Bring Your Kids to Church

You must keep to what you have been taught and know to be true;

remember who your teachers were, and how, ever since you were a child

you have known the holy scriptures - from these, you can learn

the wisdom that leads to salvation through faith in Jesus Christ.

Second Timothy, 3:14-15

The lights weren't even on yet when I walked into church an hour early for Mass.  Only one other person sat among the pews, a woman in black who is a constant presence at the end of her row, a reliable fixture in the sanctuary regardless of which service I attend.  She looked up from her rosary as I entered.  She smiled and nodded as I whispered "Good morning," and the black beads never stopped marching slowly through her fingers, her small army in the war against evil.

I sat alone in the diluted sunlight filtering through the stained glass windows depicting the life of Jesus of Nazareth.  The light seemed to move as the church darkened and glowed with each passing cloud, and when it seemed to be calling for my attention, I looked over at the window.  "Nativity" is written in plain lettering among the colorful image of the Holy Family.

In the altar space is a simple wooden crucifix standing off to one side.  Crucified, I pondered, and for everyone.  For me.  I'm surrounded by Jesus here, not only in a spiritual reality but also in an iconic, physical sense:  His life is depicted in stained glass, his suffering and death in artwork along the walls; he is baptized in bas relief, and breaks bread on the wall above the Blessed Sacrament.  There are statues and icons and paintings depicting the key moments of his life:  His birth, his death, his resurrection.  I am humbled and I feel so undeserving and small - a feeling that gives me a sense of peace and comfort.

What do you want me to do? I ask in silent prayer.  My eyes are drawn to a small but beautifully detailed painting of the Risen Christ on the ceiling above the altar.  What can I do?

It seems that when I have a question, God always has an answer.  I don't know if he simply answers me, or if the answer is already there inside me and he simply draws it to the surface.  But he answers me, just as he answers everyone when they take time to listen.  And then sometimes, he keeps answering to make sure that I don't forget.

"Bring your kids to church, Katie."

Suddenly, the empty space beside me which any other time of the week is filled by my children, my constant companions, feels even wider and colder.  Enjoying my time alone in the church to pray and listen to the choir practice suddenly feels so selfish; reserving Mass as a special time for myself - and not a time for community even with my own family before God - feels wrong.  The guilt is tangible and runs through me like a shiver.

I start to notice the families filling the pews:  A mother and father with six children in tow, children they no doubt brought to church every Sunday from infancy for their own sake regardless of how difficult it may have been; babies wrapped in blankets in heavy carriers being toted by tired mothers.  Young boys drop clumsily to their knees on the hard ground and genuflect, some faster than others.  Little girls with opaque white tights gathering in rolls around their shiny white shoes stand on the kneelers and look around the sanctuary quietly.  A baby cries somewhere behind me.  The space next to me where my own kids should be grows even wider.

The readings seem to speak in a simple way to my prayer.  "...ever since you were a child, you have known the holy scriptures."  I hardly remember a time when I sat in church as a child.  Will my children?

As I leave, I stop to shake Father Joe's hand.  He asks how my little ones are doing, and I simply say, "Wonderful." God made his point; he always does.

I used to think of Mass as a time for me, a small but spiritual vacation alone to start my week the right way.  It uplifts me, it inspires me, it ignites in me a burning passion to do the right things.  It took me until now to realize that I have been neglecting to do the right thing this whole time.  Mass isn't a time for me, it isn't a vacation.  It is a time for God, a time for communion.  One of the greatest blessings he gives us in this world is our children - they are our children and his children, and they too need to commune, to be uplifted, to be inspired.  It starts in childhood, this knowledge of the holy scriptures, and only by giving them a chance to learn will they someday gain "the wisdom that leads to salvation."

"Bring your kids to church, Katie."

It'll be hard to control two toddlers on my own (I'll be working on bringing my husband next), but I'll try.  However difficult it may be, it'll be worth it.  After all, we are "not made for comfort, but for greatness", as Pope Benedict XVI said.  Right?

