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A Faith for my Children

April 15, 2013 By Kelle

Five Children’s Bible Books. That’s what I found tucked away on our overstuffed bookcase this weekend while cleaning and sorting our ever growing stash. I have to admit, I didn’t buy any of them. With the exception of one that came from a sweet group of readers I Skyped with last year, I think grandparents can be accounted for the rest—gifts that carried the subtle plea of Dear-God-please-don’t-let–my-grandchildren-grow-up-heathen.

It’s not that I need the little Bibles to learn the stories in them. I know every single one of them by heart—how Adam and Eve were created on the sixth day, how God sent a rainbow after saving Noah from the flood, how a great big whale swallowed Jonah because he wouldn’t go to Ninevah to preach God’s word. These stories were taught to me from early Children’s Bible days of giggling at pictures of fig leaves covering Adam and Eve’s—ahem, privates— to somewhere in my early twenties when I stopped going to church.

I flipped through the pages of a few of them yesterday and tried to remember the last time I read these to the girls. By Lainey’s age, I not only had been read these stories and sang their tunes (“Who Built the Ark? Noah, Noah!”), but I knew their lessons—yes, that God loved us, but also: Don’t Piss Off God. He might send a flood or turn you into a salt pillar.

The latter lessons are the reason teaching faith to my children is a complex subject, one I stew over quite a bit. I was submerged in church for more than half my life, experiencing both the good—fond memories of flannel graph Sunday school lessons, church potlucks and Nativity plays—as well as the screwed up: fear, fear, judgment, fear. Oh, and we-are-superior-to-those-who-don’t-believe-like-us. The combination makes for a hell of a faith identity crisis. It’s taken me years to reprogram my brain and heart and replace the painful scars of judgment and empty guilt with love; even now, I struggle.

For a long time, I viewed my faith issues much like I view my house when it gets too messy—I stand back, take it all in, conclude the mess is too overwhelming, so I make a cup of coffee and walk away. But then I had babies and babies started growing up. And when babies start growing up, you begin thinking about everything you believe—how it matters, how it transfers, how the responsibility of passing things on suddenly bears weight. For six years, I’ve been asking myself “What do I believe?” Because, honestly…I don’t know. I do know that I believe in God, that God is Love, and that there’s enough truth in that statement to provide everything I need to teach my children about faith.

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My friends and I have been talking a lot more about these issues as our kids are at the age of asking questions. Last week, Lainey and her friend Aleena were overheard discussing heaven—how when they went there, they’d make sure to take their favorite toys and blankets, as if it was just a summer road trip. Heidi’s daughter pointed out an image in the story of Noah’s Ark in her children’s Bible last week—a picture of a woman standing on a rock, holding a baby while flood waters swirled around her—the “unsaved,” apparently.

“What’s going to happen to that woman and her baby?” Peyton asked her.

“I didn’t know what to say,” Heidi admitted. “So I told her Noah was going to swing the ark back around to pick her up—he was on his way.”

I smiled. “Bravo.”

This is the exact reason why I’m not so sure of what role the Bible—the book that literally guided every decision and thought in my life for years—will play in lessons I teach my children. And my former self would be quivering with fear right now for the blasphemy I just typed. I did that a lot—quivered with fear. Say the word “rapture” and my knees go weak. Among meaningful stories of love and kindness, there are a lot of passages in the Bible that make God out to be He Who Demands and He Who Punishes. And for fun, He Who Tests You to See How Much You Love Him. As a mother who understands a little bit about loving children, these concepts aren’t things that align with the ultimate truth of parenthood (that’s what God is, after all)—Love.

I know that I want my children to know the limitless love of God.

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I also know that I want my children to know their worth—worth that doesn’t hinge on things they do or the way they believe.

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Although I believe in God and am confident of his presence in my life, I have a hard time teaching my kids statements like “we are nothing without God” or “you won’t know the answers until you ask God to help you.” Those teachings crippled qualities within me for years and, for a long time, paralyzed me from thinking for myself. I want my children to know that God made us all equal—that we are amazing from the start, that we are equipped with greatness and good decision making capabilities just because we exist. There are plenty of people who don’t, per say, “believe in God” who are living their one wild and precious lives with significance—founding organizations to help those in need, spreading kindness, choosing good, loving, loving, loving every day. They are happy and living a life with purpose. Their God might not be defined by my terms—perhaps they call him a higher power, the Universe, their inner self, what have you. But they are in no way less deserving of what we all are entitled to—love, albeit here on earth or life after death. I will tell my children to learn from these people and listen to them. Sometimes I think I’ve learned more about God and love and kindness from good people who believe differently than me than I ever learned within the establishments intended to teach the world about God.

