out of the mouths of babes

Last night in the car, I told my daughter I'd been at a school location that brought back memories -- it's where I met the woman who was sort of dating my husband at the times, and she introduced us.

I said, 23 years ago. It's a long time.
My daughter said, yes it is. And you should still be married.
I said, well technically I am, and reminded her we weren't going to talk about divorce, then explained the diff between separation and D.

She informed me she would not be sleeping over at her dad's new place. When I asked why she said she wanted him to come visit her at our home, thinking maybe she could force him to return. I tried to tell her that you can't force someone to do what they don't want to do, that is be married to me anymore. She said, well I'm still not sleeping over there.

I said, that's fine, it's your decision.

I don't think her dad was prepared for these reactions. He'll be sad. But maybe that's not such a bad thing.

Mirror, Mirror in my hand

The other night, after I said goodnight to Anna, my 8 year old, I poked my head in the door again and saw she was sitting up hunched over something in her bed. So I went in, noticed the pocket mirror in her hand, and asked what she was doing.

She told me she had a dream in mind, and wanted to be in it, so she was memorizing her face, and keeping the mirror handy so that if she forgot what she looked like while dreaming (and thus could not dream about herself) she could sit up and look in the mirror again!

It made me think about how much God might study our faces, so that when he has a dream to unfold he can imagine us acting in this divine play.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

I may have posted this at some point already, but given I'm so forgetful these days -- mid-life hormones and overwork I'm betting -- I'll just post it again, cuz it's cute.

It was probably last year sometime, but my daughter (now 8) was outside on the porch and my husband, who happened by the open screen door, saw her looking up at the sky and saying: God? Where are you? Are you there? God? Gawd? Where are you?

A week or so before then, she and her dad were having a conversation about Joseph -- who he was. Her dad said he was Jesus' father, and Anna said no, that God was Jesus father. So her dad explained that he meant Joseph was the earthly father. And Anna said no God was that too. Then she said to him: You don't know these things, Daddy. You don't know Jesus. You used to know Jesus when you were a child, but you don't know him now.

She's also a nag! A while later, she asked (on the way to church) why Daddy didn't go to church, and when I said it's because he doesn't believe in God, she was shocked. "Whaaaat? He doesn't believe in God? How could you NOT believe in God?!?! He's EVERYWHERE!!!! He's in the car, beside me, he's outside, he's on the sidewalk, in the trees, in heaven,........"

And then when we got home, she asked her dad point-blank why he didn't believe in God and he told her because he didn't believe in God, which started up the hue and cry anew.

Hallowed Eve?

So, as usual I'm working on things at the last minute. This is not good when it comes to Halloween, because there's always so much to do -- buy the pumpkin, carve it, hang out a ghost (sheet with a head created out of old socks stuffed into the centre and tied with binder twine), find the kids costumes, and so on.

Inevitably, the costumes change -- many years my son planned one thing two weeks before, only to change his mind the day before. So I got smart with my daughter and figured we could hold off on pulling it all together til the day before, because I was so sure she'd change her mind.

Uh-unh, no change. She still wants to be Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Which I have problems with. Not only is the cult of the underworld, the nod to death and potential for satanic attraction something that worries me, but what in heaven's name does this girl wear that distinguishes her from any other teenager?

I asked A what made a good Buffy, what this vampire slayer wore. I was told she wears a black shirt, blue jeans, and carries a stake and a cross. How was that going to make her stand out? I tried telling her that she was going to get mighty tired telling every house what her costume was.

Then I got serious and had a mother-daughter talk in the car on the way to gymnastics about how I had a problem with her carrying a cross around. A didn't understand. So I explained even more -- that having a cross as a "magic symbol" to eradicate vampires which don't even exist, seemed to me to be a little insulting to Jesus and the price he paid on the cross.

I watched her reaction in the rear view mirror - eyebrows raised, she said Mom what are you talking about? So I explained even more, that it was only God who overcomes evil, and that a teenager wielding a cross and stake was no match for Satan.

