This post is really quite unrelated to theology, except for the fact that while I've been writing my latest book, I've also been hankering for a snack around 3pm. Often, the snack I most desire is one of the new Starbucks cake pops. One little one, once a week, is not terrible for my bank account or my waistline ($1.50/190 calories for one of these yummy treats) but 2-3 a week is. Even more disastrous if I were, oh, to cave in to these desires every day. (I suppose here I could cue in a post on desires, versus true desire for God, but really, I'm feeling very much a member of the earthly city here ;-))
So I decided to try to remake these. I used a chocolate cake mix, and some Weight Watchers' tips for making the cake lower in fat - applesauce, egg whites, water, instead of whole eggs and oil. Once the cake was completely cool, I crumbled it up and stirred in 2 cups of whipped cream, to make the cake totally mold-able. I rolled this dough into 45 small balls and froze them overnight. (Tip: I HAD wanted to put lollipop sticks in them, but forgot to do that until they were frozen. Ah well, next time. Those of you who want to do real cake pops, be sure to put in the sticks before freezing.) (Edited to add: the sticks I bought were actually reusable party drink stirrers in different colors that I found in the picnic section of the grocery store. I am told that lollipop sticks are available at hobby stores but those are rather far away from where we live....)
Then, I got my preschool helper, and we chose some toppings for our cake pops. We put out coconut, nuts, and sprinkles. Then we melted chocolate candy coating in the microwave for about a minute and 15 seconds. We dipped the frozen cake balls into the chocolate and then rolled them in the topping(s) of choice. The result was delicious yumminess that adds up to about 20 cents a pop/70 calories. And they are really good and really, really rich.
Added bonus: it was a great kid project for our morning.
*** Store these in the freezer, not the fridge. I'm planning to take one or two to work every day for that 3 pm craving. :-)
Showing posts with label three year olds. Show all posts
Showing posts with label three year olds. Show all posts
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Yet...
In honor of yesterday's Feast of Sts. Peter and Paul, we ate poached fish and melon risotto. (I got these recipes from this fun cookbook - and yes, melon risotto is actually really good!)
Anyway, we cajoled L. into trying a bite of the fish. (She scarfed down the risotto.) She took just a teeny, tiny piece of fish, one that would fit on the head of a pin and still leave some room, and then declared, "I don't like fish...yet."
It was the "yet" that got to me. She really does see herself as growing bigger and bigger every day, and there are some things she wants to like in the future but she knows she's know quite there: dogs and cats are on that list, so are bicycles, and now, apparently, so is fish.
It makes me think about moral theology and all the times I've heard people declare an entrenched position with no possibility of movement (from both the "left" and the "right"). But so much of moral theology is about practical reasoning, about learning the right thing to do from moral exemplars and learning while doing. It's about being able to turn and turn till you are faithfully following God, to learn not to have hard hearts, but ones open to God. And it takes a lifetime.
So I really admire L's "yet". It speaks to the practical wisdom we all need to cultivate - for a long time, a lifetime - as we navigate our way toward God.
Anyway, we cajoled L. into trying a bite of the fish. (She scarfed down the risotto.) She took just a teeny, tiny piece of fish, one that would fit on the head of a pin and still leave some room, and then declared, "I don't like fish...yet."
It was the "yet" that got to me. She really does see herself as growing bigger and bigger every day, and there are some things she wants to like in the future but she knows she's know quite there: dogs and cats are on that list, so are bicycles, and now, apparently, so is fish.
It makes me think about moral theology and all the times I've heard people declare an entrenched position with no possibility of movement (from both the "left" and the "right"). But so much of moral theology is about practical reasoning, about learning the right thing to do from moral exemplars and learning while doing. It's about being able to turn and turn till you are faithfully following God, to learn not to have hard hearts, but ones open to God. And it takes a lifetime.
So I really admire L's "yet". It speaks to the practical wisdom we all need to cultivate - for a long time, a lifetime - as we navigate our way toward God.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Names
I'm in the midst of writing this book on theology and the internet, and so I have precious little time to post these days. I'm typically found hunkered down in my office, typing furiously, except when I take little breaks to walk over to the day care and nurse Baby G. It's summer - so I don't see a lot of people, and that's a good thing as far as work goes - less good for me and my stress level.
