Joseph and I attempted to make our own recycled paper yesterday.  We completed the process together, him reading the directions and both of us following each step.  We cut up newspaper, soaked it in water, added cornstarch, drained it, pressed it, sprinkled glitter on top, and left it to dry.  When we were done, he joyfully announced that he was going to go and make some more recycled paper in his kitchen and off he went.  I cleaned up our mess and carried on with my day.

Soon he brought me a small container that was filled with cut-up paper.  He was so proud.  He had gotten his scissors and cut the paper all by himself.  I praised him gently, telling him how straight his lines were.  I told him he must be so proud of himself.  He was.  He carried on with the paper making process.  I carted Andrew off to bathe him. 

Joseph kept me informed of his progress.  “Mommy, I added water to the paper.”  “Mommy, I pretended this was the cornstarch and I mixed it.”  “Oh, Mommy, I’ve got a great idea.  I’m going to pretend that another piece of paper is the foil with holes in it so I can drain my paper.”  His voice was filled with joy.

Then, while I leaned down to rinse the soap off of Roo, Joseph appeared at my side, eyes downcast and a look of pure shame on his face.  “I didn’t mean to do it, Mommy.  I was just trying to get some of it off.”  “What happened?” I asked.  “I spilled the glitter.”  If you could have seen his face, it would have broken your heart.  It broke mine.  All over a little spilled glitter.  I brushed it off.  “So the glitter spilled.  We’ll clean it up.”  Hope filled his eyes.  “Yea, we just have to clean it up.  It’s not a big deal, right?”  “Nope, not a big deal at all.” 

I have done this to him.  I have made him afraid of spilling a little glitter.  How has this happened?  I know.

As adults we are quick to respond.  Quick to overreact.  Quick to make a comment.  I am guilty of all those things.  Juice spills and rather than handling it matter-of-factly, I feel justified to throw in a comment like, “That’s why we don’t carry our juice around the house.  You need to be careful.  Now I have to clean that up.”  Their self-esteem dips just a little (and their confidence in drinking from a cup plummets).  Or in a rush to come inside, the kids take off their shoes in the laundry room and dump out a pile of sand on the floor.  Rather than just sweeping the sand out the door, I feel justified in exaggerating a deep breath and saying, “Great.  Now I have to clean up the sand you just brought in.”  And their self-esteem dips just a little more (and in creeps a little doubt…”what did I do wrong?” they ask themselves).  And there lies the problem.  It’s not what they’ve done wrong.  It’s my reaction.  I have forgotten how little they are.  How they are learning to do things.  They try their best to do a good job (“Mommy will be so proud that I’m still drinking my juice…see, I remembered to bring it with me to the playroom so I could finish it.”  “Mommy will be so happy that I remembered to take my shoes off before coming in.”) but instead they’re met with negative responses.  No wonder Joseph was afraid to tell me about the spilled glitter. 

It’s really not about the spilled glitter or the spilled juice or the sand on the floor.  It’s about the fact that I am the adult here and they are the children.  My reaction will settle deep into their growing souls and someday (perhaps even tomorrow when William accidentally spills water on Joseph’s artwork or when Andrew knocks over Joseph’s train tracks) they will mimic my response.  What response would I like to see reflected in them? 

This isn’t about teaching Joseph to be more careful.  Yes, that needs to be taught.  But with patience and love.  Kindness and gentleness.  There is no place for harsh criticism in raising children.  I have only been teaching patience and love with my words (“Joseph, be patient…Andrew is just a baby and he doesn’t understand that you don’t need his help”) and not with my actions.  Thank God for the glitter spill yesterday, so my eyes could be opened.

Fear can be a lonely place.  Probably because it happens in your mind and the human mind is a dangerous place.  The devil knows that.  He rejoices in the vulnerability of the human mind and uses it to his full advantage.  He’s eager to plant doubt in our minds, sending his demons in.  And once those demons are in, it’s hard to ignore them.  Peace of mind comes to each of us in a different form.  Some of us are fortunate enough to be extremely strong willed, never giving in to the tempting thoughts; never giving the devil the satisfaction of being afraid.  Others of us need a little extra grace.  A little back up support to quiet the thoughts.  Some find it in prayer.  Some find it in another person…a spouse, a friend, a parent.  Me?  This time around, the only peace I could find was at the doctor’s office.