Her eyes popped out even more: Oh mom, you just don't get it.

Me: Yes, I do.

Her: No, you don't. It's Halloween. It's fun. You get candy. Why are you talking like this, about God and Jesus and satan and all that?

Me: You mean, it's a night for getting candy, and why am I getting all serious about the MEANING of life and death and good and evil?

Her: Yes, that's what I mean.

Me: I guess I see your point.
(Pause)
But can you go without the cross?

She sighs, and agrees.
So now she'll be going out in a black shirt (which we don't have), blue jeans, (which we do), and carrying a stake so she looks like the vampire. Oh brother.....

Who Jesus Married

In keeping with our spiritually mismatched home, my children are being raised in two churches. They and I go to an Anglican church, where we've found a wonderful community that is both nurturing and theologically disciplined. They also attend a Catholic school. This year -- with Aidan in Gr 8 and Anna in Gr 2 -- was significant since Gr 2 is the time for First COmmunion and Gr 8 is for Confirmation. While Aidan made a decision to be confirmed in the Anglican church, Anna was quite adamant about taking First Communion. After having a conversation with the priest to assure him that we would try to come once a month and Anna would not take communion outside the RC church, we went ahead with it.

I've been watching as she's been preparing in her classroom, trying to correct some of the inaccuracies that pop up from time to time -- they are instructed by the teachers, not the priest, so these things happen (such as Jesus is the son of God, therefore not God.)

Yesterday, as Anna was having her bath and washing her hair in preparation for putting on her pretty, and simple, white dress, we talked about why she was making such a big deal out of being prepared and looking her best, and what it meant to take first communion.

I explained that since the church was the bride of Christ we are to imitate a wedding as we join with Jesus. When I told her that white was also the symbol of purity, she asked why the boys were wearing black, so I said you girls and boys are mimicing a wedding occasion that you become officially and publicly committed to Jesus.

She then asked me if Jesus got married in real life, and I said no. To this she thought a moment, and then said: That's good. Because it would have been unfair to the rest of us if he had.

Spiritual Mismatches

I’ve always had a soft spot for Hosea – that nice prophet commanded by God to marry a prostitute. He entered this marital union with eyes wide open, knowing life would not be all wine, roses and connubial bliss. He accepted his role as picture of God’s forbearance with Israel, as they willingly threw themselves on the altar of a pagan culture.

Life as metaphor is as effective today. Living in a secular world, it’s inevitable that some Christians will fall in love and marry non-believers. I know because it happened to me, and while I may not be God’s chosen metaphor for life today, I do inhabit a strange border between faith and culture.

My atheist husband and I have had many heated discussions – me dodging potshots intended to blow my beliefs out of the water, all the while lobbing a few defence-of-the-faith salvos of my own.

Add the challenge of trying to raise faithful children who will able to walk the line in a problematic culture and it makes for an interesting life, indeed.

Of course, it’s not all bad – being held accountable makes you either cave or get serious.

I chose the latter, though my choice of methods was probably not all that wise. Assuming that dealing with an intelligent academic required rigorous intellectual apologetics, I took a religious studies degree, volunteered for every social justice activity going, taught Sunday school, and boned up on every issue facing my evangelical church, from gay marriage to creationism and intelligent design, from stem cell research, to abortion.

While it accomplished exhaustion for me, it resulted in an intellectual impasse for us. Until my husband’s mid-life crisis hit, that is. As my honest, gentle man turned into a narcissist and worse, there was little I could do but sit by and watch our marriage unravel.

Pain is a mighty teacher, though, and after 40 years on intellectual autopilot, I learned to let go of the strictures around my heart. After indulging in many of my own narcissistic tears, I got real – about my marriage, myself, and God.

Can our attitudes be an obstacle? My pastor seems to think so:“If they’re aggressive about their own faith, the believer can prevent the spouse coming to faith.”

