A Renewal of Faith

"'Cause I'm never gonna stop the rain by complaining
Because I'm free
Nothing's worrying me..."

–B. J. Thomas, Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head

"Jenny," I said to our dog. "It's raining."

Jenny yawned and did a downward dog stretch. I thought her eyes said, I hear it, Dad. Ugh, that means I'm going to get wet.

While I waited outside for her to do her morning business, towel at the ready to dry her and wipe off her feet, I celebrated the rain. The rest of the family was still fast asleep on this dark and wet early fall Sunday morning. Our rabbit was safely snuggled away in his hutch. 

I reached my hand out to let the raindrops fall onto my open palm. Cool, wet, and soft. Soothing. No other sounds or smells but the rain. Like a therapy session for the soul. All the adulting things we have to deal with and worry about day after day washed away temporarily. The unstable world around us – the drought where we live, fires, the pandemic and other diseases, the economy, inflation, making a living, cultural and societal divides, crime, mental health issues, dangerous misinformation, and of course raising our children in the middle of it all – restabilizes into refreshing and nurturing raindrops for a world longing to heal. I placed my wet palm to my face and smiled.

Rain has always had this effect on me; God's way of inspiring a renewal of my faith in humanity and my place in it. We all want to be loved, to be safe, to be healthy, to be ourselves without fear of shame or discrimination. 

As I dried off our dog Jenny, "Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head" played inside my head. That was followed by a a line from "Three Little Birds":

"...don't worry about a thing, 'cause every little thing gonna be all right..."

Jenny and I sat next to each other on the coach. Everyone else was still asleep. I love my family, I thought. Jenny sighed a doggy sigh. I sighed a hopeful sigh.

Yes, a renewal of faith. Because I'm free, nothing's worrying me. 

All Kinds of Creative Solace

Beatrice entered her school's talent show to share her artwork. It's wasn't a judged talent show, and yet that doesn't matter. Out of the few hundred kids in her middle school, less than a dozen individuals (plus their school choir) participated in the virtual talent show. Bea submitted a short video with her showing some of her favorite art pieces from the past year. There were also other singers and musicians and voice actors and artists and film editors and more who entered. Bryce entered her school's talent show and shared her artwork as well. 

When I was 12 and my sister 10, we helped our mom break into the house of our first step-father, who was mentally ill and abusive, while he was at work. We had already gotten out of the house, but there were still too many personal things we didn't want to leave behind. In less than a day, he had changed the locks on the house, so the only way we could get in was to break in. We broke the bathroom window on the side of the house and then laid a towel over the bottom edge of the windowsill. The only person who could fit through the window was my sister. We were all scared out of our minds, with visions of him waiting quietly inside with a gun. The same gun he pointed at my mom multiple times. We got our things and got out, with no sign of him anywhere. 

Quite a juxtaposition from then to now. We're grateful that we've been safe and well and have been able to provide a stable and loving family environment for our girls. And while I did grow up in a less than stable environment, I wasn't without my creative side that my mom encouraged. I was always an avid reader (so was Amy growing up -- and we still are). We've instilled these positive habits in the girls as well; Bryce is more the avid reader overall and Bea loves her graphic novels. I also drew a lot when I was the girls' age, and was writing short stories then, too. Bea is also interested in writing her own stories in the form of graphic novels. Both girls are drawing and painting and experimenting will all kinds of art, and we continue to support them both. 

Even though the girls are back to in-person school again (5 days a week for Bryce and 2 days a week for Beatrice), we've all been fortunate to continue to be active and to nurture our creative sides over the past year of pandemic. We also know that there has been an exponential increase in stress, fatigue and depression throughout the pandemic, with many families socially isolated from family and friends. There have been too many people out of work, struggling financially to keep their families sheltered and food on the table. Domestic violence has been on the rise globally during the past year. There are families who have struggled with illness and mental health problems. And there are those who have split up for many of the reasons above.

Even when we're beyond this pandemic, the psychological and emotional impacts will be felt for years to come. Creating safe and healthy environments for our children is certainly the best intention for most parents, even when there are factors beyond our control. Leaning in on faith, on counseling, on mental health services, on the support of other family and friends are critical. Getting out of dangerous situations when there is no other alternative for safety is also critical. Through it all, encouraging our children to have a growth mindset, even in the face of extreme circumstances, can lead to all kinds of creative solace. 

The fallacy that God never speaks

The Road by Cormac McCarthy had such a profound effect on me; it is one of my favorite novels of all time.

