Lois Lyda

  One of the things that bothers me about Sunday worship is the break down of the family. And it’s not just parents from their children; siblings are quarantined off by narrow age margins of as little as six months.  And while the adults can enjoy the service without shushing or pointing a disciplinary finger, what are their children doing?  Certainly, they are being bred for worship.  But are they learning to be true worshipers, or are they learning to be the center of their own worship? 

Let me explain.  In most churchest I have visited, there is a multi-colored “kid zone” that alarmingly resembles a McDonalds playland. Equiped with slides, toys galore, maybe even french fries and a coke. . . does the children’s church resemble “church” in anyway? The children have fun, for sure, but do they learn anything about how to worship?  At best my son might scribble over the words “Jesus loves me” with a crayon (an activity that might take him a total of 10 seconds), but since he can’t read, did he learn anything about what worship looks like?  Instead, for two hours, with all his needs catered to, wildest fun guaranteed, he is taught how to be a consumer of stuff, a lover of pleasure, a worshiper of self. 

When our first-born was a few weeks old, we ventured out to a large church down the road.  I wasn’t about to place my newborn into the hands of a stranger in a room already teeming with helpless babes, so I brought him into the sanctuary with me.   I felt like I was sneaking him in;  we sat in the back to “hide him”, as if I was breaking the rules by wanting to worship with my new baby rather than without.  Within minutes my feelings were validated, as an announcement was made: “There is excellent child care for a reason  -  please use it.”  A thousand preying eyes pounced on me.  Embarrassed, I relocated to the nursing mom’s room, and watched the rest of the service on the TV monitor, separated from my husband and the worshipping community.  It was a very isolating experience, church sponsored motherhood aparthied.

When we first came to the Orthodox church, one of the things that attracted me was the sound of a crying baby, the shushing of a mother to her child, the sound of childrens voices mixed with mature ones. It was refreshing to see kids and parents worship together, approach the challice for communion as a family, raise  united voices in love for God.  It was heavenly. 

Even now after two years, I keep expecting kids to be discharged, but they never are.  A two hour liturgy doesn’t deter them from zealously attending church school after the service while the adults fellowship and break the fast together.  It is a suppliment, not a replacement for the worship service.  During this time, bible stories are taught, the liturgy explained, hymns practiced, bible verses memorized.  And this is why they call it “church school”; preparing, training, educating, growing children to be worshippers. 

Now that I have two toddlers, I faintly lament the loss of “dropping the kids off” in the morning.  It certainly would be much easier.  But I do not think it would be better, for them or for me.  It is my primary job (not the church’s) to raise my children to be worshippers of the living God; to be reverent; to be prayerful; to stand in awe of Him; to bow with humility before His throne; to be attentive to the Word of God.  As the saying goes, children “Do as I do, not as I say.”  It still remains that the best way for my children to learn how to worship is to watch me. 

What will become of our children if we let our churches spoon feed our children when they need solid food for spiritual growth?  If they spend the first seventeen years of their church life being catered to, playing games and having fun, they will never transition into “adult” worship.  Instead, they will become a generation who is disenchanted with the Church because it doesn’t meet their needs.  A generation who thinks the world revolves around them.  A generation with no respect for authority and no self-discipline.  I don’t want to see my son drinking out of a spiritual sippy cup at seventeen, do you?

A revolving conversation in our household is how we want to raise our children. One of the topics frequently discussed is schooling. While Ben and I both had positive public school experiences, after teaching in the same system of which we are products, we began to have parental doubts (I’ll save the “why’s” for another day). A few years ago, we stumbled upon a classical Christian school through a family acquaintance. We began reading up on classical Christian education, and then we attended the open house. (yes, our son is only 3, but if the next two years fly by as fast as the first three did, we thought we better get a move on in figuring out his academic future!)

 At the open house we expected to be informed; instead, we were moved to tears. This came as a surprise to both of us, since neither of us (according to Myers-Briggs) make decisions based upon emotions. Ben scribbled on the information package, “I want this (underline underline underline) for our children.” “Me too!” I tearfully mouthed back, as the 3rd grade choir sang the hymn “This is my Father’s World” from memory (all five verses, no less), and I could picture my own dad sitting proudly in the audience on grandparent’s day watching Emmanuel singing about the beauty of God’s creation. And that’s just it. That God is the author of life should be the beginning point for all learning. This is a key missing ingredient in public school.

Another option we considered is Home Schooling. Many mothers at my church do it, and I hold them in high esteem, but to be honest, I don’t think I have it in me. Most of them look frazzled, worn out, exhausted, beaten down. No doubt, it is the most demanding job in the world. But I don’t think I’m homeschooling mom potential. My sister points out that, with our teaching background and “skill set”, we’d have “an excellent home school.” I’m just not totally convinced. I already feel frazzled & worn out, and all I have to do is be here.  Perhaps, I just don’t have the desire. Or perhaps it is that Ben and I have already made our decision to invest in a classical Christian education for our children.