On Friday, I tripped.  It was a ridiculous thing to do.  I was wearing a big pair of fluffy red socks (remember the ones I was wearing in my last daybook?) and rather than untying my shoes to fit those big fluffy socks in, I crammed my toes in and thought I’d put my shoes on properly once outside.  I had a baby seat in my hands so my hands were not free to catch my fall.  The cards were stacked against me.  The toe of my shoe caught on the threshold of the back door and I, literally, went flying out the door.  My face took the brunt of the fall.  

At first I was simply shocked.  After checking to make sure I hadn’t lost a tooth (I hadn’t…it was just my busted lip that was the cause of all the blood in my mouth) and seeing a huge goose egg above my eyebrow, I grabbed an ice pack, headed back outside to be with the kids, and called Daxson.  I was a little shaky, but I seemed fine.  I was worried that I was going to pass out, but I knew Daxson was on his way home, so soon I’d be in good hands.

After cleaning up my wounds (I skinned quite a few spots), Daxson went back to work and I set out to finish up our night.  I cooked dinner, bathed the kids, and got everyone ready for bed.  I had a little headache, but mostly it was my ego that seemed to suffer.  I knew I looked like a wreck and I felt pretty silly for tripping. 

The next morning I had a terrible headache and as the day went on, I felt so much pressure in my face.  Daxson tried to reassure me that it was just a black eye and it looked worse than it was.  I sought support from friends and family and with good intentions, they each expressed concern that perhaps I should see a doctor; some made suggestions as to what could be wrong.  That’s when the door apparently opened for the demons.  It was no one’s fault…that’s just the way the devil works.  He sees weakness (in this case, my doubts) and he feeds on that.  And those demons were quite happy to take up residence in my aching head. 

It started with simple thoughts.  Thoughts like “maybe there’s bleeding in my head…bleeding I can’t see” and “what if I’m ignoring some obvious sign?”   The thoughts grew worse.  “What if, by my own stubborness, I don’t go to the doctor and it progressively gets worse and becomes fatal…what if I had just gone to the doctor at the beginning and fixed it right away?”  “What if something happens to me?”  and then those demons went in for the kill…”Joseph.  William.  Andrew.  What will they do without their mommy?”   Now the devil was in there…he’d found my soft spot and he wasn’t going to let go.

Now if you’re one of the lucky few who are extremely strong willed and can fend off the demons before they take hold, then you probably think I’m being very dramatic.  But that’s the thing about the mind.  It’s quite powerful.  Fear, for those of us with weak minds, is very real.  It may not be logical.  It may not be factual.  It may not make sense.  But to the one experiencing it, it’s real.  It’s alive.  It’s consuming.  And it’s extremely scary. 

Daxson tried time after time to reassure me that it was fine, but Daxson’s words were no match for the devil.  The devil’s been at this a long time.  He knows just want seeds of doubt to plant and he knows just how to water those seeds so they grow into uncontrollable weeds.  And trust me, those weeds were growing quite well inside my mind.  I was scared and no words were going to assure me.  I needed proof that I was fine.

Maybe at this point, you’re asking about my faith.  I don’t have a good answer for you.  I do have faith.  I did pray.  A lot.  The demons persisted.  I did not feel peace.  I’d like to think that it was God’s gentle nudging that led me to the only peace I had all weekend…when late Sunday night I made up my mind that I’d go see the doctor Monday morning. 

And I did.  And I thought maybe I was overreacting.  But the moment the doctor looked at my face, I knew I made the right choice.  He explained what could possibly be wrong (who knew that tripping and landing on your face could be the potential for so many serious things?)  The doctor took x-rays and ran a CT scan.  He was concerned about broken bones, busted sinus cavities and bleeding in the brain.  He ran scenarios by me that I did not even know I should be worried about.  He confirmed that it’s better to be safe than sorry.  I waited and waited all day for the results.  The demons in my mind had quite a day.  I prayed.  I sought comfort from those I love.  I waited some more.   Then finally the call came.  I fractured the orbital bone around my left eye, but there was no bleeding or fluid in my brain; no busted sinuses; no unusual swelling.  In that moment, the weight of the world was lifted off my shoulders…or more precisely, the demons in my mind were forced to leave.  I finally had peace.  I had no reason to listen to those awful thoughts that had plagued me all weekend.

