My Name is Angela. I am a Child of God.

My church has a Friday evening service that caters to parishioners that are often found on the fringes of our middle-class world. They are in the bottom end of the socio-economic ladder and many are fighting demons of alcoholism, drug addiction, and mental illness.

Last night was the first time I had attended that particular service, even after 10 months of being involved with the church. My good friend, Cheryl, is an active participant of Friday Church and can't seem to get through a single conversation about it without tears and a smile, and often a complete lack of words. Soooo, I decided I needed to check this stuff out.

I was struck by several things. The first was probably that the service itself was much like the "high church" I attend each Sunday morning. The music was a little more happening, with guitar and drums. I didn't stand out quite so much with my blue jeans as I tend to do on Sunday. But there was a Call to Worship (led by a parishioner), there was a time of confession and prayer. There was an offering time, a passing of the Peace, a sermon, a time of response. In addition, there was a hunger, an authenticity, a presence that was palpable and, like Cheryl, I'm unable to find adequate words to describe the way I felt. . . perhaps another day, after many more worship experiences at Friday Church.

The part I can put words to was the way the service was also much like a 12-step meeting in that each person, before he spoke, said his name, stated that he was an alcoholic, some added, "I am a child of God." Once that was said, the scripture was read, the prayer request was made, the service continued.

 I couldn't help but wonder if we would do the same thing at "high church" what would our response be. I mean, seriously, if you had to say outloud what you were and then carry on. I've probably been through enough "recovery" stuff to be able to say, "I'm Angela. I'm an Anorexic. I'm a Child of God." Not sure what everybody else would do sitting in the pews.

 But what if we had to go even deeper.

 "My name is Jeff. I'm an asshole. I'm a Child of God."

"My name is Bo. I'm a worrier. I'm a Child of God."

"My name is Sue. I don't speak to my sister. I'm a Child of God."

"My name is Bob. I care more about money than anything. I'm a Child of God."

"My name is Adam. I am a doubter. I'm a child of God."

"My name is Becky. I'm a liar. I'm a child of God."

I've got a feeling that most of us wouldn't be so quick to talk if that particular greeting was mandatory. But for those of us listening, it would serve to remind us that we are really more than our demons. . . . each of us is a child of God. That's big stuff. Stuff worth the trip to Friday Church.

Miracles

I've been reading Charlotte's Web to my third graders over the last couple of weeks. It is one of my favorite all time books. On the surface, it's a story about a spider and a pig, but deeper, it's a story of profound love and friendship.

At one point in the book, there is a conversation between two human characters in which they are discussing the miracle of the webs Charlotte spins with phrases like "Some Pig" and "Terrific" in an effort to save her friend from being slaughtered in the winter. One of the characters says that a spider's web is a miracle even without the words.

I posed a similar question to my class friends.

About half the class felt that any web was a miracle. They backed their opinions with evidence such as "Nothing else can make a web."  They finished their argument with that anything that something does without having to be taught is a miracle.

The other half was just as adamant in that a simple spider's web did not even come close to a miracle. Robbie said that if  a web was a miracle then so was peeing because a spider can "just do it." A couple more added that we're not taught to breathe or blink, are either of those miracles?

We spent the next few moments talking about miracles. Joe even looked it up in the Intermediate Dictionary.

David raised his chubby hand and scrunched up his face, as is his habit, and said haltingly that he thought he had actually experienced a miracle.

( David is an 8 year old going on 40. He brings Funyons for a "healthy snack", would rather play video games than kickball, takes medicine twice a day for attention issues. He also takes his backpack to the office each Friday for enough food to carry his family through the weekend. He is physically as slow as molasses, and he has all of the outward signs of a kid at risk for failing. In other words, David's got more issues than an 8 year old should have. But there is something about David. Something that is real and honest and wise. You just have to look beyond the left over chocolate around his mouth and try not to interrupt his sometimes lengthy thought process.)

Back to the miracle. . .