We hung out with our neighbors tonight.  One of them was showing off his new tatoo written in large bold print,”Fuck all ya’ll.”   With the smell of cigarette smoke and beer in the air, heavy metal music played loudly from the improv garage band.   I couldn’t help feeling somewhat “otherworldly.”  A sense that I don’t belong here with all this tension and hatred.  Meanwhile, as the lyrics to the songs raged, our son scooted playfully down the sidewalk on his tricycle, and our daughter innocently danced to the music.  I felt sad about our meager attempts to be good neighbors and good parents, and frustrated that the two goals seemed to be clashing unexpectedly.  To keep my children pure, to keep their eyes and ears from the evil in this world is more difficult than I originally thought. 

I crossed the street, and put Eden to bed, comforted this night to pray, knowing that this is the ‘one thing needed’ of parenthood.  The only parenting strategy that actually might “work.”

And so I pray:

Raise my children to be pure in heart, that they may see God.  

Raise my children to stand firmly against God-hating teaching. 

Raise my children to run from the world and the delusion of the world. 

Raise my children to turn away from evil and do good.     

Public school cannot teach my children to be pure, or to be good.  And on my own strength, neither can I.  Still, more than anything, this is my desire for them.  Purity and Goodness.  Grant this, O Lord.

 While birthdays have always been a bit of a let down, this one tops the cake in my recent memory (although due to getting “older”, this is not so good, anyway). Admittedly, it began under a false  premise that you get what you ask for. I’m 29, I should know better.

 So, about a week before my birthday, my husband asked me, “What do you want for your birthday?”
“To leave the house. . . and a clean house,” was my immediate and sincere reply. Meaning me leave the house without the kids, since I’d been housebound for a week with the car in the shop, and someone other than me cleaning. 

 My birthday came, and just before my husband left for work he handed me a card with $100. Of course I love receiving cash gifts.  However, in the not too distant past, we had decided to gift ourselves each with $100 of petty cash to budget miscellaneous needs or wants for the month.  Awkwardly, I asked if this was “over and above” my monthy allowance.  Awkwardly, Ben said “no”. 

“Thanks for the card,” I said.

Thus began my birthday.
 Ben had to work late, but he assured me there would be “something tomorrow”.

When the kids are happy, I’m happy, so I decided to take them to the lake. My son couldn’t be happier to pack up his giant dollar store shovel that was almost as tall as himself. It turned out to be a beautiful sunny April day.  The kids played non-stop with the best inter-personal skills I’ve ever seen for a three- and one- year old.  I blew up a big yellow pre-historic giraffe that Emmanuel named “Beer”, and the two of them floated around content as clams.  They really enjoyed my birthday!

We returned home for very late afternoon naps to a very messy house.  While they were sleeping, I decided to clean up, so that I could be my own fairy God-mother and grant my own birthday wish.  I was pleased with the outcome, minus the fact that it was my handiwork.  When Eden awoke from her nap, she was very sick.  Perhaps she’d swallowed some lake water. 

The next day, Emmanuel followed suit.  The two of them shivered on the couch watching movies, moaning and vomiting occasionally.  As anticipated, in the late afternoon, the doorbell rang.  Was it my mother-in-law arriving to clean my house, or look after my kids so I could go out? After all, she had told me she was really excited about her gift for me. No, just the UPS man.  I was surprised to read “PajamaGram” on the outside of the box.  Maybe some sexy lingerie?  Wrong again. Inside a hat box was a pair of sky blue pajamas speckled with white and pink feathers.  They weren’t lined or made with organic sateen,  or programed to massage me in the night.  Just plain cotton pjs . . . in size M.  I scowled.  I’m not size M.  I checked the bank account with great shock to find a $75 dollar charge.  I was convinced I could find the same pajamas at Walmart for under $5.  

Another package awaited me in the mail box.  It was from my brother - pink pajamas.  These, I liked very much, though I was starting to wonder what kind of vibe I’m giving off.

I had suggested to Ben that I’d like to have a game night on my birthday weekend. Sunday arrived, and Ben announced that his parents would be coming over for lunch.  Not exactly my ideal birthday game night, but it was a nice gesture.  Excitedly, my mother-in-law handed me her gift.  Pajamas, no less!  Oh, and some scented drawer lining paper  - the same gift I received from her last year.  I’m not sure why exactly I would need drawer lining paper on my birthday, in light of the fact that all my drawers are to my knowledge lined.  I have no burning desire to stick my head in Ben’s sock drawer and take a whiff of strawberry shortcake.  

I’ve been thinking about this pajama phenomenon a lot since then.  I realize that I have been tired; worn out from long days wrestling and wrangling two toddlers, and lethargic from lack of exercise.  No wonder I received three pairs of pj’s (the drawer liner is still a mystery)! 

My sister-in-law emailed, “I hope your day is full of birthday surprises”.  Well, it definately was filled with the surprise of not getting what I wanted.  And this is a good lesson for any person, no matter how old.   Sadly, or maybe just naturally, I don’t view birthdays magically anymore.  I don’t wait up all night before, or anticipate my wildest dreams coming true because I’m one year older.  I consider myself to be a woman of simple needs. For me, a “birthday surprise”  would have been something out of the ordinary like a few hours by myself at a coffee shop.  Because a few hours at a coffee shop would be just enough to rejuvinate me, to magically transport me to another “world” for just a moment. Compared to this, pajamas are surprisingly ordinary.