But I had a mini-opportunity to think about other things today. I ran into a couple students on campus that I haven't seen in a year or more- both calling out, "Dr. Bennett!"
The title "doctor" always makes me blush a bit. After all, I am no "doctor" wearing a white lab coat. And I still have a bit of first-year-out-of-grad-school feelings about being a "doctor of theology": really? I mean, really? (As with the "Master of Divinity" how can anyone really claim to be a "doctor" of theology?)
Nonetheless, there it is, and that's my name here, at least among my students. After the first round of blushing, I remember, "Oh yeah - I'm an adult - and a professor." It makes me feel different, respond differently to people. I remember to treat myself with a bit more respect because they treat me that way. I've had to grow into that name a bit, and still, I am learning how to be 'Dr. Bennett'. Crazy how that works.
Not coincidentally, the use of this name makes me reflect on other names - particularly the fact that I am currently trying (in vain, I know, I know!) to get my six month old daughter to say Mama. "Mama - you can say it!" All I get is a raspberry - she's getting quite good at those, actually.
"Mama" is another name I've had to grow into. Despite the fact that my three year old is now at the age where she says "mama, mama, mama" constantly - Mama, look what I can do! Mama, I'm hungry! - I still feel a bit weird thinking of myself as a "mama". Oh yeah - I'm an adult, and a mama. I'd better act like it.
Some would argue that the only actions that have real meaning are the ones that we "mean" to do. But I don't think that's it at all - I think I'm constantly learning how to live the words I speak and the words that name who I am. Love - that's another word that I'm not quite comfortable wearing yet, though I say it and try to live it all the time.
But I had a mini-opportunity to think about other things today. I ran into a couple students on campus that I haven't seen in a year or more- both calling out, "Dr. Bennett!"
The title "doctor" always makes me blush a bit. After all, I am no "doctor" wearing a white lab coat. And I still have a bit of first-year-out-of-grad-school feelings about being a "doctor of theology": really? I mean, really? (As with the "Master of Divinity" how can anyone really claim to be a "doctor" of theology?)
Nonetheless, there it is, and that's my name here, at least among my students. After the first round of blushing, I remember, "Oh yeah - I'm an adult - and a professor." It makes me feel different, respond differently to people. I remember to treat myself with a bit more respect because they treat me that way. I've had to grow into that name a bit, and still, I am learning how to be 'Dr. Bennett'. Crazy how that works.
Not coincidentally, the use of this name makes me reflect on other names - particularly the fact that I am currently trying (in vain, I know, I know!) to get my six month old daughter to say Mama. "Mama - you can say it!" All I get is a raspberry - she's getting quite good at those, actually.
"Mama" is another name I've had to grow into. Despite the fact that my three year old is now at the age where she says "mama, mama, mama" constantly - Mama, look what I can do! Mama, I'm hungry! - I still feel a bit weird thinking of myself as a "mama". Oh yeah - I'm an adult, and a mama. I'd better act like it.
Some would argue that the only actions that have real meaning are the ones that we "mean" to do. But I don't think that's it at all - I think I'm constantly learning how to live the words I speak and the words that name who I am. Love - that's another word that I'm not quite comfortable wearing yet, though I say it and try to live it all the time.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Communion
Clearly, the fact that maternity leave is over has impacted my ability to post on this blog. Well, that, and the fact that I am assistant editor to the new catholicmoraltheology.com blog. (Check us out - 15 or so North American theologians comment on news, liturgy and other reading...)
But today in the communion line, I was definitely confronted with one of those issues that confound both the mom and the theologian in me. As I was herding my children in the communion line, I looked down to discover that my three-year-old had her hands held together in the typical Eucharist-receiving gesture. It was clear she wanted some - and equally clear, as the Eucharistic minister leaned down to say (I am quoting) "Hello there, little girl!" - that she was not going to get anything in the communion line.
That makes my heart hurt. That is not to say that my experience here should govern what we do theologically - while I think that experience has some kind of place in theological questions, I get concerned when experience becomes a driving force for theological thinking. That said, in this particular case of Eucharistic communion, I don't really get why, in the Roman Rite, children younger than seven can't receive. I actually tend to "get" arguments about closed communion because of theological disagreements between Catholic, Protestant and Orthodox much more than I get refusing communion to young children.