But I also realized I’ve made the mistake of throwing the baby out with the bathwater, as they say. Because of the pains of my past, for a long time I blacklisted all of it—organized religion, church, Bible studies. I thought I escaped the black hole all these people were tricked into believing, and I realize that’s just the kind of judgment I thought I was better than. Thinking I’ve got the truth, and they don’t. I left one kind of arrogance and replaced it with another.

I’ve since readjusted those beliefs, picking up a lot of the broken pieces of the faith of my past and realizing they’re not all bad. I quite like many of them and look forward to reincorporating lessons and experiences of that old faith into the truest faith I’ve known so far—an evolving one. One of love and kindness and acceptance both for those around us and for our less than perfect selves. I like feeling small compared to something, someone bigger, and I call that bigger thing God. I pray to him every day not so much in “Dear Gods” but in Be kind, How can I help?, Come sit by me, Let’s take a walk, Look at that!, Thank you, I’m sorry and I love you.

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What my Sunday morning looks like:  God is very present.

I am truly learning this year to open myself up and learn from others—to listen; to be curious, not judgmental. In my closest core of friends, I have a few Protestants, a few Catholics, an Atheist, two Agnostics, a Buddhist, a Hindu and several who don’t have names for their faith. I am intrigued by each of their beliefs and learn from all of them. It’s amazing how, when we look at our beliefs with different perspectives, so many of us really do believe in the same important life truths.

So, what to teach my children?

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Well, just in typing this, I’m feeling confident that my children know God. You know, last year I had this random moment of guilty panic that I wasn’t telling my kids the things about God that I was supposed to teach them—the Sunday school basics, the Children’s Bible stories I wasn’t reading to them. We were driving, and for some reason, I suddenly felt like I had to do something to catch up for all my kids didn’t know—something right now in this car to get it started. We’d begin with creation.

“Lainey, do you know who made the trees?” I asked her. She looked at me like I was crazy. She didn’t answer so I went on.

“God did. God made the trees,” I told her, repeating something I had been taught as a child and consequently sighing a breath of relief for completing the first course of Godly wisdom for children. The grandparents would be so proud.

But there was a rebuttal from the back seat.

“No he didn’t,” Lainey argued. “Someone planted them.” Ah truth, my little Darwinist.

I realized I was being silly. The details of creation, the many stories, whether they be allegory or not—they aren’t as important as the truth we live every day. Love. Love this earth, love each other, love yourself. I am teaching that to my children through terms that literally include God but more so through events that breathe him. We pray “Dear God” when we remember to say the words, but we live “Dear God” when we forget.

And with all the unanswered questions I have right now about faith and my mission to explore them simply by living and learning from others, I’ve never felt closer to God in my life. I am confident my children will know him too.

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I’ll end this with a story my dad once told me. A woman in a faraway country, who knew nothing of religion or God, had a son who grew very ill. Desperate to save him, she tried everything—village witch doctors, potions, medicine—until finally, she threw her hands into the sky and prayed to a higher being she knew nothing of. “Please,” she pleaded, “if you’re there, save my son and I will serve you my entire life.” The woman’s son became well and, although she knew nothing of this higher being she prayed to and believed saved her son, she did things she knew to be good—things she thought to be of service. She was kind, she helped others, she tried to make good choices, she loved, she practiced selflessness. One day missionaries came to her village and taught the people about their God, how he loved them, how their lives could be changed if they gave their heart in service to him. The woman smiled and patted her heart. “Oh, I’ve been serving him for a long time,” she said. “I just didn’t know his name was God.”

Last night, we said a real “Dear God” prayer before bed. I started with “Thank you for—,” and Lainey filled in the rest. Food, her mommy and daddy, her siblings, her friends, her puppy blanket, hair ties, pink crayons, Dora shampoo. And then we prayed for those who are hurting, for those in need. “Let them feel love,” I said, “and let us find ways to give love.” We talked about what it means to feel and give love. “Like when you color a picture for someone?” Lainey asked.

Yes, that.

Sometimes we make things so much more complex than they need to be.

Filed Under: Faith, Favorites 320 Comments

Diary of a Mad Nesting Woman

January 30, 2013 By Kelle

DISCLAIMER:  What you are about to read is true.  I’m sorry to admit this.