No tiny feat considering that we were only on the unconscious cusp of wanting children when we listened to the audio book during our Southwest trip in May 2007.

It was one of those defining moments that filled our hearts with loving choice.

Over and over again the book's theme of parental love and protection against dismal nuclear devastation and end-of-the-world odds was punctuated by beautiful passages of prose.

Yep, I really liked it.

However, we knew it was going to be tough to watch the movie version of The Road.

And 15 minutes in, Mama said to stop. It was just too much now that we have children.

The scene was the father tenderly washing his son's head in a stream after a violent encounter with one of the bad folk roaming the desolate earth.

That was it. We turned it off.

But earlier than that there was a line I can and will never, ever forget:

The child is my warrant, and if he is not the Word of God, then God never spoke.

There are places in the world today just as post-apocalyptic as that of The Road, with fathers, mothers and children dying at the hands of their relentless enemies.

That of us. Sometimes for a dollar. Sometimes for sport. Sometimes for survival.

Sometimes we just come up short.

I don't subscribe to supercilious dogma and I'm not a praying man, but I don't believe in the fallacy that God never speaks.

My faith comes from the fallout of loving words that drift slowly to the floor and coalesce into pools of hope.

Amen. I will protect that faith with my life.

Be better people. Be better parents. Take the lead.

Bea-day Baby and Matted Cat make a family of 4. A.M.

Pretty used to that now - the morning window of 3-5 where baby wakes every other morning and gets pulled into bed, and Chelsea our poor matted 300-year-old cat sleeps between our heads and gets up and down from bed multiple times in that same darn morning window.

Yesterday was the official first Bea-day and last night we spent part of it combing and cutting matted hair out of our cat. Chelsea growled, hissed and howled and Beatrice thinks she's playing.

Rock on with your bad birthday self, Ms. Beatrice.

Oh, but what an elevating journey it's been with baby in year one! Three years ago we never would've imagined the delicate and delectable little creature we created.

Three years ago we didn't want no destructive or detestable little creatures; they were lovely in other peoples yards, like lawn gnomes that moved and broke stuff at night.

Last night one year ago at 7:08 p.m., Beatrice came into the world with a bang. Or more like a pop since her arm was stuck over her head preventing her from passing Mama's pubic bone and being born at home. Twenty-four hours before that we were watching the primetime Emmys.

Beatrice, why did you send Mama to the hospital?

I remember chaos, staying up all night, Mama exhausted, rushing her to the hospital, broken birthing equipment and blood. Scary and surreal. In fact so surreal that I couldn't quite grasp being paralyzed; I knew nothing else but elevating my presence for Amy. We had no previous experience with anything remotely close, no other life preservers but each other, clinging fast our hands with Amy on the table and me standing above her prior to Bea's arrival. Out in the world our friends and families prayed.

Then, a floppy baby crying with a torpedo head being cleaned up, weighed and measured.

Last month one of my favorite writers and musicians, Neil Peart, recently had a baby girl (he's 57 - and I thought I was an older daddy!). He wrote a wonderful essay about the final months of his wife's pregnancy, baby hummingbirds in the backyard, and the fear of what could go wrong considering he lost his first wife and daughter 12 years earlier.

Oh, how I felt this way growing up:

When I was a boy of six or seven, I remember fervently believing that I could prevent bad things from happening if I worried about them enough. Now I recognize that atavistic urge as a primitive kind of prayer, and I was still superstitious enough then to believe in magical thinking. Hoping to escape being found out in a lie, or punished for something I had accidentally broken, I would worry about it long and hard. If, despite all that prayer, my crime were discovered, I would decide that I had simply not worried enough. All unknowing, I had invented my own little religion, the Church of Worry, and it worked the same as all the others: If something bad happens, it’s your fault for not having prayed enough.

This time, I guess I must have prayed enough—so far, at least. On August 12, 2009, Olivia Louise Peart hatched into the world.

Amen, Neil. We celebrated Bea's first birthday with my parents a few weeks ago and then had a big shindig this past weekend with friends and family.

Bea had such a great time. (Well, besides the birthday singing and everybody staring, she did have a great time).

What a beautiful daughter we have.

The Church of Worry takes a heavy tithing toll, and if I've learned anything from the first year with baby, I've learned that with magical thinking we make what is meant to Bea.

Always. Even if she forces plastic geometric shapes into my mouth.

Happy Birthday Baby!