I know that one of the standard arguments is the "Age of Reason." Numerous people have made jokes about how strange it seems to proclaim an "age of reason" for Eucharistic communion when one of the things we believe about the Eucharist is that it is mysterious - that the Paschal Mystery itself is bound up in our theology of the Eucharist. Mystery, here, means something that is not plumbable by human rational standards, though of course we can think about the Eucharist (and we do). But it isn't clear, ultimately, what an "age of reason" is supposed to confer in this case.
Perhaps we could say it is analogous to driving cars or drinking - both of these have age requirements for our children because we know that certain levels of mechanical skill, experience, practical wisdom, and mental acuity are required, in varying degrees, for these activities. But the Eucharist, to me, seems much more analogous to a fine dining experience than to driving cars. Yes, we want to take care with the fine china and the tablecloth - and there are specific gestures and rituals that go along with fine dining that we wouldn't encounter in the drive-thru. And maybe that IS the working analogy here, for I know that many families do not use their fine china with their younger children. Babysitters are called for when some people invite others over for fancy dinner parties; young children are excluded.
That is arbitrary, though. It is not a given that young children cannot learn to use fine china and cannot care for special table linens. Paul says not to take the Eucharist unworthily - can children equally be taught to respect the Eucharistic table without necessarily understanding it (which is a lifelong process in any case). I think here of the work I do in the Catechesis of the Good Shepherd (CGS)- a Montessori-based religious ed program for kids from ages 3 to 12. In the early years, it is clear that everything the children learn is moving toward Eucharist though it may not seem so at first.
An entering three year old in my Atrium (the name for CGS classroom space) will spend the first few weeks doing what we call "practical life" - lessons in rolling and unrolling mats, walking slowly and carefully, and pouring - first pouring dry beans from one pitcher to another; then pouring liquid. If they spill, they learn to sweep up or sponge up the mess. What they are learning is how to control their bodies so they can do the things they want to do (just as in potty training, around the same age) - but more than that, they are helping to create an environment with other children that allows for prayer.
After those first few weeks, then the children learn about the altar table and see, touch and name the objects that are on an altar table - like the chalice and the paten. A bit later in the year (early in Lent in my Atrium) my three year olds will begin learning some of the mass gestures, with the hope that they become more engaged with the mass they attend. One of these lessons is called "Preparation of the Chalice". Here, their pouring exercises come in handy, for now they are pouring wine and just a tiny little bit of water into a chalice. (When they are four or maybe five, they'll continue to meditate on this mass gesture by learning the words the priest says and thinking about what these mean.)
This past year, I asked a group of children about the chalice. "Why is there so much wine but only a little tiny bit of water in the chalice?" Hmmmm, the children thought. A couple of them knew that the wine would become Jesus' blood, so they talked about the wine being God. Ah, I said. "But what about the water?" "Maybe the water is us," a shy girl said. "Yeah, and maybe there's more wine because God is THIS big [his arms stretched as far as they could go] but we're only this big," shouted a boy.
Indeed. And they were three and four years old. (Now I know that some theologians among my readers will take issue with the idea of the bigness of God, as though God could be adequately described in human terms - but I hope you'll at least give my preschoolers the benefit of the doubt - after all, Augustine, for a while, spent time thinking about God as a big man, and he was far older than these kids....)
So isn't some kind of "age of reason" rather arbitrary?
But more than that, if we believe that the sacrament is about God's grace - and is more about God than us - then it isn't clear to me that the Eucharist requires some kind of "reasoning" about it, nor a minimum age.
Philosophy PhD Husband and I have thought about this before. At one time, we considered attending a Byzantine Rite Catholic Mass, which does commune anyone who is baptized, including babies. For a variety of reasons we have not done that - but seeing my daughter's open hands at mass today made me want to think about it all again.
But today in the communion line, I was definitely confronted with one of those issues that confound both the mom and the theologian in me. As I was herding my children in the communion line, I looked down to discover that my three-year-old had her hands held together in the typical Eucharist-receiving gesture. It was clear she wanted some - and equally clear, as the Eucharistic minister leaned down to say (I am quoting) "Hello there, little girl!" - that she was not going to get anything in the communion line.
