Will you know my name?

I rarely struggle with my faith anymore.

I feel certain that God is okay with my buffet approach to His Kingdom. I pick what I like from each religion I encounter and add it to my plate. I hardly ever feel the need to justify the various snack sized portions I choose to take in. 

After all, I was born on the other side of the world to devout Muslims and less than a decade later was learning about Jesus at Catholic school in Canada. The change in exposure did nothing to change who I really am.  This truth has always quieted me in the face of religious debate. I feel a deep connection to God and sense that He doesn’t care how I label it.

Recently, however, my smorgasbord belief system was tested.

Halfway through Heaven is for real one evening, Deaglan came into the family room.  I explained what I was watching and told him he should watch too. As always, he had 57 questions. He doesn’t quite understand the concept of non-animated television.

“Is this happening somewhere right now?”  “Are these people real?” “Did that guy just say the F word??”

I explained again that TV is mostly a person with a camera filming people who are pretending...someone has a story idea and asks people to act out that story in front of a video camera. 

It gets trickier when the movie is based on true events.  Our conversation about this particular movie went something like this:

Did that boy really go to heaven?

Well, yes, from what he says, it sounds like that’s where he went.

So this movie happened in real life?

Ummm, yes.

That boy right there went to heaven?

Well, not him, but someone like him.

More complicated than explaining the difference between the movie and real life versions though, was knowing how to respond to my son’s pointed questions about my faith.

Mom, do you believe Heaven looks like that, the way the boy says it does?

Ummm...yup, I think so.

Should I believe it too?

If you like that idea. Do you like that idea?

I think I do. Does everybody go to Heaven?

Well...if they believe in it, I guess.

I felt Shaune's eyebrow shoot up from across the room.  I shot back a look that I hoped said obviously I mean that if the concept of Heaven is not real for you then you might not care about going there after you die!

Okay then, I want to believe it too...Will I see Great Gramma Mac and Judge and Crash in Heaven?

Yes.

But what about you and Dad? Will I see you there?  

My son’s voice was no longer inquisitive. It had taken on something close to desperation.

Yes of course you will!

But if you look different in heaven (the boy in the movie saw his grandfather not as the old man he was before he died, but as a young man), how will I find you?

His heart broke open then. He cried heavy hot tears into my chest; hugged me tightly.

I won’t be able to find you! How will we find each other in Heaven?!?

Hey, shhhh...it’s okay. You won’t have to look for me, sweetheart. Daddy and I will be waiting for you. As soon as we know you’re coming, we’ll be standing waiting for you!

Speaking of Heaven, here are some pictures from Naveen's birthday and some from our trip to KOA.

 

Jesus isn't the reason for our Christmas*

I took a sick day on Monday.

 

But because I can’t seem to relax anymore, I poked around under the basement stairs, found some left over paper from last year and wrapped the few gifts I’d bought for Shaune and the kids so far.

 

Once wrapped, in the very opposite way Martha Stewart might have done it, I laid them neatly under the tree, grouped together by their intended recipients. It was my small attempt to atone for the lack of effort I’d put into bringing the season into our home this year.

 

A small thrill of excitement lit through me as I imagined the kids running through the door, notice the pile of presents, and then excitedly ask who they were for.

 

What I hadn’t imagined was Naveen crying for four days straight because I’d had to break it to him that they were not to be opened until Christmas morning.

 

It stirred in me two things:

The first was sympathy for this three and a half year-old of mine, who had with alarming grace and composure, watched his older brother only a few days earlier, open an enormous pile of birthday gifts and who was now expected to understand that this here pile was not to be opened either.

 

And the second was a mild sense of guilt that I hadn’t yet discussed the true meaning of Christmas with my boys this year. There’d only been non-stop talk about what each hoped Santa would bring. And on my part a lot of warnings that Santa would bring only socks and underwear if they didn’t behave. What can I say? I like to make the most of an opportunity.

 

Mixed in with both of these sentiments was that same old malaise I always feel around this time of year: that feeling that I’m not so sure myself what this season is about.

 

Lately I’ve felt an even greater clarity that for our family at least, Christmas is not about the birth of Jesus Christ. And it’s not because I don’t like the story of Jesus. I like it just fine. I get that’s why we Christians say we celebrate Christmas.  I grew up Catholic after all.  I teach my kids Christian values all the time: be kind to your fellow person; treat others as you’d want them to treat you; give to those who have less than you.

