Parenting as a Doorway to God
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by Susan Dillon
A Shalem Parenting Group! I couldn't believe it--what a perfect combination: Shalem's contemplative approach and the challenges of my full-time job. Plus, the leader was a woman named Patience. How could it get any better than this? I signed up right away, comforted by the entries in my calendar that promised two hours each month of guidance and friendship with others looking for God in the hard parts of parenting.It's easy to find God in our children's charms--their round, kissable cheeks; their cute sayings; their affection and confidences. But where does God go when the going gets rough? When we're tired and don't want to hear any more whining? When they turn into teenagers? When we're exhausted by the grinding drudgery of the daily routine? When our fears propel us into super-control mode? Where is God then? Can God, our source of peace, be present to us in a disguise of noise, disobedience, messiness, whining, unfinished homework, or chicken pox?
What Patience showed us, through our own experiences and often in our own words, is how to find our heart's desire right in the middle of our worst nightmare. Leading us into silence with a gentle relaxation process, she let us rest and remember how to trust in God. Then she would speak from her own experience about some aspect of parenting, not to share advice or how-to resources but to support us in using these challenges to practice such disciplines as surrendering, trusting, giving thanks, and envisioning.
I realized that sometimes it's been easier to find God in the most dramatically hard times than in the insignificant annoyances throughout my day. Considering these aggravations as practice exercises that God gives us, like musical scales, consecrated them for me. Of course they're still annoying, but now they serve a larger purpose: If I notice them, and how I react in them, and where the grace is in them, my awareness grows.
This became clear one day when I was once again battling to get my children, Jesse and Owen, to stay focused and ready for school on time. Once again I was losing. This is classic small stuff. I tried the nice approach, the "how can I support you in staying focused?" approach, the deadline approach, the patient reminder approach, and finally, I tried the blind, slavering, screaming rage approach. The last one worked, in the sense that it got them into the car with their lunches done, teeth brushed and beds made, but I didn't feel I had won the battle. I was enraged, and now I was enraged that I was enraged. The more I thought and yelled about it, the madder I got.
As we approached the school, a thought began flashing in the back of my mind: "How are you going to say goodbye, how are you going to back off without losing face?" It was unthinkable that I would concede any ground and act nice in the process of saying goodbye, yet I knew I couldn't let them go off for the day with an angry word. This was a pesky little public relations problem that I had to solve quickly because we were now turning into the school driveway.
Instead of going behind the school to park and walk with Jesse hand-in-hand (our usual habit), I pulled up to the front door and said in a harsh tone, "I'm letting you out here, Jesse. I'll see you at 3. Goodbye." As I said the words, I knew I had to look at her. I turned and showed her my closed, unsmiling face. She carefully gathered her things, opened the door, and then turned and looked at me with the sweetest, gentlest, most loving smile I've ever seen on her face. Her eyes were wide and soft, her smile small, mouth closed. Her look conveyed unconditional love and some remorse but not shame. It seemed to say, "I love you, Mom. I'm not put off by your anger. I don't judge you for it. I'm sorry I contributed to it, but this seems bigger than I understand, and I'm just sorry you're so angry." She stepped away from the door, closed it and turned to walk slowly into school.
I was stunned. My anger washed away in the baptism of her smile. I felt so sorry for my rage, my yelling, my accusations, for making them afraid. But, like Jesse, I didn't feel shame; just sorrow and compassion for all three of us. I looked at Owen. He had seen Jesse's smile; now he could see my sorrow; he was waiting to see what would happen next. I parked the car, walked inside. Usually he wants no part of hugging and kissing at the door, but this day he allowed me to hug and kiss him. Then I went to Jesse's classroom. School hadn't started yet, and I called her back out into the hall. We didn't talk about what happened in the car. It wasn't necessary. We hugged, and I told her to have a good day at school. She flashed me her usual bright smile and said, "You too, Mom."
Susie, a Shalem Board member, is a long-time participant in Shalem's programs. The above photo is from a 1982 Shalem Open House.
© 2008 The Shalem Institute.