That makes my heart hurt. That is not to say that my experience here should govern what we do theologically - while I think that experience has some kind of place in theological questions, I get concerned when experience becomes a driving force for theological thinking. That said, in this particular case of Eucharistic communion, I don't really get why, in the Roman Rite, children younger than seven can't receive. I actually tend to "get" arguments about closed communion because of theological disagreements between Catholic, Protestant and Orthodox much more than I get refusing communion to young children.
I know that one of the standard arguments is the "Age of Reason." Numerous people have made jokes about how strange it seems to proclaim an "age of reason" for Eucharistic communion when one of the things we believe about the Eucharist is that it is mysterious - that the Paschal Mystery itself is bound up in our theology of the Eucharist. Mystery, here, means something that is not plumbable by human rational standards, though of course we can think about the Eucharist (and we do). But it isn't clear, ultimately, what an "age of reason" is supposed to confer in this case.
Perhaps we could say it is analogous to driving cars or drinking - both of these have age requirements for our children because we know that certain levels of mechanical skill, experience, practical wisdom, and mental acuity are required, in varying degrees, for these activities. But the Eucharist, to me, seems much more analogous to a fine dining experience than to driving cars. Yes, we want to take care with the fine china and the tablecloth - and there are specific gestures and rituals that go along with fine dining that we wouldn't encounter in the drive-thru. And maybe that IS the working analogy here, for I know that many families do not use their fine china with their younger children. Babysitters are called for when some people invite others over for fancy dinner parties; young children are excluded.
That is arbitrary, though. It is not a given that young children cannot learn to use fine china and cannot care for special table linens. Paul says not to take the Eucharist unworthily - can children equally be taught to respect the Eucharistic table without necessarily understanding it (which is a lifelong process in any case). I think here of the work I do in the Catechesis of the Good Shepherd (CGS)- a Montessori-based religious ed program for kids from ages 3 to 12. In the early years, it is clear that everything the children learn is moving toward Eucharist though it may not seem so at first.
An entering three year old in my Atrium (the name for CGS classroom space) will spend the first few weeks doing what we call "practical life" - lessons in rolling and unrolling mats, walking slowly and carefully, and pouring - first pouring dry beans from one pitcher to another; then pouring liquid. If they spill, they learn to sweep up or sponge up the mess. What they are learning is how to control their bodies so they can do the things they want to do (just as in potty training, around the same age) - but more than that, they are helping to create an environment with other children that allows for prayer.
After those first few weeks, then the children learn about the altar table and see, touch and name the objects that are on an altar table - like the chalice and the paten. A bit later in the year (early in Lent in my Atrium) my three year olds will begin learning some of the mass gestures, with the hope that they become more engaged with the mass they attend. One of these lessons is called "Preparation of the Chalice". Here, their pouring exercises come in handy, for now they are pouring wine and just a tiny little bit of water into a chalice. (When they are four or maybe five, they'll continue to meditate on this mass gesture by learning the words the priest says and thinking about what these mean.)
This past year, I asked a group of children about the chalice. "Why is there so much wine but only a little tiny bit of water in the chalice?" Hmmmm, the children thought. A couple of them knew that the wine would become Jesus' blood, so they talked about the wine being God. Ah, I said. "But what about the water?" "Maybe the water is us," a shy girl said. "Yeah, and maybe there's more wine because God is THIS big [his arms stretched as far as they could go] but we're only this big," shouted a boy.
Indeed. And they were three and four years old. (Now I know that some theologians among my readers will take issue with the idea of the bigness of God, as though God could be adequately described in human terms - but I hope you'll at least give my preschoolers the benefit of the doubt - after all, Augustine, for a while, spent time thinking about God as a big man, and he was far older than these kids....)
So isn't some kind of "age of reason" rather arbitrary?
But more than that, if we believe that the sacrament is about God's grace - and is more about God than us - then it isn't clear to me that the Eucharist requires some kind of "reasoning" about it, nor a minimum age.
Philosophy PhD Husband and I have thought about this before. At one time, we considered attending a Byzantine Rite Catholic Mass, which does commune anyone who is baptized, including babies. For a variety of reasons we have not done that - but seeing my daughter's open hands at mass today made me want to think about it all again.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Considering the History of Three Year Olds
When I was a sophomore in high school, my history teacher asked us to write essays on the subject, "Why do we study history?" It was a good question to ask us, as I think most of us had, by that point, long since entered the realm of "WHY do we have to learn these dates? History is boring." If Harry Potter had been around then, we would totally have identified with his view of history classes.