Take the example of Sarah Ruth in Flannery O’Connor’s short story Parker’s Back. A chapter-and-verse quoting evangelical, she marries OE Parker, a tattoo-covered transient who has avoided God all his life. After a tractor accident results in a burning bush/tree, Parker gets his last tattoo -- the face of the Byzantine Christ gracing the whole of his back. Furious, Sarah Ruth beats him with a broom and sends him away.

I have read that story many times, always gleaning something new. Recently it occurred to me that maybe my metaphor is more Sarah Ruth than Hosea. So angry about an unbelieving husband, and forgetting all about joy, we overlook the signs of God’s grace in our other’s lives. Like my husband and his work with the poor, homeless and marginalized.

I am now wondering what kind of Christ I have painted on my back. As Donald Miller puts it in Blue Like Jazz, “nothing’s going to change in the Congo until we figure out what’s wrong with the person in the mirror.”

My pastor advises mixed marriage couples like us to “aim for mutual respect.”

He had a good point – I’d never considered my husband’s perspective of being married to a Christian. So I asked him. Initially he tiptoed through his answer, but after warming up and seeing it wasn’t coming to verbal blows, he was blunt: “It’s weird. And irritating – that whole notion that everything is God’s plan and people have no choice or say in their lives.” There was more -- much more -- and mostly fairly common liberal views, but I'll stop there.

Except to say that his view of me surprised -- and hurt. I thought that his objections were mostly control issues: God as “puppet-master”; pushy evangelizers; the church “club” for special members who’ve passed the test.

Then something my six-year-old daughter said gave me pause. She asked why Daddy didn’t go to church, and I explained he didn’t believe in God. After an incredulous “How could he not believe in God? God is everywhere,” she added: “Daddy doesn’t believe because he can’t see God.”

If our lives are witness to God, then maybe Daddy is blind to Him because Mommy’s been so busy trying to be perfectly moral that she’s forgotten how to be the face of Christ. Like Sarah Jane, I’d been holding up a God more closely resembling an orderly control freak than a welcoming servant king. As such, maybe my faith is not all that different from Daddy’s progressivist atheism.

A line from William Edgar’s essay in Finding God at Harvard hit home: “Becoming a Christian means that one's foundation is radically changed. But it takes a lifetime -- and, I suppose, an eternity -- to become fully conformed to what we are foundationally.”

Life as workshop for working out the mess it means to be human -- and perhaps the bridge for better communication between Christians and non-believers.

Finding the common language to express it is a challenge, but I think the answer lies in parables. I’ve seen them work -- during a particularly difficult time in our marriage, a couple of movies deeply affected my husband, and like Adam recognizing himself in Eve, he identified with the tragic depiction of someone bereft of community.

Can my husband and I find a story to share? The Christian story, as simple and obvious as it sounds – an invitation to love and be loved -- might be a good place to start. As the Catholic Catechism states, “sincere married love, the humble and patient practice of the family virtues, and perseverance in prayer” can prepare the non-believer for the “grace of conversion.”

My pastor seconds that: “The top priority has to be that the unbeliever knows they’re loved by their spouse. It all comes back to love.”

Living authentically – to love others, not just our families but our communities, too, to lay the foundation of the Biblical story within our heart, to wear the dark-eyed Christ on our back, to continuously forgive those who wrong us -- is a pretty powerful witness. Going forth like so, can the world dismiss Christians as narrow-minded, pushy, privileged members of some elite club?

That simple love story certainly convicted Gomer -- humbled by lessons learned by her travails in the world, she made her way back to the forgiveness of Hosea.

Will my husband and I ever resolve our differences? Maybe not. But we are learning to discuss them respectfully. And I am learning the simple, but hard, lesson that the picture of God’s welcome, hospitality and forbearance is worth a thousand words.

Absence makes the heart feel guilty...

It's been two whole months since I last posted on my own blog, and judging by the site meter results, it looks like my visitors have dwindled down to those accidental tourists who get directed here by their own googling mistakes.