I asked David to share. He said that one time when he was at Six Flags there was a ride that he really wanted to go on but "you had to be tall to get on it." So, he prayed that God would let him be tall enough and it turned out he was! In David fashion he ended with, "So there. . . a miracle!" The rest of the group seemed to be okay with David's example and began their own litany of witnessed miracles, but their beloved teacher was not ready to let go of David's miracle.

"David, do you really think that was a miracle?"

"Yes, because the year before I wasn't tall enough to ride it, but God made a miracle and I was tall."

"David, do you think that maybe you just grew over the year and that's what made you tall enough for the ride?"

"I do." With a huge smile he said, "See. A miracle."

"Yes, David, I do see. It was a miracle."

Thank you, God, for the miracle of David, the wise mentor of this 48 year old teacher, who reminded me that every good gift is a miracle, that just because we've come to expect it, doesn't make it any less of a miracle.

Sam

I don’t often write of Sam anymore although he was the subject of most of my journal entries years ago. I wrote a collection of letters to him while I carried him inside of me and continued to chronicle his first steps ( Dec. 10, 1987) to the description of how he refused to leave his school supplies at school on the first day of kindergarten. I also wrote of more painful, stressful times as he grew from a strong-willed boy into an even stronger-willed young man. These days, though, the words don’t come.


Just as any mother worth her salt would say I love each of my three children equally, but I would also add, as most mothers won’t, that I love them so differently that’s it’s as if my love comes from three different people, as if they each had their own mother who all happen to be me.

Sam was my first. He introduced me to an entirely different kind of love. . . the kind where you would die, where you would kill, where you seem to wear your heart and feelings on the outside of your body where they are no longer protected by skin and bones.

I suppose being the “center” of a mother’s world is one of the perks as well as one of the perils of being the first child and, I often wonder, if Sam’s birth order has played a part in who he has become, if my borderline obsessive love for him did it, or if he is just Sam, or even more so, does it even matter.

I feel like I’ve been apologizing to Sam since he was just a baby or at least since the twins were born. In my warped young mind, I had it in my head that Sam’s vote in the family carried as much weight as my own, and there have been times when I’ve simply handed him my vote in order to avoid a conflict or a hurt feeling. I’ve recently decided not to do that anymore.

While divorcing his dad and later entering into treatment for anorexia, the fear of losing Sam was my biggest worry. It was bigger than starting a life on my own after 25 years. It was bigger than the possibility of losing that life to mental illness.

In the years since then, I’ve managed to put a band-aid on our relationship, but I still deny him access to my real self. The real me who would not make room for his ego, the me that would demand to be spoken to with honesty and respect. This has not only hurt me, but has hurt Sam’s own growth and self-discovery.

When I take my “mom” glasses off, I see Sam as a talented, articulate young man who drinks too much, who is unable to manage a romantic, healthy relationship with a woman. I see a man who spends more time on lies than sharing the genuineness that floods his heart. I see a man who is a great thinker and debater and shelters a tender heart. I see a man whose mother has tried to clear the path before him, leaving him with a sense that he can’t make his own way. . . so he attempts to fill the void with a false bravado that takes the form of alcohol or women or bullshit.

I know though, even if he doesn’t at this point in his life, that he is not only a member of a family that loves and cares for him, but the creation of a living and loving God. I’m beginning to finally understand that the same Spirit who found me on early morning walks five years ago, will also find Sam. That same sweet Spirit will whisper in his ear telling him he is more than what he has become. It will find him in the dark, take hold of his hand and bring him to the Light of his own goodness and worth.

I need to quit looking at Sam within the limits of being my son, and I need to see the unlimited possibilities within him as a child of God.

I love that boy and the human part of me wants to hold on to him and rescue him and make excuses for him and nag him for the rest of my life. That’s my job as his mother. But the truth is I love that boy so much that it’s time to give him back to God. . . just like the biblical Sam’s mother did. It’s time for him to feel the arms of the Spirit wrapped around him and that can’t happen until I release my own arms.