I cannot now remember what I said; I don't guess it was very interesting. Yet the question has stuck with me throughout the years - particularly when I became a history major in college and studied a medieval monastic community known as the Gilbertines. I also had to take historiography classes then, and started seeing all the varied reasons people study history (and the varied ways they study history).
Motherhood apparently offers yet another view on the question. Yesterday, we were telling our three year old about being children once ourselves, she looked thoughtful, then asked, "Where was I when you were a boy, Daddy?" "Well, you weren't born quite yet."
It was clear that was disturbing to her a bit. How could she not have existed? She exists now! The mystery of life is very present to her... The question made me realize that I don't think about where I was before I was born anymore. That's actually rather a scary question, in much the same way that contemplating death is for most adults. It seems like a great nothingness.
Then I realized: I don't really think of World War II or the Protestant Reformation or the patristic period as "before my time" anymore. I know I wasn't there, but it has still become part of me and who I am. History found a way of creeping in and becoming my story.
Our three year old is starting small: first we'll tell her the family history, about Mommy and Daddy and Grandmas and Grandpas. But then, I don't know, shall I pull out some of my medieval stories? ;-)
I cannot now remember what I said; I don't guess it was very interesting. Yet the question has stuck with me throughout the years - particularly when I became a history major in college and studied a medieval monastic community known as the Gilbertines. I also had to take historiography classes then, and started seeing all the varied reasons people study history (and the varied ways they study history).
Motherhood apparently offers yet another view on the question. Yesterday, we were telling our three year old about being children once ourselves, she looked thoughtful, then asked, "Where was I when you were a boy, Daddy?" "Well, you weren't born quite yet."
It was clear that was disturbing to her a bit. How could she not have existed? She exists now! The mystery of life is very present to her... The question made me realize that I don't think about where I was before I was born anymore. That's actually rather a scary question, in much the same way that contemplating death is for most adults. It seems like a great nothingness.
Then I realized: I don't really think of World War II or the Protestant Reformation or the patristic period as "before my time" anymore. I know I wasn't there, but it has still become part of me and who I am. History found a way of creeping in and becoming my story.
Our three year old is starting small: first we'll tell her the family history, about Mommy and Daddy and Grandmas and Grandpas. But then, I don't know, shall I pull out some of my medieval stories? ;-)
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
A Baby's Forehead Ashes...
Baby G. received ashes at today's Ash Wednesday service. I didn't request it; the person imposing them just started right in with her, after giving me my black cross: "Turn away from sin and be faithful to the gospel!" he proclaimed
The thing of it was that as soon as he started imposing the ashes, Baby G. gave him a humongous, beatific smile even while he was saying "turn away from sin." The smile was so contagious, HE smiled. And I returned to my own seat repressing giggles. She was laughing at him, at the very idea of "turn away from sin"
I am certainly not the first person to be confronted with the apparent contradiction of 'original' sin and a baby who has not really had time to sin in the way we theologians refer to sin (as something we intend to do, as something we understand as wrong, et cetera). How can a baby sin? And, after all, what does baptizing an infant mean if our theology of baptism is that it saves us from sins?
And yet, there is the stark Ash Wednesday phrase: "remember you are dust and to dust you shall return."
It reminds me as I hold my three-month-old that unfortunately for her, she has been born to human parents. And unfortunately, the way of human life is that we are caught up in worlds that we have half been formed by and half made ourselves. In a world where there are protests, and people who have no jobs, and where slavery still exists, and the longest US war rages on, and taxes are due, and sick people can't get the care they need, and the globe seems certain to go to hell in a handbasket (at least if what counts for hell is rising waters and raging droughts) - if all that and more, it surely makes sense too that all too often I am short on patience, long on holding grudges, suspicious of trusting in God or anyone else for that matter (especially for how the proverbial "they" might be spending "my" money), and angry at very small provocations. Every day we rise and spend the waking time trying to prevent bad things from happening to us, or at least do damage control. We can control these things; we can make our lives better, we think - if only we vote for the right person or send money to the right cause or try to get more people to agree with my views on parenting, what kind of house to buy and how best to spend one's money, to say nothing of my views on war, money, health care, abortion, homosexuality and stem cell research.