But if you think I've ignored the blog, you should see what's happening in my house! My 13-year-old has just discovered -- no embraced -- the true meaning of anarchy. And my 7-year-old, not to be outdone by her older brother, has quickly followed suit.

In the past two or three weeks, they have refused to go to bed, eat their fruit and veg, pick up wet towels, put away dishes, or turn off the TV and video games when asked. Their dad is looking a little gimlet-eyed of late, too -- he exploded (a lot from a very mild-mannered guy) the other day about how nobody listens to him. That would include me.

And don't even get me started on the house. I was going to go get a new prescription for eye glasses but have decided against it -- I don't want to see the dirt sticking to baseboards like a leech to a swimmer's legs, or the dust that coats the tops of doorjambs and picture frames like newly fallen snow (in a snowstorm).

As if I wasn't overwhelmed enough, I've taken up reading Revelations (it's the subject of my new seven-week Bible study course and not some form of twisted punishment). It could actually be viewed as a book of hope, except for those who refuse to bask in the light of God's illumination.

It's like the dust in my house -- I don't want to see it, so I'll walk around without glasses. But we can't do that with God, cuz if we hope to get closer, the light emanating from his glory and presence is so blinding that it shows off all our dark and dusty corners.

There's one big difference between housekeeping and faith, though, and that is Jesus parable of leaving the interior home so spotless it becomes an open invitation for Diabolo to take up residence. While we're meant to tidy up our messy interior, we're also supposed to fill it immediately with the Holy Spirit.

I'll take that parable into the mundane -- or the profane, as my house looks today -- and exploring my neglect of children, house, husband, and dog (whose nails I only managed to clip last night after three months). In light of those preoccupations, it means that I not only have to sweep out the cobwebs -- the dust and dirt -- but also the bad habits of relating ("whaddya mean you have no clean socks, underwear or towels, if you don't like it, then wash them yourself -- I'm on strike!").

It also means filling my home with a certain kind of presence -- praise of God, focus on Jesus, a relationship with the Spirit. That's the only thing that gets you anywhere in trying to mend fences with those you've disconnected from.

Cuz, anyone who's ignored their kids for a period of time will tell you that it's not easy sidling up to them after you've gone awol (even if it was to work so hard you could afford braces for their crooked little teeth). They're like pets you've left at the kennel for holidays -- they ignore your attempts for a statutory three days then they're all over you like a pig on a sofa.

It's not so bad, though -- usually all they're looking for is food, a hug, and a word of praise.

a diva in the house

True Confessions:
I shop at garage sales. And I love it. If I don't get a garage sale fix, say in the middle of winter, I NEED to go to Goodwill (Value Village is too pricey :). If I'm feeling really extravagant, I'll go to the outlet mall, but only if there are deep discounts on the already reduced prices.

Sometimes my clothes reflect this post-post-Depression era mentality (my mother grew up in the Depression). I have lots of clothes -- some very nice -- but there's a, shall we say, disconnect in my attempts at ensembles.

I also shop at garage sales for my kids, though boys' stuff is harder to locate -- knees are worn through long before they are outgrown. But girls clothes are easy -- one nearby yearly sale puts out Talbot's For Kids, Gap, Frannie Flowers, and Next, all of them really nice "outfits."

A, at almost 7, is starting to take an interest in clothes. In the morning, she asks me to get her an outfit, which inevitably gets nixed, and I send her upstairs to put something together for herself. Sometimes, she is really inventive and puts things together I'd never think of, though there's usually something eccentrically "cool" about the get-ups. One morning, though, she must have experienced creative block, because I found her in her room, in front of the "altar" -- the open drawer of her dresser -- flopping around on the hardwoord floor like a dead fish, and weeping: I have nothing to wear. I have nothing to wear.

This familiar refrain -- at least to most females -- can be countered by that Bible verse about His clothing of the sparrows.

