Monthly Archives: April 2014

This past weekend at my brother’s house I was half-way down the stairs when Z’s little 6 year-old voice down echoed down the stairwell, stopping me in my tracks.  “Auz,” he inquired of his 10 year-old wizened brother, “what’s a hipster?”

Now, maybe for the sake of propriety I should say that I moved along and certainly didn’t eaves drop on my beloved little dudes, but, alas I did not.  And don’t tell me you wouldn’t have paused for that answer, too.  You know you sooo would’ve.  And Auz’s calm, collected, confident, not to mention definitive answer: “It’s Winnie the Pooh.”

My eyes must practically jumped out of their sockets, and I’d like to say that the morally grey area of listening in on a 6 and 10 years’ old conversation forced me down the rest of the stairs, but I can’t lie.  It was the terror of discovery; I was about to burst out-loud laughing. I dare not laugh, nor give myself away in any other tell-tale manner. After all, I needed these kids to trust me, right?  (Like listening in stairwells was trustworthy?  I am not above recognizing my own hypocrisy.)  So, I proceeded calmly down the stairs, and, I think God was punishing me because there wasn’t another soul with whom around to share this ‘Isn’t this adorable moment?’

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Deliberate faith…it’s a phrase that’s been running through my head for the past couple days.  What’s it mean, though?  Why has this phrase taken such a hold of me, such a grip that I can’t shake?  I lie awake at night, and the question spins through my mind: why “deliberate” faith?

I think of the definitions of faith I’ve heard throughout my life.  By far my favorite is “Courage that has said its prayers.”  I picture the little stick figure of Courage bowed before the throne of the Almighty, pouring out his heart to the One Who Heals, the One Who forgives.  And I know I am called to that same courage, every second of everyday.  After all, I must become less and He must become more.  So, in truth, I am (or at least should be) that stick figure bowing, begging, crying, supplicating.

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Z, my nephew, was asked in school to write about what he wanted to be when he grew up.  I held the paper –  grey, rough elementary school, big red and blue lined paper that feels gritty against your hands, and read Z’s answer.  As always,  that kid brought a smile to my face – memories of kindergarten and first grade – innocence and wonder.  Z’s answer made my heart sing.  I’m going to quote it, misspellings and all, and I hope you get the butterfly kiss feeling, too.

“I wont to be a  pelecmon so I can be like my Dad.  I wont to pot peple in jail and ried a motrsicle.” Translation (just in case you need it):”I want to be a policeman.  So, I can be like my dad.  I want to put people in jail and ride a motorcycle.”  Now, that my friends, is an amazing commentary on my brother from his 6 year-old.  Doesn’t it just make your smile beam bright?

When we’re 5 or 6 years old, that initial question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” is so easy to answer: fireman, princess, superhero.  Then as 18 approaches when we are deemed old enough to be on our own the answer blurs: the world is too big and too interesting, and the question feels overwhelming.  Then we’re asked again (mostly in a very loud voice by a very frustrated, money- drained parent during that awkward fifth year in college),  and we still don’t know.  When we choose a path and think we’ve finally dispensed with that dreaded question,  it’s lobbed at us again worded differently in every job interview by every company (i.e. Where do you see yourself in 5 years?).  EVERYONE wants to know what we want to be.

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