 

I even own a Nativity set.

 

I just don’t feel right about making the connection between Christmas and Jesus’ birth.  It doesn’t make sense for our family. We don’t go to church. We don’t talk about any orthodox religions on a regular basis in our home. There’s not a crucifix or religious photo in sight.

 

The thing is, my God, the one I commune with daily, well, he is very private. He has very little resemblance to anything I’ve read about in the Bible. He’s a higher power I’m not sure can be attributed to religion. I'm not even sure he's a he. A sacred and safe place inside me, for which I feel ill equipped to explain to a six and three year old.

 

I like the idea of giving as the true meaning of Christmas. But let’s face it, mostly we’re giving gifts to each other and I’m not sure my husband needs another set of tools. And besides, real giving, the kind we’re trying to teach the kids about, well, that’s something we talk about all year long around here.

 

So it occurs to me that I can tell the kids what Christmas has been about for us and our family. A time to spend more time with their extended family. A time to refresh their toy supply. A time to appreciate each other. A time to decorate the house and feel festive. A time to believe in the magic of Santa. A time to create family traditions.

 

When I think about it that way, I can relax and enjoy the season.

 

* I got the idea of the title from one of my favorite bloggers.

 

 I don't think I'm going to get a chance to do Christmas cards this year. If I change my mind, these pictures might be contenders.

 Poor Shaune's been sick as can be for the last two weeks. He put the tree up even though he could could barely stand.

Most of the ornaments are this low on our tree. Like so many moms in the same predicament, I fight my urge to spread them out.            

As usual we had Deaglan's birthday party early since his real birthday is Christmas Eve. Here we are at Adventures on Wonderland.

Poor little cousin Leo - "Stop pushing on my bloody face Naveen" is what I imagine he'd say if he could talk.
                   

As usual, Shaune kept me humble with his photography.  In the photo above please note the extra roll around my hip area.

In this one I like that I look like I'm listening to my sister-in-law Chrissy while actually just stuffing my face. 

And finally, just in case you didn't know that I don't have a flat stomach...here's a reminder.

 

I fought the Church - well kinda

Once in a while I embrace being a grown up. Like, lately, when confronted with an infuriating situation, I try to wait a little before reacting. It certainly doesn’t come easy but I always find that I have better perspective later when I do decide to take action. Often the anger is still there but it’s low simmering, not explosive crazy.

Today has not been one of these mature days.

When Deaglan was born, even though I’d been away from formalized religion for over twenty years, I suddenly had a profound need to find a spiritual community, do charity work as part of that community and expose my son to what I’d grown up with – a knowledge of the Bible and Jesus’ work.

The small United congregation around the corner welcomed us with open arms. We immediately began indoctrination classes since Shaune had never been baptized, and met the sweetest pastor-in-training, a gay ex-Jesuit monk, his partner and a group of other newcomers. After the ten week course, Shaune and Deaglan were officially welcomed into the Church through a beautiful baptism ceremony. Sadly this was the same time our beloved ex-Jesuit pastor-in-training was finished his schooling, and moved to his own congregation in another city.

We settled into church life but discovered that it was very different from what we’d imagined. First of all we didn’t like the regular pastor. She was odd, overly flowery and symbolic when delivering her sermons – we couldn’t relate. And there was no charity work, only church fundraisers. All the money went back to the Church. Also, most of the parishioners were a few generations older than us, there were no young families.

We stopped going to church.

But the Church kept sending us pleas for donations. And they called religiously (I meant that) to ask us for our time in the nursery or donations for the charity garage and bake sale. This went on for two years.

When Naveen was born I panicked. I wanted him to be baptized but didn’t want to start going back to Sunday services. We’d decided that we could continue giving to good charities without the backing of a Church; we could be a part of a community that wasn’t affiliated with formalized religion.

But because the Church continued to call us for money and for our time, I chose to make contact. I asked the receptionist to have the pastor call me, told her that I wanted Naveen to get baptized in their upcoming Father’s Day service. She hesitated. I asked her if there was a rule that we had to attend services in order for our baby to be baptized but she dodged my question and promised to pass the message.

It's been six months. The pastor never called.

And yet today in the mail (we retrieve our mail once a week), I received another donation envelope. Immediately I sent the Church an email. I asked them about their double standard – why we have to attend services to reap the benefits of membership when they have no problem treating us like members when they want our money.