I do not know if I made the decision you would have.  I do not know if in the great scheme of things (especially now that I know it’s simply a fractured bone which will heal on its own) a doctor’s visit was warranted.  But I do know that it’s what I needed.  I still have an awful headache and I look like a mess.  But the demons are gone and I have peace of mind.  God provided.

Sometimes I forget.  I forget how little they are.  I spend my days caught up in the midst of raising them and I forget to see them just as they are.  Instead I see the potential they have and I push them to be their best.  I spend my days correcting them.  Guiding them.  Leading them.  The problem is that I don’t always do it patiently. 

Then something happens.  I am given just enough grace to see them just as they are.  Not as I perceive them.  Not as I desire them to be.  Just as they are.  Full of love and trust.  Vulnerable.  So eager to please.  I suddenly see a little boy standing before me, with knobby knees, feet that he still needs to grow into, and eyes filled with love…and faith.  Faith in me.  Faith that I am treating him by the golden rule.  Faith that I am showing him what it means to be a loving parent.  And I am faced with the realization that I fall short of what it is that I am called to show him. 

I lie awake many nights replaying the day over and over again.  Only this time when I relive the events of the day, it is not my children I am correcting.  It is me.  No longer do I bark commands, but instead I listen.  No longer do I rush them to hurry along, but instead I realize that the process is more important than the product.  As I replay the day, I am quick to smile, slow to anger.  I promise myself that tomorrow will be a better day.  Tomorrow I will remember what it means to be little and I will respect that.               

FATHER FORGETS
W. Livingston Larned

Listen, son: I am saying this as you lie asleep, one little paw crumpled under your cheek and the blond curls stickily wet on your damp forehead. I have stolen into your room alone. Just a few minutes ago, as I sat reading my paper in the library, a stifling wave of remorse swept over me. Guiltily I came to your bedside.

There are the things I was thinking, son: I had been cross to you. I scolded you as you were dressing for school because you gave yourface merely a dab with a towel. I took you to task for not cleaning your shoes. I called out angrily when you threw some of your things on the floor.

At breakfast I found fault, too. You spilled things. You gulped down your food. You put your elbows on the table. You spread butter too thick on your bread. And as you started off to play and I made for my train, you turned and waved a hand and called, “Goodbye, Daddy!” and I frowned, and said in reply, “Hold your shoulders back!”

Then it began all over again in the late afternoon. As I came up the road I spied you, down on your knees, playing marbles. There wereholes in your stockings. I humiliated you before your boyfriends by marching you ahead of me to the house. Stockings were expensive – and if you had to buy them you would be more careful! Imagine that, son, from a father!

Do you remember, later, when I was reading in the library, how you came in timidly, with a sort of hurt look in your eyes? When I glanced up over my paper, impatient at the interruption, you hesitated at the door. “What is it you want?” I snapped.

You said nothing, but ran across in one tempestuous plunge, and threw your arms around my neck and kissed me, and your small arms tightened with an affection that God had set blooming in your heart and which even neglect could not wither. And then you were gone, pattering up the stairs.

Well, son, it was shortly afterwards that my paper slipped from my hands and a terrible sickening fear came over me. What has habit been doing to me? The habit of finding fault, of reprimanding – this was my reward to you for being a boy. It was not that I did not love you; it was that I expected too much of youth. I was measuring you by the yardstick of my own years.

And there was so much that was good and fine and true in your character. The little heart of you was as big as the dawn itself over the wide hills. This was shown by your spontaneous impulse to rush in and kiss me good night. Nothing else matters tonight, son. I have come to your bed-side in the darkness, and I have knelt there, ashamed!

It is a feeble atonement; I know you would not understand these things if I told them to you during your waking hours. But tomorrow I will be a real daddy! I will chum with you, and suffer when you suffer, and laugh when you laugh. I will bite my tongue when impatient words come. I will keep saying as if it were a ritual: “He is nothing but a boy – a little boy!”

I am afraid I have visualized you as a man. Yet as I see you now, son, crumpled and weary in your cot, I see that you are still a baby. Yesterday you were in your mother’s arms, your head on her shoulder. I have asked too much, too much.

