I remember the first (and so far, only) time I ever shot a gun. It was the summer after my first year in dental school, and I had a couple months off. I decided to spend it in Savannah, by myself, because I had always wanted to go on an extended solo excursion–this, to me, represented the height of independence and self-sufficience, two qualities in which I felt lacking. (This was prior to my move to New York City, when I effectively addressed my need for exploration. For five years.)

Because I was headed to a city where I knew no one, my parents were concerned for my safety. And like any good, conservative, red-state family, they assuaged their fears with a firearm; namely, a 380 revolver. The Dad drove me out to some family-owned land in the country and placed a homemade paper target on a tree. Then he gave me the instructions: release the safety, cock the hammer, pull the trigger. He demonstrated. My ears rang. Then he handed me the gun.

I hesitated. This, after all, was the man who taught me how to ride a bike by following behind me, holding on to the seat. Then I asked, “You’re not going to let go, are you?” And he replied, “No!” A few seconds later I looked back and he was twenty feet behind me. I was flying, then falling. (I did think it fishy that he had insisted I wear long pants for the occasion.) But I learned to ride a bike that day, and on this day about seventeen years later, I learned how to shoot a gun. Satisfied with my ability and aim, he took me home and gave me the gun in its holster and a box of ammunition. Then he said, “If someone breaks into your apartment at three am, they’re not there to borrow sugar. Shoot to kill.” A few days later, I drove to Savannah with the gun in my trunk.

A few days ago, The Husband and I were discussing our plan once The Kid pops out, specifically my intended work schedule. He worked it out aloud: “You can work three days a week, and write the other two.” There it was–the schedule I had hoped for myself, reflected in his plans–but most importantly, the allowance he had made in our budget and my time to make space for my dream. A dream he has adopted as his own. Those words he said were logistics, but what I heard was this: “I believe in you.”

Do I have to tell you how much that means?

I’ve been reading a book by John Eldredge about the stages of a boy’s life. I love it because, in our day and time, its premise is counter-cultural: boys were designed to be warriors, to be told they have what it takes, to be believed in. Not coddled, or hovered over obsessively, or kept indoors and away from mountains and ravines and football fields to prevent injury. They need to be taught, when they’re old enough, how weapons and power tools work–and then they need someone to hand them the gun and the box of ammunition. They need to hear that they are believed in so they can go out into the world and have the courage to defend their dreams…and, just maybe, those of their wives.

I find it interesting that faith in someone besides ourselves is the very essence of love, and I wonder: Who would have designed it that way?