But it wasn't something to remind her of that morning -- when sorrow is her goal, words such as those are fuel for a literal but imaginative mind, turning "nothing to wear" into "wear nothing" and proceed out of doors clothed in, well, what the birds wear.

So, instead, I left her to sob and figure it out on her own.

The Religious Imagination

I am becoming very curious about the making of the religious imagination -- is it nature or nurture?

On Tuesday, A (aged six and a half) got a sliver in her finger while she was running her hand under her dad's closed office door trying to get in while he was working/on the phone. Much howling and tears, as he carried her up the stairs for me to examine it.

She was wild about this sliver -- first she wanted me to look at it, then her dad to remove it, then she didn't want it done, then questions about how much it would hurt, then lamentations on why did this have to happen to me? As I held her on my lap, preparing to investigate further, a sterilized needle cleverly concealed in the folds of my sweatpants, she set up the sobbing anew.

"I think God should do this, not you," she said. "God can make this better."

"But God gives those jobs to his angels on earth, like mums and dads, who are here to care for you and feed you and take slivers out," said I.

The howling increased, and A ran to her room to pray. She knelt on the floor, hands clasped in desperation, and directed her mumbled request heavenward. She then scuttled back and asked if the sliver was gone. I said it didn't look like it, but maybe. She ran back into her room for more prayers, all the while sobbing.

This drama continued for a couple of days until going to her grandparents. Her grandfather looked at the finger and said if she didn't get the sliver out, then the finger would have to come off. Finally, she tossed a coin, saying if it's heads the finger comes off, and if it's tails, she'd let grandad take it out. As she described it, "the first time was her finger was to come off; the second time, the finger to come off; the third time, K (grandfather) to take out." So she let him use the needle to take it out. She told me later, that during the operation, she filled her mind with pleasant thoughts -- a particularly special playdate she'd had with her little friend Sydney.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

My six year old daughter has been keeping my family and friends howling with laughter for most of her verbal (and even non-verbal) life.

Recently, she has developed a severe case of religious imagination, and in some instances has taken up evangelism with a vengeance.

She has a thing for the popes, which has caused her lapsed Catholic dad a lot of consternation -- what did he, a good and religious atheist, do to deserve a daughter who plasters her walls with pictures of old men in white robes and tall white hats? Good question.

A few months ago, she was outside on the porch by herself and my husband went by the screen door and was able to witness the following: she was looking up at the sky and saying "God? Where are you? Are you there? God? Gawd? Where are you?"

One time, she and her dad were having a conversation about Joseph -- who he was. Her dad said he was Jesus' father, and A said no, that God was Jesus father. So her dad said Joseph was the earthly father. And A said no God was that too. Then she said to him: You don't know these things, Daddy. You don't know Jesus. You did as a child, but you don't know him now.

About a week or so ago, I got after her about some behaviour, and told her that was naughty and not at all nice, that it was hurtful to one of her friends (I think she had laughed about one of the little boys in her class because he'd not made it to the bathroom and pooed in his pants.) A broke down in tears, and sobbed that she couldn't help being like this, because God had made her like this, and how could she go against what God made. I explained to her about freedom and human will, and about choices to commit either sin or goodness. She was unconvinced as she continued to sob out her excuses.

Another time recently, she asked (on the way to church) why Daddy didn't go to church, and when I said it's because he doesn't believe in God, she was shocked. "Whaaaat? He doesn't believe in God? How could you NOT believe in God?!?! He's EVERYWHERE!!!! He's in the car, beside me, he's outside, he's on the sidewalk, in the trees, in heaven,........"

What ensued was a lengthy conversation about the nature of belief, with A saying that Daddy couldn't believe in God because he didn't see Him, and that was very hard for him. She also said that sometimes some people will not believe anything unless they see it.

When we got home later she asked her dad point-blank why he didn't believe in God. (He couldn't answer.) And she struck up the same hue and cry she gave me in the car.

It says that a little child shall lead them, and I fervently hope and pray that in my husband's case this is true, because I've failed miserably. Perhaps Anna will do better.