Sometimes the sheer monotony of daily family life is enough to overwhelm me.  I am afraid to actually think about it too much.  Just imagine if I were to add up the number of times that I’m going to wash dishes or change diapers or fold clothes or make sandwiches.  Sometimes I can barely keep up with the day to day duties…the laundry piles up, the dishes beckon me, the toys need to be put away…again.  All in between changing diapers, nursing the baby, refilling water cups, and cooking meals.  It’s ordinary.  It’s mundane.  It never ends.  Literally.  Tomorrow will bring the same things.  Maybe I’ll tweak our schedule a little and serve breakfast at 9 instead of 8.  Maybe we’ll have an adventure of sorts….a trip to the grocery store, a visit to the aquarium.  But the bare bones are consistent.  Meals must be made and served.  Dishes must be cleaned.  Laundry washed.  Diapers changed.  Snacks served.  Hands washed.  Baths given.  Stories read. 

Yet in the midst of all this ordinariness, there is joy.  Joy in knowing that my stability provides the foundation these children need for peace and security.  Joy in knowing that I, alone, can comfort, cuddle and soothe whether it be a cut, a scrape, or a hurt ego.  Joy in knowing that each day, each ordinary moment forms a memory.  A memory that fills their hearts with love.  Joy in knowing that maybe, just maybe God will greet me someday with the words I long to hear, “Well done my good and faithful servant.”  And that joy is what gives me the strength to wake up each morning to face another ordinary day.

Ann Ruethling and Patti Pitcher reflected on what they found to be true in parenting in Under the Chinaberry Tree.  You’d be missing out if you didn’t have an opportunity to read their thoughts…

“If he had asked me a couple of years ago to tell him what I’d found to be true about parenting. I wouldn’t have mentioned the obvious – the wakeful nights, the spit-up, or the endless diapers – but rather what a profoundly life-changing experience it is.  As I get more and more days of parenting under my belt, though, I realize my advice would come in the form of questions.  I would ask…

Did you search your sould more deeply than you’ve ever searched it before deciding to have a baby and do you understand that parenting is forever?  Do you understand that no matter how much you prepare or how much you read, you will still find yourself questioning?  That the questions get bigger and harder – not smaller and easier – as your child gets older?  That there will be times when your child will need you to hold him in his darkest hour – whether he’s fifteen months or fifteen years old – even when every bone in your body says you don’t have the energy or when your appointment book says you don’t have the time?  That you will need to take a hard look at what ‘everybody’s doing’ and ask for the wisdom to know what is best and the courage to act from your heart?  Do you understand, the sooner the better in your parenting journey, that you are not parenting in a vacuum, that your child, raised with the values you have given her, will be impacting the world for better or for worse sooner than you’d ever dreamed?  Did you search your soul and even try to understand how our society has reached the point where children kill children?

And I would go on.  Are you willing to pray for guidance to know how to bring some Light into our often dark world, to take steps to soften the hard edges?  Do you have the patience to cry with others when there is pain and be full of joy when something of beauty has graced your family’s life?  Are you willing to slow down; to be sleepless in the middle of the night, wondering if you handled something the best way; to learn more than you thought you ever wanted to learn about things that have nothing to do with advanced degrees or the career track?  Can you be vulnerable?  Are you willing to be more completely honest than you’ve ever been?  Are you willing to see the places in your life where you stopped growing long ago?  Do you understand that to bring a child into the world, as well as to birth yourself as a more compassionate human being in the process of parenting, is not only the hardest thing you’ll likely ever do but, just as important, a profound honor? 

Yes, I would ask my friend these questions, longing for him to understand in the process of answering them the sacredness of the work at hand.  For if his answers are ‘yes’ then I trust that each time he wipes grubby hands, makes yet another peanut butter sandwich and with loving words breaks up a sibling dispute, he knows with each cell of his being that parenting is noble work whose every act is heroic and a task worth doing from the deepest, best place of his soul.”

“Before falling into sleep, remember the ordinary moments of the day, the moments with your children that meant something to you.  This simple exercise is like a spiritual corrective lens.  In your vision of your kids, it helps restore the prominence of ‘who they are’ over ‘what they need to do’ or ‘what they need to work on.’  Review the images; revisit the funny yet strangely insightful thing your daughter said, the gesture your son made that surprised you.  Think about how your little one climbed up on the bench by the window at three o’clock, somehow sensing that her sister’s bus would arrive soon.  Remember how your twins looked at the park, the newly minted freckles on their cheeks; their pride in mastering the jungle gym rings.  Remember the way your daughter looked minutes ago when you checked on her: horizontal on the bed with her arm flung back over her head, as though she had tried to outrun sleep.  Relive those moments, and give them their due.  Let the images rise to the surface of your day.  Let them fill the emotional waters that will lull you, in waves of appreciation and wonder, into sleep.”  Kim John Payne, Simplicity Parenting

