These days, in the thick of summer, it’s become harder and harder to catch a glimpse of my college-aged son’s face. As soon as summer break began, he joined a Christian band, and his days away from home for performances have only increased. Not long ago, the group bought an old van, loaded it with instruments, and headed out—only to break down on the road and spend the night stranded in a distant town. In the sweltering heat, barely eating properly, I wanted to scold him more than once: “Why suffer for something so unnecessary?” But I held back, thinking it might be better to let him try what he wants while he can.

A few days ago, he came home, brimming with excitement. His band, he said, was gaining popularity among Christian groups, and churches and music festivals were reaching out with performance requests. He proudly pulled up the schedule on his computer, listing out dates and venues—but my heart felt uneasy.

The Christian band he’s part of isn’t the kind of worship I’ve known or understood—no quiet reverence or solemn hymns. Instead, it’s a hard rock group that leaps and shakes on stage, shouting lyrics I can barely make out. My son plays bass guitar, and during praise, he swings it in the air and jumps across the stage. With his long hair tied back and sweat pouring down like rain, I watch and sigh, thinking, “So this is praise, too.”

“There must be reasons why they sing like that—why they jump and shout,” my husband gently said, as I struggled to digest this new form of worship like chewing stones. “Today’s youth carry burdens—wars, environmental crises, global instability, food and energy shortages. Maybe gathering in churches, warehouses, fields, or parking lots to release that energy is something they need. Remember the hippies and long-haired youth of the Woodstock era, born from the anti–Vietnam War movement? They’ve become the leaders of this generation. The process of growing up may look different in every era, but it’s a process we all go through.”

Like many parents, I’ve often wished my child would follow the path I laid out—thinking it would spare him hardship. But I, too, once resisted my parents, labeling them outdated. I remember wearing a mini skirt, climbing the pedestrian bridge, and hearing the disapproving clicks of older women’s tongues behind me. I glared back at them then, and now my son has reached that same age.

Yes, that’s right. He’s going through the process of becoming human. Just as God never gave up on me—offering freedom and love without end—I must do the same for my son.

In the heat of summer, as my heart simmered with frustration, the phrase “in the process” came to me like a cool mountain breeze.