"More Prayers?"

Train up a child in the way he should go;

even when he is old he will not depart from it.

Proverbs 22:6

The room was dark, lit only by the fading twilight sky peeking through the curtains.  The only sounds were the box fan swirling the cool, rainy breeze through the bedroom and two voices sharing a simple prayer of gratitude with intermittent giggles.

This has become a nightly ritual for my daughter and I.  We lay in bed together contemplating our day and all the good things that have happened, and we simply say "Thank you, God."  She's only two years old, and prayer is a completely foreign concept but one eagerly embraced by her innocent soul in its early yearnings for things of the spirit.

"Want to say our prayers?"  I would ask her.  She would turn to me and put her face close to mine, ready to recount the things that brought her joy throughout the day.  "What did we do today?  What can we be thankful for?"  It always starts that way, with a question I don't expect her to answer on her own quite yet.

Today, we took my son to a doctor appointment and, as is usually the case, he suffered his own emotional traumas.  The appointment itself was short and demanded nothing physical of him but to get his blood pressure checked and to lay down to measure his height.  Nonetheless, it was an appointment full of weeping and tears on his part.  To make the day a little brighter for everyone, my husband announced that we would be heading to the zoo to spend the day in the beautiful, warm sun.  We had pizza lunches, saw the elephants, ran from bumble bees.  It was a beautiful day.

"Did Daddy take us to the zoo today?"  I asked Evie, my voice full of wonder.  "Can we say thank you to God for Daddy?"

"Thank you God'a Daddy!" she said.  Her smile, hidden behind the pacifier she still requires at bed time, was broad and lit up her eyes.

"Can we say thank you to God for all the animals he made?"

"Thank you God'a animals!"

Evelyn may not know who or what God is exactly, but she's beginning to learn that all good things come from him.  Her family and the things we do for her.  Pizza.  Camels.  Sometimes we ask for a simple blessing at the end for our family, sometimes we just tell Jesus we love him.  She knows when to say "Amen" on her own now.

We fall into giggles and songs, tickles and kisses.  When it finally gets silent and I think she's ready to wind down and fall asleep, she strokes my cheek and with an innocent grin asks me, "More prayers?"

"What are you thankful for, sweetheart?"  I ask her with a hug.  "What makes you happy?"

"My sandbox outside!"

Thank you God for sandboxes.

Uncertainty

Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything

by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests

be made known to God.  And the peace of God,

which surpasses all understanding, will guard

your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

Philippians 4:6-7

August sat in the black molded rubber of a baby swing, his deep brown eyes searching the sky as if he intended to find the source of the breeze that moved his hair.  I stood before him, pushing him gently.  I could hear Evelyn screaming as she ran wildly over the wood chips blanketing the ground, her father chasing her slowly across the playground.  Her little legs pump like pistons, her arms move quickly back and forth urging her forward.   It was a perfect evening to burn off some energy at the park.

Gus looks at me but once, and the moment is gone as quickly as it has arrived.  I chased him as he swung away from me, kept my face close to his as I ran backward when the pendulum swung back.  I could see all five of his teeth as he smiled, our wrinkled-up eyes full of joy and laughter meeting for a second as he let out an airy giggle.  Then he resumed his stoic expression and focused on the trees behind me, or the sound of a motorcycle on the street.  He glanced casually at the figures playing tennis, and then turned his face to the ground and watched the carpet of wood chips as it seemed to move beneath him.

I imagine what the world looks like from his perspective, and I'm instantly transported to the back of a cab in an unfamiliar city on a stormy night.  It's a series of fractionated lights and shapes reflected through a maze of wind-driven, jagged lines of water, a shimmering and dazzling convoluted mess of concrete and glass.  Lightning strikes somewhere and for an instant, the world is illuminated and I can see the definitions of the skyline, but the image soon fades again from a city to a collection of buildings and signs and lamp posts.  Like a tree isn't really a tree, but a series of twigs and leaves being jostled by the unseen fingers of a soft spring breeze.