I look down and cannot help but stare in amazement at the perfect little creature swaddled in my arms.  A little button nose, sweet sleepy eyes, hands held in tightly closed fists.  I watch.  I wait.  He sleeps.  Content.  Wrapped in love.  I keep watching.  What else is there for me to do?  I’ve been banned to the couch until my six week check-up.  I’m getting good at watching.  I keep watching.  Perfection.  Right here in my arms.  I might have missed it if I weren’t on bedrest.  Did I miss this with Joseph and William?  I don’t know.  I can’t remember because the early days with them seem like a blur now.  I rushed with them.  Rushed to get back into the swing of things.  Rushed to see their first real smile; to hear their first real laugh; to get into some kind of routine.  This time I have nothing to rush for.  I have 27 more days until I can leave my post on the couch (yep, Joseph and I made a countdown chain to track Mommy’s healing).  I can fill those 27 days with busywork.  Searching the internet; making lists; compiling homeschool curriculum ideas.  Or I can fill those 27 days with intentional living.  I can savor each moment of this precious little newborn because who knows if this will be my last.  There are no guarantees in life.  Daxson and I plan to have more babies, but what if God has a different plan?  What if this is my last chance to just watch.  To just wait.  To just be.  I can spend the next 27 days trying to keep Joseph and William entertained while I read a book or spend time mindlessly clicking away on my laptop or I could spend the next 27 days watching them…watching as Joseph and William immerse themselves in imaginary play, finding ways to make it through a restless summer; watching as childhood unfolds before them.  I choose to spend my next 27 days watching.  Watching.  Waiting.  There is no rush here.  Just precious time.  I plan to watch as that time unfolds.

Intentional living…seems to be a hot topic this summer.  Elizabeth is contemplating it In the Heart of her Home; Sarah is thinking about it Amongst Lovely Things.  Now I’m thinking about it.  Maybe you will spend a little time contemplating how to live each day with intention.  There are no guarantees.  No promise of another summer.  No promise of time.  So go and make your list.  Your list for this summer of intentional living.  It might look more like Sarah’s or Elizabeth’s…theirs are filled with beautiful, creative endeavors.  Or maybe, just maybe your list will look more like mine.  My list is quite short.  Just one thing on it.  Watch.

What’s your name?  “2.”  No, not how old are you.  Your name.  (a look of ah-ha) “William.”

Very good.  How old are you?  “William.”  No, sweetie, this time I want to know how old you are.  How many years you are.  (another look of ah-ha) “2.”

What’s your favorite color?  “Black.” (he’s signing it as he says it)

What’s your favorite book?  “Black books.”  Okay.

What’s your favorite sport?  “Baseball.  They hit the ball with the baseball bat.”  (he swings his arms like a bat as he says it)

What’s your favorite thing to eat?  “Bread.  Bread.  Bread.”  (frantically signing it as well)  Bread?  Got it.

What’s your favorite fruit?  “Blackberries.”

What’s your favorite vegetable?  “Raspberries.”  That’s not a vegetable.  Do you like vegetables?  “No.” 

What’s your favorite thing to do?  “Go outside.”

What do you like to do outside?  “Play in the mud.”  100% boy.

What’s your name:  (with a look like “really, Mom?”) “Joseph”

How old are you?  “Ummmm, 3.”  (He’s so ready to say 4, but still has a month to go!)

What’s your favorite color?  “That’s easy, it’s red.”

What’s your favorite book?  “Ten Little Fingers and Ten Little Toes” (by Mem Fox)

What’s your favorite thing to do?  “Work on my laptop.”  Hmm, I’m surprised that’s what you chose.  It seems like there are so many other things that you love to do.  What about going outside?  Isn’t that your favorite thing to do?  “No, that’s my favorite part of the day.”  Ohhhh.

So, what’s your favorite part of the day?  (with an “are you serious?” look)  “Going outside.”

What’s your favorite thing to eat?  “Vegetables.”  Really?  What kind of vegetables are your favorite?  “Peas and carrots.  Mmmm.”

What’s your favorite fruit?  “Well, my favorite color is red, BUT my favorite fruit is blueberries.”

What’s your favorite sport?  “Football because I’m a football player.”  

