It was bedtime. The lights were dim, the house finally quiet. As I tucked my six-year-old under the blanket, she turned to me and said softly, “Tomorrow will be a better day.”
I froze. Those are words I’d expect from an overworked adult after a tough day at the office, not from a child who had just enjoyed games, laughter, and even a special meal. I felt a small jolt of surprise—and, if I’m honest, worry.
The First Reactions We Fight
My first instinct was to correct or brush it off.
“Don’t say that—we had such a fun day!”
“Why? We went for hotpot, played games… what’s there to be sad about?”
“Eh, you’re only six, you shouldn’t be saying things like that.”
It’s so easy for those words to spill out. They come from love, but they can also send the message that big feelings don’t belong. And if she feels shut down now, she may decide next time that sharing isn’t safe.
That night, I had no words. I simply stayed silent beside her, unsure what to say but wanting to keep the moment safe.
1. Establishing Common Ground
Behind a simple phrase can lie big, heavy emotions. Just to say those words means she had a lot to carry inside.
Next time, instead of correcting, I know I can identify with her:
“Daddy knows this feeling. Last week, something didn’t go well at work and I told Mommy, ‘Tomorrow will be a better day.’”
This does two things. First, it normalizes her experience—she’s not strange for feeling this way. Second, it shows that even grown-ups feel the same emotions. We share the same human struggles.
2. Offering Safety Over Solutions
I tried asking gentle questions that night, but she shut down. Maybe she wasn’t ready. Maybe the feelings were too big to name.
That’s okay. Part of creating a safe environment is accepting that she might not explain everything. My job is not to force a conversation but to keep the door open: to sit beside her, offer a hug if she wants it, and let silence be okay.
It also means I must not let my own anxiety show. If I react with “Why are you like that?” or get frustrated, she will sense it and withdraw further. True safety is quiet presence—letting her know she is loved even when she cannot put feelings into words.
3. Pointing to Lasting Hope
Another temptation is to give quick comfort:
“Don’t worry, tomorrow will be great!”
But that’s a promise I cannot keep. What if tomorrow rains and we can’t go to the playground? What if something unexpected goes wrong?
Instead, I want to ground her in a deeper truth:
“Daddy can’t promise tomorrow will go as we hope. But Jesus promises He is with us and will work all things for good for those who love Him (Romans 8:28). That’s the hope we can rest in.”
This is not wishful thinking; it’s a reality anchored in God’s character.
Accepting the Mystery of a Child’s Heart
I’ve also learned to accept that some emotions remain unspoken. Children, like adults, are on a spectrum of temperament. Some naturally process sadness quietly. A child may feel a vague weight that even she cannot name.
And that’s okay. My role is not to solve every mystery but to keep offering steady love and a listening heart.
Conclusion: How the Gospel Reframes Parenting
That night reminded me how easy it is to slip into quick fixes—explaining, correcting, distracting. But the gospel points me to a different posture.
Jesus welcomes us with all our unfiltered emotions. He invites us to bring our burdens without fear of rejection. Knowing that, I can welcome my child the same way: to share freely, to find comfort not in my promises, but in His.
When she first said “Tomorrow will be a better day,” I stayed silent, unsure of what to say. But the next time this happens, I know exactly how to respond—with empathy, gentle presence, and the hope of Christ.
Tomorrow may or may not be easier, yet Christ is already there. And that is the deepest comfort I can give my child—and my own heart—when the day feels heavy.