By Jennifer Greene Sullivan
Our son, Liam, just completed the third grade. He is nine years old, spunky, free-spirited, and the kind of child who brings laughter wherever he goes. Yet for the last two school years, we have watched him struggle academically in ways that made no sense. His reading levels would randomly plummet, and his written work became increasingly difficult despite everyone’s best efforts to help him.
As his mama—and as a former educator—I felt desperate for answers.
By the beginning of third grade, I was begging teachers, administrators, doctors, nurses, and specialists to help us understand why our bright, joyful boy seemed to be falling further behind. Then, after what felt like endless testing, school nurses discovered something no one had considered.
Liam is colorblind.
He cannot distinguish oranges, greens, browns, and their shades. A pediatric eye specialist confirmed that his eyes are healthy, but the issue was genetic color processing. Liam cannot properly distinguish reds and greens, although his vision in other areas remains remarkably strong. Suddenly, so much made sense. Literacy lessons, color-coded instruction, and digital learning tools had become hidden barriers rather than helpful supports.
Then came the realization that stopped me in my tracks.
My daddy was colorblind, but without his daily presence in my life, I had somehow forgotten that important detail.
Sadly, Jimmy Greene, my father, passed away two weeks before Liam was born. Liam became the only grandson of my daddy’s only daughter. Somehow, in all our searching, I had forgotten that important family detail. The clues had been there all along.
Now our summer looks different than Liam hoped it would.
While many children are enjoying carefree summer days, Liam and I are rebuilding reading confidence, strengthening writing skills, and drilling multiplication facts. Yesterday, he cried because he wants fun, not schoolwork. In his nine-year-old mind, summer remediation feels unfair, and if I am honest, I understand his frustration.
There are days when spiritual growth feels much the same for me. My spiritual eyes must have a cone problem too.
I have found myself pushing harder, performing longer, and exhausting myself trying to improve, achieve, or prove something. Too often, I do so without ever asking whether I am carrying burdens Jesus never asked me to bear. Last week, I felt the Lord gently impress something on my heart that has stayed with me ever since: thrive, child, not just strive.
Jesus never invited His followers into frantic spiritual performance. He never handed us a checklist to earn spiritual growth or prove our piety.
Graciously, He said, “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28, ESV). Later, in John 15, Jesus reminds us that fruitfulness comes not through striving, but through abiding. “I am the vine; you are the branches… whoever abides in me… bears much fruit” (John 15:5, ESV).
Branches do not strain to produce fruit because branches simply remain connected to the source of life.
Abiding does not mean the Christian life requires no effort. Growth still calls for obedience, discipline, and surrender. However, thriving in Christ looks very different from striving and pushing ourselves into exhaustion while trying to become what only grace can produce.
Perhaps some of our striving comes from misdiagnosing the problem.
Perhaps we have mistaken performance for fruitfulness. Perhaps we have forgotten that thriving begins with relationship, not effort. The Holy Spirit was never meant to be a distant observer while we wear ourselves out. He leads, teaches, strengthens, and reminds us that Jesus has already made the way.
This summer, Liam and I will work.
We will read, write, review multiplication facts, and strengthen the places where he has struggled. However, my greatest hope is not simply that he enters fourth grade academically stronger, but that he learns to grow with support instead of shame, with encouragement instead of frustration, and with relationship instead of pressure.
I think Jesus offers us the same invitation.
Thriving in Jesus requires a deeply rooted relationship with Him. It requires surrender. It requires remaining close enough to the Vine to receive what we cannot manufacture on our own.
While Liam and I will do the work this summer so that he can thrive in fourth grade, perhaps we should ask ourselves whether we are doing the deeper relational work with Jesus that allows us to thrive rather than merely strive.
Ultimately, torn wings still fly when they rest in the strength of the One who lifts them.
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