Where’s your favorite place to go?  “The Aquarium.  I love to see the fish.”

Who’s your best friend?  “Oh, William, of course.”

What do you want to be when you grow up?  “A knight.”

Do you have any goals?  Anything you’d like to accomplish soon?  “Oh, yes.  I’d like to learn to really throw a ball and I’d like to go pick some flowers.  Oh and I plan to grow a rock garden.”  A rock garden?  “Yes, a rock garden.  You see I already planted a rock over there in that bucket of water.  I better go check on it and see if it’s grown at all.”  (runs over to the bucket and pulls out the rock) “Yes, I think it’s growing a little.”  (hmm, maybe we need a science lesson on living vs nonliving things?)

Is there anything you’d like to add to this interview?  Any little detail about yourself that you want to always remember about being 3 years old?  “Yes.  I’d like to say that I really like to play with William.  Now I’ve got to go watch my rock grow.”

Somewhere in the world, there is an ever faithful mom.  One who gets up early every morning, dresses in the dark and quietly reads the Bible to herself before anyone else is awake.  She then wakes her children before the sun comes up, fixes them a healthy breakfast, and takes them all to daily mass.  Somewhere else, another mother wakes up beside her children and snuggling them close, she makes a morning offering, dedicating her day, her chores, her life to Jesus.  She pauses, allowing the children to participate with their own heartfelt prayer requests.  Elsewhere, a family gathers around their table ready to dig into breakfast, when Daddy clears his throat and asks them all to bow their heads in prayer and thanksgiving for such a bountiful meal. Somewhere, tonight, a family will gather around the foot of their family altar and taking turns, they will pray the rosary.  Throughout the day, throughout the world, today, moms and dads will read stories about saints; spontaneously pray with their children; sing songs; live by example; tell stories from the Bible.   Each family, in their own way, is doing what we, as parents, are called to do.  They are passing on the faith.  They are building the most important foundation they can, preparing their children for the ultimate goal in life…Heaven. 

Why do we pass on the faith?  The goal is not sainthood (although, yes, that would be a remarkable and profound gift); the goal is not perfection; the goal certainly is not to be a walking theologian, spouting Church doctrine.  The goal is simple (although I’m not implying easy):  It is to get our children to Heaven.  That is our calling as parents.  That is how we serve the Lord. 

So how do we pass on the faith?  Oh, if only it were so easy that I could just tell you.  But wait, it is that easy.  Because faith is not meant to be complicated.  It is not meant to need a degree in theology to understand.  Faith is simple.  It is humble.  It is childlike.  “Amen, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will not enter the kingdom of heaven.  Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.”  Matthew 18:3-4

St. Therese of Lisieux is a beautiful example to follow when we attempt to pass along our faith.  She believed in the “Little Way”, a way of simplicity; a way of loving the Lord in all the small things she did each day.  Following St. Therese’s example of her “little way” is the key to passing the faith along.  Passing along the faith cannot be done simply by attending daily mass, teaching Church doctrine, or studying the lives of saints (although all of these are worthwhile endeavors).  It is more important to ask yourself the following:  Do your children see you praying?  Do they see you struggling with sin (like short tempers and angry outbursts) but then see you asking forgiveness and begging for mercy (not just from the Lord but from the person on the receiving end of an angry outburst…even a 2 year old sees regret in our eyes and hears the plea for forgiveness)?  Do they see us trying harder each day?  Do they see us reading the Bible and reading about the lives of the saints?  Do they see us expressing gratitude for the many, many blessings in our lives?  Do they see us living the faith?  Because that’s how we pass on the faith.  By living it.   

So everybody has their own method.  Their own “little way” to pass the faith along.  There is no wrong way.  And there certainly is no right way.  No way that is holier than others.  Some attend daily mass; some pray a daily rosary; some read Bible stories at breakfast; some celebrate feast days; some simply pray.  Some moms have it all together.  Some don’t.  Some do it gracefully.  Some don’t.  It doesn’t matter how it looks to the rest of the world.  What matters is what’s in your heart because children see that.  They feel it in their little beings.  They know when you are earnest and humble.  And they imitate that.  So do it with a pure heart and the best of intentions.  Do it your own “little way”, this grand task of passing on the faith.  That’s what’s important…that you do it.  So live it, breathe it…you’ll be passing that beautiful gift of faith right along…and your children will be one step closer to the gates of Heaven.