And I am helpless dust - too helpless to prevent her from becoming a human who imbibes too much of her mother's sensibilities. "Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return" becomes my most deeply felt prayer today for it reminds me that whatever sense of control we think we have over anything is, at best, a fleeting dream.
Of course she smiled. I have no more control over her churchly behavior than I do over my three year old's. ("Shhh." "We DON'T take our socks and shoes off in church." "Don't bang on the back of the pew, sweetie, that man's trying to pray." "Oh, honey, you can't draw all over the offering envelopes. That wastes paper." "Keep your hands to yourself." "SHHHH." "SHHHHHHHHHHHHH.")
In remembering that I am dust, that Baby G. is dust, that the priest is dust, that even the President of the United States and Congress and the College of Cardinals and the Pope are all dust, I think of other reasons why we are baptized and why we baptize babies who cannot, after all, give reasoned consent to what we parents and godparents are doing on their behalf.
In this sea of an uncontrollable world that we think and believe with all our might that we can control, baptism expresses a Christian's hope in an "otherwise." Baptism is something outside our control and is therefore the antidote to what ails us. We cannot confer the grace received and in any case, what human would have come up with the idea that water and some words would be salvific?. The scales fall from our eyes; we see ourselves and others for what we are, nothing but dust.
But dust that has a hope of being redeemed. We come to see in that liturgical act that original sin does exist: this world we grow into and think we can control becomes an "otherwise" in baptism. It becomes a recognition that the truest, most beautiful, most godlike things, like a baby's smile, cannot be coerced or bought or sold. Like a plant, these godly things can only be planted, watered, and encouraged to root and bloom.
What is baptism but a hope that roots will form in that dust and that something beautiful, something that is God's, will witness to the world what it means to be saved.
The thing of it was that as soon as he started imposing the ashes, Baby G. gave him a humongous, beatific smile even while he was saying "turn away from sin." The smile was so contagious, HE smiled. And I returned to my own seat repressing giggles. She was laughing at him, at the very idea of "turn away from sin"
I am certainly not the first person to be confronted with the apparent contradiction of 'original' sin and a baby who has not really had time to sin in the way we theologians refer to sin (as something we intend to do, as something we understand as wrong, et cetera). How can a baby sin? And, after all, what does baptizing an infant mean if our theology of baptism is that it saves us from sins?
And yet, there is the stark Ash Wednesday phrase: "remember you are dust and to dust you shall return."
It reminds me as I hold my three-month-old that unfortunately for her, she has been born to human parents. And unfortunately, the way of human life is that we are caught up in worlds that we have half been formed by and half made ourselves. In a world where there are protests, and people who have no jobs, and where slavery still exists, and the longest US war rages on, and taxes are due, and sick people can't get the care they need, and the globe seems certain to go to hell in a handbasket (at least if what counts for hell is rising waters and raging droughts) - if all that and more, it surely makes sense too that all too often I am short on patience, long on holding grudges, suspicious of trusting in God or anyone else for that matter (especially for how the proverbial "they" might be spending "my" money), and angry at very small provocations. Every day we rise and spend the waking time trying to prevent bad things from happening to us, or at least do damage control. We can control these things; we can make our lives better, we think - if only we vote for the right person or send money to the right cause or try to get more people to agree with my views on parenting, what kind of house to buy and how best to spend one's money, to say nothing of my views on war, money, health care, abortion, homosexuality and stem cell research.
And I am helpless dust - too helpless to prevent her from becoming a human who imbibes too much of her mother's sensibilities. "Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return" becomes my most deeply felt prayer today for it reminds me that whatever sense of control we think we have over anything is, at best, a fleeting dream.
Of course she smiled. I have no more control over her churchly behavior than I do over my three year old's. ("Shhh." "We DON'T take our socks and shoes off in church." "Don't bang on the back of the pew, sweetie, that man's trying to pray." "Oh, honey, you can't draw all over the offering envelopes. That wastes paper." "Keep your hands to yourself." "SHHHH." "SHHHHHHHHHHHHH.")