I reacted in anger and it kind of felt great. I’ll let you know if I hear back.

Inspiration for a Sunday

I heard about her a year ago. This woman of faith who was inspiring a lot of the Christian bloggers I liked to visit. I'd click the link to her site once in a while, look for the source of all the fuss. Sometimes I'd stay and read but other times I'd quickly get back to safer more familiar territory. It scared me, all this quoting of scripture, this intense commitment to God.

Probably from the deep south, I dismissed. I imagined her southern accent, living near the ocean, maybe South Carolina, far, far away from what I knew. It went like this for several months. Someone would refer to her, I'd follow the link for a brief visit.

A few weeks ago though, a favourite blogger mentioned that this woman, the one I'd dismissed as unlikely for me, was a keynote speaker at She Speaks and wrote a post about how this woman's words had undone her. Again I tapped the key to the link. This time I stayed awhile. I read post after post. She's been writing them for six years. An eternity in the blogosphere. Five and a half of those years? With comments turned off! 

Her writing is exquisite. 

I googled her and watched a few Youtube videos. She is beautiful, so, so warm. And I like her hair. She's definitely younger than me. Six kids. Farmwife. Homeschooler.

So I went back to her site and read some more. Canadian???

 Probably from somewhere remote, I thought. I googled again. Ontario??  Near Listowell? That's like only 150 kilometres from here. She lives the Canadian winters of my life? Likely went to school in the system I know?

And her book. A New York Times Bestseller. I remembered seeing it at Costco. And Chapters. My heart began racing. I needed to get this book. It was on hold almost indefinitely at the library. I headed to Costco in a rare few minutes to myself. I'd buy the book and grab myself a hotdog, read while blissfully alone. Costco didn't have it. Shopper's Drug Mart? Nope.

Finally at Chapters the next day, the kids in tow. In line, the woman ahead turned to me.

"Would you like to go first? I'll bet those kids keep you busy." I thanked her for the kind offer and declined. Still lovely she asked,

"What book are you buying." I fought through my urge to be vague. I showed it to her, told her a little bit about the author. It was such an oddly rare encounter.

I knew I had to write about it here because her and her words are all I can think about. Feel free to let her inspire you.

The Church - part one

I went back to the church.

Well not exactly. I didn’t go back to the Catholic Church. Growing up Catholic I had all the same problems with Catholicism that many people do. The Church’s views on birth control, premarital sex, women as leaders of the church, divorce, gay and lesbian rights, were all opposite mine. After high school I very rarely thought about organized religion but never forgot God.

This changed when Deaglan came along. I started to think about baptism. I had been baptized but Shaune had not. I spoke to him about my growing desire to get the baby baptized. He completely surprised me by saying he would leave the decision to me.

Shaune has had some strong opinions about organized religion. When I listened to his arguments sometimes I wondered if he thought all religions were really cults in disguise. But mostly I could understand why he felt so strongly; you wouldn’t have to look much further than the nightly news to see all the insane things people will do in the name of religion.

We talked about it several times over a few months. We both agreed that it would be nice to get to know some of the people in our community and to be more involved in charitable work. We also thought it would give Deaglan a spiritual foundation which he could choose to carry on when he got older. But we felt it was important to set some boundaries. We were dead set against joining any church that might judge us or others, or tell us how to behave or ask us to impose our beliefs on others.

We found the United Church of Canada.

Trucks, dolls and kitchen sets

This was the first toy he picked up this morning. I had these two dolls (a male and a female) from before he was born. They were meant as a gift for either a niece or one of my friends' daughters. I decided to let Deaglan play with them instead. He loves them.
A few weeks ago, Kim the mom who was looking after the kids in the playroom at church noticed that Deaglan just loved the kitchen set. It's all he played with. We thought that this was pretty neat. After all he watches his Dad cook all the time. I suggested that we keep our eye out for one this summer when we're garage sale-ing.

He also loves anything with wheels, anything that is packaging for something else, blocks, vaseline, anything paper and just about anything we don't want him to have.

I figure it's better to let him play the way he wants. Imagination is a good thing.

Spring!

After church we went to the park for some fun. Every family within a 10km radius must have had the same idea. It was crowded but we still managed to get a couple of runs on the slide. After this long and dreary winter the sun sparked light-heartedness in all of us. We're planning on continuing to bask in the rays with a bbq for dinner.