I am a serious woman. I take my work seriously, my life seriously, and my religion seriously. Another way to look at it, I do not laugh nearly enough.
I have moments of impish desire. I work with a math teacher, and for some reason I cannot walk past her classroom without shooting her a silly face. There are a few other playful souls that have the ability to pull out my silliness, but unfortunately these moments seem few and far between. I thought a good New Year’s resolution would be to laugh more each day. I did not make this “official”, but wouldn’t you know it is creeping its way into my life despite having a formal invitation.
Let me take you back to Wednesday night. I am tucking my three preschoolers into bed. We have a routine. I go to each individual bed and sing two lullabies, say a series of “I am thankful for . . . “, and conclude with praying the “Our Father.” It is a sacred time of ritual and routine, of deep felt affection and connection as mother-child and also with God. It is a serious time.
I failed to remember preschoolers are not always serious. Instead of praying, “Our Father, who art in heaven . . .,” prayers went more like, “Our Father, who are in Pinkie . . .,” followed by an eruption of laughter (Pinkie is my oldest’s stuffed pig). Our children all sleep in the same room, so not only was the laughter contagious, but so was the improvisation. Before I left the room, Pinkie was well blessed by three small mouths and my children continued laughing from their toes for another forty-five minutes. Even I left the room unable to hold back a quiet giggle and a beaming smile as I shook my head.
Laughter eventually won me over, but not without a struggle. Prayers are to be reverent, devout, and serious. I kept thinking this is the prayer that Christ himself taught us to pray and my children are making a mockery of it. I tried to say, “No, we say the words we are supposed to say because we love and honor God.” But I too caught the case of the giggles and was unable to complete a sentence with sincerity and parental authority. I left their room in tension – I was smiling and I was struggling.
What my children offered up that night was pure joy. It was innocent laughter. I began to wonder what the more “perfect” prayer is. Is it the right words or the spirit behind it? I am fairly certain that Wednesday night, I was the student and my kids were my teacher. Their message: don’t hold back. Give it your all. Bring it from your toes and let it out – whatever the “it” happens to be.
There is a time to get the words right; to be serious in my devotion. God does deserve our devotion, our awe, and our reverence. And this is serious business. I am picturing what would happen if the same “Our Father, who art in Pinkie . . .,” erupted in church. The person in me who cares what others think of me, who fears being judged as a “bad mom”, and who is anxious about getting things absolutely perfect is freaking out by that mental image. And as I confess what is behind my desire to get it right, I realize just how much I am missing. I become aware that my motives for reverence are as much about appeasing my anxieties as it is to honor God.
Christ said, “Let the little children come unto me.” And being a mom of little children, that would include laughter, temper tantrums, and blueberry stained fingers. And he said again, “You must become like one of these.”
I have moments of impish desire. I work with a math teacher, and for some reason I cannot walk past her classroom without shooting her a silly face. There are a few other playful souls that have the ability to pull out my silliness, but unfortunately these moments seem few and far between. I thought a good New Year’s resolution would be to laugh more each day. I did not make this “official”, but wouldn’t you know it is creeping its way into my life despite having a formal invitation.
Let me take you back to Wednesday night. I am tucking my three preschoolers into bed. We have a routine. I go to each individual bed and sing two lullabies, say a series of “I am thankful for . . . “, and conclude with praying the “Our Father.” It is a sacred time of ritual and routine, of deep felt affection and connection as mother-child and also with God. It is a serious time.
I failed to remember preschoolers are not always serious. Instead of praying, “Our Father, who art in heaven . . .,” prayers went more like, “Our Father, who are in Pinkie . . .,” followed by an eruption of laughter (Pinkie is my oldest’s stuffed pig). Our children all sleep in the same room, so not only was the laughter contagious, but so was the improvisation. Before I left the room, Pinkie was well blessed by three small mouths and my children continued laughing from their toes for another forty-five minutes. Even I left the room unable to hold back a quiet giggle and a beaming smile as I shook my head.
Laughter eventually won me over, but not without a struggle. Prayers are to be reverent, devout, and serious. I kept thinking this is the prayer that Christ himself taught us to pray and my children are making a mockery of it. I tried to say, “No, we say the words we are supposed to say because we love and honor God.” But I too caught the case of the giggles and was unable to complete a sentence with sincerity and parental authority. I left their room in tension – I was smiling and I was struggling.
What my children offered up that night was pure joy. It was innocent laughter. I began to wonder what the more “perfect” prayer is. Is it the right words or the spirit behind it? I am fairly certain that Wednesday night, I was the student and my kids were my teacher. Their message: don’t hold back. Give it your all. Bring it from your toes and let it out – whatever the “it” happens to be.
There is a time to get the words right; to be serious in my devotion. God does deserve our devotion, our awe, and our reverence. And this is serious business. I am picturing what would happen if the same “Our Father, who art in Pinkie . . .,” erupted in church. The person in me who cares what others think of me, who fears being judged as a “bad mom”, and who is anxious about getting things absolutely perfect is freaking out by that mental image. And as I confess what is behind my desire to get it right, I realize just how much I am missing. I become aware that my motives for reverence are as much about appeasing my anxieties as it is to honor God.
Christ said, “Let the little children come unto me.” And being a mom of little children, that would include laughter, temper tantrums, and blueberry stained fingers. And he said again, “You must become like one of these.”
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