaps that is why heaven rejoices over one soul who repents—because so much changes with one turning heart.
May we live with the hope that one lifetime, surrendered to God, can transform generations.
To God be the glory.
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