"Did God Die?"

I will be honest: I did not really think much at all about when the questions about religious beliefs would begin to come out of my son's mouth — I am not, after all, any good at forethought of any kind — but I am fairly certain that had I given this eventuality the planning it indubitably deserves, I would not have expected it to start at age three. But I should have, because that is when it has.

This morning, as Primus and I were eating our early breakfast, giving Mama and Baby a little extra sleepytime, he looks up at me and asks, very intensely, "Did God die?"

Not really expecting that one, I hemmed a bit, then said, "No, I don't think so."

"Jesus is dying on the cross in the office," was his reply, referring to the large crucifix in the other room, a gift from my parents and grandparents on the occasion of my confirmation and high school graduation.

Oh, that. "Well, yes, Jesus died for us, and Jesus is God. So, I suppose..." Seeming answered, he returned to his oatmeal.

So we (my wife and I) need to do some serious deciding about how exactly we want to approach our tentatively-shared faith with our ever-inquisitive offspring. Neither of us want to cram him full of glib rote catechetical formulae; we want to share from our hearts what the core beliefs of our faith mean to us as earnest believers. And to do that, I am going to have to snap out of my spiritual sloth and get my head around my personal faith, because it will prove singularly difficult to confidently share something with Primus that I am not consciously incorporating into my daily life.

Pushing the swing higher

We are swinging very high these days. It was only at the beginning of this summer that the Boy graduated from the bucket-with-leg-holes that is the playground Baby Swing to to the classic strip of rubber on chains: the Big Kid Swing.

So far no serious mishaps have occurred as I nervously indulge his gleeful demands of "Higher! Higher!" My own admonitions of "Hold on tight!" are only partly acknowledged as he shimmies his hips, lurching the swing about as it hurtles through its sweeping arc.

As nerve-fraying as his excited nonchalance is for me as a parent, as a former child it is impossible not to share in his exhilaration and wonder how long it will be before he is ready for the rigors of leg-pumping and the breath-taking rush of his first underdog.

Whole Child, Whole Parent by Polly Berrien Berends

This is one of those rare books I will buy whenever I see it (it's out of print) because I know I will want to give it to everyone I know. Even though I have yet to finish it I foresee reading it on a regular basis, even semi-annually. It is wise, non-judging, and true true true.