In remembering that I am dust, that Baby G. is dust, that the priest is dust, that even the President of the United States and Congress and the College of Cardinals and the Pope are all dust, I think of other reasons why we are baptized and why we baptize babies who cannot, after all, give reasoned consent to what we parents and godparents are doing on their behalf.
In this sea of an uncontrollable world that we think and believe with all our might that we can control, baptism expresses a Christian's hope in an "otherwise." Baptism is something outside our control and is therefore the antidote to what ails us. We cannot confer the grace received and in any case, what human would have come up with the idea that water and some words would be salvific?. The scales fall from our eyes; we see ourselves and others for what we are, nothing but dust.
But dust that has a hope of being redeemed. We come to see in that liturgical act that original sin does exist: this world we grow into and think we can control becomes an "otherwise" in baptism. It becomes a recognition that the truest, most beautiful, most godlike things, like a baby's smile, cannot be coerced or bought or sold. Like a plant, these godly things can only be planted, watered, and encouraged to root and bloom.
What is baptism but a hope that roots will form in that dust and that something beautiful, something that is God's, will witness to the world what it means to be saved.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
My kid is a scissors genius...
I don't usually talk about her, but I do, in fact, have a 3 year old daughter. She is a great kid - funny and insightful, as well as being whiny, as with most kids - and to answer the question everyone has these days: yes, she is great with the baby and loves being around Baby G. Sometimes a little too close...
Yesterday, I went to pick her up from preschool and one of her teachers cornered me for a bit. "L. is over in the drawing area cutting valentines. I asked her if she wanted help and she said, 'No, I don't need your help.'"
Here, the teacher paused. I wasn't quite sure what to make of the pause. Apologize for my daughter's rudeness in reply? I thought probably no, because she is her own kid capable of saying "I'm sorry" herself, first of all, and this IS a professional teacher who knows that "I'm sorry" in three year olds is still something they're learning. But still, why the pause?
"Well," continued the teacher, "that's just way beyond where most kids are at this age." "Really?" I asked. I know very little about this age level, so beats me if that's true or not. But the teacher said, "Yeah - this is something we'd expect to see two or more years down the road."
Now, I will say I'm impressed. L. had never picked up a pair of scissors till a good family friend was trying to get her to make snowflakes two months ago. And here we are in February, and she's drawing and cutting (on the lines) hearts out of paper. She is clearly proud of this. I asked her this morning what she thought she'd do today and she said, "Make hearts!" Cool.
But I'll also say: what's an appropriate response to the teacher here? Or to L.? I decided not to make too big of a thing of it (didn't mention it to her at all, and really, couldn't think of a response to the teacher), because after all, it's not like on the basis of "Uses Scissors in Advanced Manner" that she can skip two grades or get into Harvard. I'm seeing it as a cool, quirky, interesting thing - that, yes, I also feel the need to brag about a little on my blog ;-)
Yesterday, I went to pick her up from preschool and one of her teachers cornered me for a bit. "L. is over in the drawing area cutting valentines. I asked her if she wanted help and she said, 'No, I don't need your help.'"
Here, the teacher paused. I wasn't quite sure what to make of the pause. Apologize for my daughter's rudeness in reply? I thought probably no, because she is her own kid capable of saying "I'm sorry" herself, first of all, and this IS a professional teacher who knows that "I'm sorry" in three year olds is still something they're learning. But still, why the pause?
"Well," continued the teacher, "that's just way beyond where most kids are at this age." "Really?" I asked. I know very little about this age level, so beats me if that's true or not. But the teacher said, "Yeah - this is something we'd expect to see two or more years down the road."
Now, I will say I'm impressed. L. had never picked up a pair of scissors till a good family friend was trying to get her to make snowflakes two months ago. And here we are in February, and she's drawing and cutting (on the lines) hearts out of paper. She is clearly proud of this. I asked her this morning what she thought she'd do today and she said, "Make hearts!" Cool.
But I'll also say: what's an appropriate response to the teacher here? Or to L.? I decided not to make too big of a thing of it (didn't mention it to her at all, and really, couldn't think of a response to the teacher), because after all, it's not like on the basis of "Uses Scissors in Advanced Manner" that she can skip two grades or get into Harvard. I'm seeing it as a cool, quirky, interesting thing - that, yes, I also feel the need to brag about a little on my blog ;-)
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