Earlier this week, Commonweal ran a piece I wrote on belief, disbelief, death, being young and lost, older and somewhat less lost, and trying to make sense of my kids’ religious upbringing. Belief, for me, has always seemed to start and stop and change in hiddenness, so however constructive the sorting was, writing about faith publicly was a challenging experience.
Thank you to Commonweal for the lovely treatment they gave this piece in their print magazine:
When my oldest daughter was a baby, she carried with her, from car seat to crib, My Little Golden Book About GOD. A gift from her great-grandmother, it was full of cherubic children cradling birds, nursing wounds, and gazing, dumbfounded and sweet, at a vast and star-strewn sky. Now at eight, it’s her quest to perfect “Adeste Fideles” on her guitar that obsesses her, and touches something in me, though my own belief in God is mercurial, and until she requested otherwise, I was more compelled to take my kids to play outside than to Mass.
Early on, my husband and I found vague common ground in seeing a relationship with nature as the closest thing to a true religious experience, though I never disliked church. While his Evangelical background and late-adolescent turn from its dogma left in its wake a gaping space and a lack of interest in organized faith, my own Catholic upbringing had felt like wandering a vast and fascinating museum and left me relatively unencumbered. As I passed into adulthood, I carried with me, more than a set of specific beliefs, a subtle passion and a sense of mysticism, a box with relics—an idea that things could not be easily explained.
Read the rest at Commonweal.