Maybe that's why he only looks at me when the lightning strikes, I think to myself.  He wants to see his mother, not a pattern of shapes.

Jon-Michael says I'm pessimistic, that I'm negative.  He stays positive.  He sees the light fading on Gus' infantile social maturity, like his issues are settling beyond the horizon just a little slower than expected and his star soon will shine.  I'm standing on the other side of the world, watching an ominous glow peeking over the horizon, showing only a fraction of its full light as it inches toward morning.  The words echo in my head, told to me by the man who evaluated my son for early intervention:  Social/emotional developmental delays, communication difficulties.  They stretch like the rays of a sun, radiating from something much bigger.

I always described Gus as sensitive, shy.  Strong and silent.  Curious.  Words that are warm and heartfelt, descriptions of a personality that has revealed itself to me every day of his life.  I'm greeted now with clinical, cold phrases meant to categorize and stereotype the boy I love, determined through a short morning session of scrutinizing his every movement.  The boy who cries my tears, who reaches for me in moments of fear or discomfort.  The boy whose arms wrap around my legs as I cook dinner, whose fingers eagerly grab from me his afternoon Colby jack cheese snack.  My son who falls asleep every night in my arms as we sing hymns and rock slowly.  With or without a label intended to define my child, he will always be the same Gus who holds my heart in his capable hands.

Yae, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of developmental delays, I shall fear no diagnosis.  

To Simply Give

Jesus said, "Let the little children come to me, and do not

hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs

to such as these."

Matthew 19:14

Earlier this month, my daughter Evelyn entered into a stage commonly known as the Terrible Twos.  I have seen some shifts in her personality that reflect this description, changes that can be attributed to her growing awareness of self and her ability to influence the world around her.  She is still the brilliant, humorous little girl I have always known, but she possesses now a powerful will that sometimes overwhelms her and honestly, at times, overwhelms me.  Despite her still immature and egocentric view of the universe, she never fails to teach me simple life lessons that we all sometimes forget.

I was sitting on the floor of the dining room in front of a low bookshelf, flipping through a Scandinavian cookbook I had picked up at Half Price Books trying to find some inspiration for tonight's Lenten fish dinner.  August, who will be one year old next month and is known around our house as Gus, was clinging to my arm watching with a bored sort of disinterest as I nodded approvingly at a recipe for creamy salmon soup.  A few minutes before, I had peeled an apple for Evelyn and she was quietly eating it underneath the dining room table, a place that has become a club house of sorts.

Gus' patience soon ran out and he wandered toward the living room, his sturdy legs pumping slowly in little kicks as he made his way to the door leading to the porch.  I could hear his  hands slowly slapping at the panes of glass.  The sun was shining brilliantly, but it was only a pretty mask on the face of a bitterly cold day.  

Suddenly, Evelyn crawled from her sanctuary and stood up.  She had a look of purpose on her face, and followed her little brother.  "Gus bite'a apple," she said and, without hesitation, presented to him the juicy white flesh riddled with tiny bites and teeth marks.  At this point, I was standing behind them both, careful not to interrupt the moment.

She held the apple steady as Gus turned around and took a step toward her.  With his mouth open wide, he sucked a little bit on the apple and tried to take a bite.  He tried several times until he was able to scrape a little into his mouth, and curled up his face at the tart flavor.

The kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.  

Surely, this is a part of what Jesus meant when he said that we all should be like little children - that we should love innocently and without blinders, that we should give freely that which has been given to us.  Like a mother handing her child an apple, everything that we receive is a loving gift from God.  When we acknowledge this, we can lose that attachment to material things, that sense of possession and entitlement, and focus on the things that truly make life important:  Fostering intimate connections with the ones we love, brightening our neighbor's day, bringing a smile to the face of a stranger.  Taking care of one another, and sharing our joy.

Such a profound and simple lesson from among the youngest people.  Who better but the innocent to teach us innocence?