One of the things I've learned from my Sabbatical is a growing desire to write more, in the hopes that this helps me both process and share hopeful things that I've learned. It also means sharing wisdom that I've gained from others. The article, A Pray (The Banner) by Melissa Kuipers, a former campus minster, struck me:
“Can you do a pray?” my 3-year-old asks through the rustling of sheets... I like the activeness of turning the verb into a noun. Sometimes a prayer is too formal. So often I reach for the most rehearsed cliché words in my prayers for him. But a pray reminds me I can be playful when speaking to God, I can be thankful for the pedestrian things my child cares about: gratitude for a shortbread cookie from a friend who visited and listened to his long story about all the highlights of his 3-year-life, grief about yet another yellow fallen leaf from the jade plant, blessings for our loved ones living a plane trip away. A pray is ongoing. A pray is an action noun, like a kiss or a game. A pray is on a child’s terms.
Melissa continues to talk about the busy-ness of life and a child and the challenges of spending time in contemplation. At the same time, her writing and description of her child's developing faith (see here under) bear witness to being present in the moment. Bear witness to paying attention to how God is working. Or in her words, that "God is here in this moment, I think. My kids speak God’s words so often."
The following is one more excerpt from the article, which to me captures some of the delight of speaking about faith with children:
As I am about to start the bedtime “pray,” the 3-year-old suddenly transforms into an otter in the waves of the blanket. I wrap him in kelp for a few minutes, and then ask, “Shall I pray for you?”
He reaches over and takes my face in his hands. “Yes, Little One,” he says.
“Dear God,” I begin.
“God is everywhere,” he responds.
“Yes.”
“God lived for a very long time.”
“God is still alive. God has always been.”
“I wish we could see God.” He speaks the words of Moses on the mountain, pulling the sheet over his face like a cloud.
“Me too. ...”
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