Faith

Faith is a tricky thing.  We’re asked to believe without seeing, trust without proof.  But the reality is, we do this naturally, from a very young age.   We know that love is real because we feel it; we believe in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy because we really want to; we know we are taken care of because we have food to eat and clothes to wear and a place to sleep. And then we’re tested: bad things happen; we discover who Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy really were the whole time; we realize that we need to learn how to take care of and provide for ourselves.  

When we’re young, if we’re lucky, we have grown-ups in our lives whose faith in God or something unseen (my favorite expression of this is the Athabascan Indian word for God, which translates to “the Great Mysterious”) guides them.  Many times as a young adult, when I was struggling to find or hold onto some sort of faith, when I was dealing with setbacks, when I did not yet know how to take care of myself very effectively, I let the people I knew whose faith was strong and real carry me.  I suspected that believing wasn’t always easy, that everyone who truly believes struggles, questions, gets angry at God/the universe/whatever (a friend of mine in her seventies says that she and God are not on speaking terms at the moment).  I didn’t think much about it; I just knew that the church was there, that people who loved me, people I respected and admired were there and lived their lives in a certain way because of it.  For me faith was, and is, basically a yes or no question, and I don’t always get bogged down in the details.  Yes, I believe there is more to this world, this life, than we can see and touch. That idea can be expressed in myriad ways, and that’s often enough for me, and if that’s what I’m able to pass along to my children and others, that’s a lot. 

That’s why I think providing a safe and happy place for children to attend church is so critical.  When they are tested, when they are not there for us to hug and kiss every day and we’re not putting presents in their stockings and under their pillows anymore, when they are making their way in a world that is often cold and hard and full of pain, they’ll know that they are loved, that we believe for them when faith may not seem quite real or relevant. 

I have the very great fortune of being able to travel back to Alaska this week, to the seat of my faith, to the place I was first loved and cared for.  I will see people whose lives taught, and teach, me about the power and magic of love.  Despite all my crankiness and impatience with this world, I hope I can be for others what they have been for me.

Bess

" I Believe in God. "

A few days after the shootings at Sandy Hook Elementary, I read a reference to them as having “traumatized the nation.”  I found these words comforting because they helped me feel less alone, helped me realize that I wasn’t the only one not able to sleep much, not the only one still quick to tears, not the only one bewildered by people who could smile and laugh and talk about other things so soon after such a horrific tragedy.  I won’t call it unimaginable, because I know I’m not the only parent who is able to conjure up just about every possible danger or threat to one’s children.  The skill with which I am able to do this borders on the pathological, though, in part because I struggle with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, from things that happened to me both as a child and a young adult.  What that means for me, and for many other people with PTSD, is that events like Sandy Hook can trigger debilitating anxiety and irrational behavior like not sending my children to school the Monday (and Tuesday) following the shootings. 

I had an “out”:  our older daughter, Maggie, is homeschooled, and she and Stew were away on a trip.  Our younger daughter, Sally, is likely going to be homeschooled next year, and I suggested that she stay home with me to get a taste of what that would be like.    She was more than happy to oblige, unknowingly, my absolute terror at the thought of sending her off to school, especially with Stew, the moderating force in my life, out of town.  I kept her with me the following day as well, simply not ready to let go, knowing I was indulging my fears, but also knowing, through years of therapy, when to push myself and when to be gentle. 

I just called Stew the “moderating force in my life” and he is one of them, a big one, but really, that force is my belief in God, in Jesus, in the Resurrection, and the fact that Love is stronger than Death.  When I heard the news on the radio that Friday, in my kitchen, I fell to my knees, gasping for breath, my heart shattering in pain for those families, in fear and desperation for my children. I called Stew, hardly able to speak.  “Tell me,” I choked out, “tell me I don’t need to go get them,” for Maggie was at school that day, too.  He reassured me, as he always does, and I prayed, stumbling blindly through the rest of the afternoon.  He picked them up, and by the time I saw them, I was under control, calm, greeting them without tears and able to look into their eyes and hear about their days without letting them know anything was amiss.

What did I pray?  The only thing that came through clearly was the first line from the Baptismal Covenant in the Book of Common Prayer: “I believe in God.”  I. Believe. In. God.  Over and over, that’s all I could say, all I could think, all I had to hold onto.   Sometimes life is stripped down just to that.  

And then Christmas.  Hope in the midst of all our terrible failings.  Jesus will lead us, if we let Him, if our hearts remain broken by what breaks God’s heart. 

 

Bess