Scene One, The Other Night:

It’s 11:30 at night and the kids have been sleeping for hours.  I’ve finished a load of laundry, scrubbed my tub, soaked all my make-up brushes, cleaned the smudges off my silverware drawer knobs and organized my kitchen pots so that all the handles are facing to the right.  I decide that 11:30 is a great time to roast some brussel sprouts, so I Google a few recipes and settle on a complicated version of coconut oil/bread crumbs/apple slices/reduced vinegar and honey sauce–because I’m simple like that.  Once brussel sprouts are slid into the oven, I proceed with normal midnight chores.  “I’m going to paint the living room,” I conclude, and I head out into the garage to gather my tools.  Upon hearing the garage door slam at some Godforsaken hour of the night, Brett follows me out to inquire.

“What are you doing?” he asks, obviously hesitant for my reply.

“I’m going to paint the living room,” I answer, as if this is a perfectly normal thing for an eight month pregnant lady to be doing at midnight on a Monday evening. 

“Babe, it’s like, midnight.  Can’t you–”  He stops.  I think it was my eyes.  I’m pretty sure the devil climbed into my body and glared some kind of Twilight character stare because he never finished his sentence.  In fact, he offered to stir the paint for me, pour it into a pan and carry it back into the house.

I painted one wall.  I ate delicious brussel sprouts.  I went to bed.

Scene Two, Yesterday:

I’m out the door with two dressed kids at 7:30 in the morning.  I get my coffee.  I go to Lowe’s and buy succulents and spray paint.  I go to ballet.  I call doctors and set up a year’s worth of appointments for my kids in case the Apocolypse comes and I can’t get one.  I come home and start another project because I certainly don’t have enough.  I’m going to spray paint my frames and redo my entry wall, and it has to be done right now.  Like now now now.  I lay out a sheet of butcher paper in the side yard and start spraying the hell out of a stack of frames.  Brett finds me there.  He says nothing but hands me a construction grade face mask.  “Wear this,” he says.  “Thank you,” I answer.  I stop painting for a moment to get the mail, but I leave my face mask on.  The neighbor across the street looks at me and I smile and wave.  Except the smiling is kind of a moot point.  I mean, the mask.  I holler “I’m painting frames!” loudly to explain, but it came out a bit of a muffle.  “She thinks I’m crazy,” I think to myself.  She’s right.

I paint twenty frames.  I go to Fred’s.  I come home and cry that my world is falling apart and that I really really want Brett to change out our towel bars in the bathroom.  “Pick some out, and I’ll do it,” he answers. 

Oh God, poor Brett.

Scene Three, This Morning:

I add a second coat of paint to some frames.  I cry to two friends on the phone about–you know what, I don’t even remember.  I tell Brett he should rent a carpet shampooer and clean our bedroom carpet before the baby comes.  I stress about putting on my favorite yoga pants today because I put them in the hospital bag and what if I get them dirty and they’re in a laundry basket when it’s go time?  Tragedy, man, tragedy.  I decide to risk it but think about it about thirty more times throughout the day.

Noon: And here’s where I finally realized Sistah done lost her mind.

Out of nowhere, I declare a couples meeting (Brett trudges into bedroom…”What?”), and I–seriously, this is absolutely ridiculous.  Here goes.

…I lost my shit.

“How come Lainey doesn’t know how to ride a bike yet?”  I whined.  “I thought you said you wanted to teach her.  She’s five, Brett.  She should know how to ride a bike.” 

People, I’m going to lay it out there:  I am not proud of the last three days.  Brett called me from the car this afternoon (he had an “appointment” but, God love him, if he left the house just to drive in silence and tranquility, I’m totes cool with it) and said he had a great idea–how ’bout we go have a family outing this week and–oh, hey babe–wanna go out for lunch tomorrow? 

I suddenly felt awful for him and realized I am a hot mess of hormones and nesting and freaking out. And he is trying so hard to support me and this crazy time of life for us birthin’ women.  We replayed the events of the last few days together this afternoon and laughed so hard we couldn’t finish.

And Heidi.  Bless her.  Her great philosophical words of advice to me in these last days could be cross-stitched on a pillow, painted on a plaque: 

“Bizotch, drop the brussel sprouts.  Put the paintbrush down.  Go.  To.  Sleep.”

*****

And now, completely unrelated to the above story are the sweet photos of less maniacal moments this week.

Evening driveway play is our come-to-Jesus time. 
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Ahem…said succulents.
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I like xylophones simply for the rainbow.
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Birthday party at some local stables this weekend.  She got to brush horses.  She was happy.
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The Twirly Wand in ballet.  It’s earned its right to be a proper noun.
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Ballet moves transfer home to swing.  Point them toes, Nellie.
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She mothers.  Constantly.  Dolls, sister, babies. 
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This smile.  Yes.
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She’s Student of the Week in her class this week.  We created her me doll together this weekend.
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When we finished, she asked if she could make another one with no help.  Her creation:
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And that, my friends, got us to mid week.

Happy day. 
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Filed Under: Favorites 148 Comments

Last Bites

January 28, 2013 By Kelle

Last week, I stayed with a friend’s mama in the Minnesota tundra. It was a quick trip—only two nights—but long enough to savor a small chapter of the good winter story I miss. Morning coffee at a kitchen table overlooking a snowy scene of frosted branches; climbing under the weight of double down comforters at night, feeling safe and caved in from the frigid temps outside; and late dinners enjoyed with candlelight and good conversation.

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Hot spicy chili, seared buttery garlic bread with herbs, homemade pickles, Chicken Dijon, creamy potatoes. Each night after we lingered over dinner for as long as we could possibly stretch that delicious ceremony, I noticed another ritual, obviously repeated every evening in this home.

“Last bites!” the mama called, and sleepy dogs curled in heaps near our feet suddenly rose to attention, two words signaling their nightly scurry to the kitchen counter where they knew they’d be treated. I watched as two dogs panted, tails wagging, and excitedly received their post dinner reward. I, in turn, savored a little more mindfully the last bites on my own plate and the remaining moments of that calm kitchen table before rising to help clear the dishes and get ready for bed.

Last bites. I love that. An all call to taste and cherish the end of something good.

I’m clearly feeling this right now, aware that the delicious ceremony I’ve lingered over for the last eight months is nearing its end. And probably for good. I’d love ten babies and bunk beds built into every crevice of our home, but we also know what feels about right for our family and its needs.

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I actually like pregnancy, and somewhere there is a voice inside that is laughing—the voice that remembers the first twenty weeks of dry heaves and smell aversions. Okay, I like the second half. I love the miracle of growth and that can’t-quite-catch-your-breath phenomenon of movement. Every time they turn a knee, press their tiny back side against my stomach, throw a swift kick to the side, I smile: Hello there baby, you are mine.

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I love the anticipation—replaying the vision of the moment he’s handed to me over and over and over. What will I feel? What will he look like? What will that moment be like—the one where I pull him right into the special hollow in my neck reserved for my babies and kiss his head, whisper “Happy Birthday,” feel his first breaths against my skin?

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I remember those moments from the last time I did this and yes, I think about that too. Precious, unforgettable moments that perhaps make preparation for this birth a little bit different…but not much. I’ve talked to a lot of mamas who have made the choice to have another baby after welcoming a child with Down syndrome, and there is a range of emotions represented from feeling very nervous and scared to completely open and fearless to the infinite possibilities pregnancy and birth bring. All of these emotions are normal and okay. Our experiences in life make us each different in the ways we embrace and react, and I can relate both to the added fears as well as to a more open acceptance for what lies in store.

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After Nella was born, I looked back on her birth and for a moment almost felt embarrassed for the silly details for which I had prepared when they seemed so meaningless after, compared to the depth of emotion that accompanied her birth and diagnosis. Really?  Birth favors, a pretty nightgown picked out for the occasion, hand knit hats, a birth song, candles?  Does any of it matter when you’re bitch-slapped with the reality of what life is really about?

It does to me. I’ve realized that. Because here I am, three years later, a lot more comfortable with who I am, and I’ve already packed the hand knit hats, birth favors my girls and I made together, and the perfect new pair of pajamas I’ll wear in the hospital—the ones I’ll save and point out to him years later. “I wore these the first night I rocked you to sleep,” I’ll tell him someday. I am the mama who knows that little details make her happy and that welcoming a baby to the world, regardless of what that risk might hold, heralds a hell of a celebration for my freak flag waving heart.

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It finally arrived–the outfit my mama’s been crocheting for his homecoming.

While I don’t feel overly nervous or afraid for this birth, I am aware that latent emotions might stir up. I am listening to my body, my heart, my intuition. I am holding my babies close and feeling grateful for the opportunity to be this boy’s mama. And I am tearing up at the thought of being told again “One last push” because I know that what follows, always, is love.  I am aware that in the coming weeks, there will be moments where the raw emotion of the past, present and future will merge, and I don’t know what that will feel like but I imagine it will be good for the soul.

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Here’s what I know: no one knows what life may hold, but beyond whatever it is…there is amazing.

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There are so many incredible ways to become a mama these days.  I was given the opportunity to bring three little lives into this world, and I am grateful for the complex and miraculous series of events that formed their perfect bodies, their precious souls.

There are a few more doctor appointments, a few more weeks of falling asleep dreaming of what loving him will feel like, a few more kicks and somersaults, and a few more smiles from feeling Brett’s hands reach across to lie against the curve of my middle.  I don’t ever ever want to forget what this feels like. 

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And so I savor the last bites.

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Filed Under: Favorites 144 Comments

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