Tonight is the night I’ve been building myself up to it for months. I’m a bit anxious. I know it’s going to be awkward.
Tonight, I’m going to try to pray with my kids.
I’ve been telling Ash for months that I want to try to pray with them at bedtime. But I haven’t pulled the trigger. Partly because I’m a bit unsure if this is a practice I want them to grow up with. Partly because it feels out of integrity to teach them to pray when I don’t really pray myself. At least not to a Sky-Daddy (as my friend, Taylor calls him).
And partly because I’m worried about how Harris, who is 4 years old, will respond. We haven’t really talked about “God” before. And now all of a sudden, I’m going to tell him that there’s an invisible presence in the room with him that he can talk to? Did we miss his window? Is 4 too old to casually introduce the idea of a cosmic being who is always watching you? That feels like the kind of thing you either start when they’re 2 or you spend the next twenty minutes sounding like you’ve joined a very enthusiastic cult.
He’s going to have nightmares, for sure.
But I just have to try. I want my kids to have some practices in their life that teach them they are a part of something bigger. That Reality is not indifferent to them. That they are not separate selves, alone in a big world. That even when mommy and daddy are not holding them, they are held by a universe that is alive, relational, and cares for them.
I just hope I can imprint that on them without also imprinting the fear, shame, and certainty that make me so cautious to use the word “God.”
Before going into their room for our bedtime routine, I give Ash and I a little pep talk. “Tonight’s the night. It’s gonna be awkward. Let’s just try it.”
We brush teeth, go potty, get into jammies, and read three books.
I close the last book. This is usually the part where we say, “Alright, into bed!” But I take a deep breath and tell them: “Tonight, I want to pray with y’all.”
Harris is confused. “Like when we hold hands before dinner?” At the dinner table we usually hold hands and say one we’re grateful for from the day. But there’s no deity involved in that ritual.
“No, this is something I did when I was your age. Let me show you.”
I didn’t plan this part, but for some reason I decided I needed to get on my knees beside the bed and clasp my hands together. The way a cartoon child prays. I don’t know…it’s just kind of happening.
“God is the one who created everything. All the trees and sky and animals and people. And God is with us all the time. We can talk to God anytime we want tell God anything we feel or think.”
Ooooh yes, it’s awkward…
“Like this…” I close my eyes and bow my head - because if we’re gonna do it, we’re doing it all the way.
“God…” I know they’re eyes are open just watching me. “God… thank you for today. I really liked playing basketball with Harris. And making dinner with Denny. I feel happy tonight. Please help me sleep well. Amen.”
I feel like a child. I hope Ash still finds me attractive after witnessing this. Thankfully she jumps in right after me. She thanks God for a thing or two and says Amen.
Then, Denny quickly jumps in. She is eager to take a stab at this. “GOD! Thank you for my new Anna and Elsa blanket! Aaaaaaaaannnnnddddd…. my polar bear!” I’m pretty sure she is just scanning her bed right now. “Aaaaaaaannnnnndddddd…. Bubba pushed me today and I cried and cried and cried. Amen!!”
She is loving this. I knew she would. Damnit, I think. We should have started when Harris was 2.
I peek up to to see if Harris is going to take his shot. He’s watching all of us, partially hiding his face under one of his stuffed animals.
He’s unsure, self-conscious. Me too, bud.
“Do you want to pray?” I ask.
“Uhhhhh…”
“You don’t have to. Only if you want to.” I definitely don’t want him to feel any obligation. I’m fine to push him to learn how to swim, but I don’t want him to ever feel coerced into this. Relationships have to be entered freely.
“I want to…” he says, using the baby voice he uses when he’s embarrassed.
“Just tell God anything you’re thinking or feeling.”
“God…” He says, looking directly at me with a self-conscious smile. “Thank you for basketball. I won 2 games and Daddy won 2 games. And I want to play more in the morning. Amen.”
Amen. It’s finished. We prayed. As a family. Whew.
It lasted about 3 minutes but contained 30 years of baggage and nostalgia for me. They have no idea. Hopefully for them it was something… meaningful. Even if a bit confusing. Hopefully Harris will be open to doing it again tomorrow night.
My hope is that this simple bedtime practice of prayer lands on them in the way I want. That prayer helps them relate to Life in a healthy, open way. That it helps them trust more and feel anxious less. I hope they learn that the fundamental nature of the universe is love, and it’s for them. That the very consciousness they are a part of is intelligent and they can tap into that source whenever they need.
Sure, tonight we just closed our eyes and said thank you for our Elsa and Anna blanket. But a dad can hope.
I feel a disconnect in myself between what I’m doing - praying - and what I’m feeling - anxious and unsettled.
I’m realizing I can teach my kids practices. But I can’t teach them a nervous system that I don’t have.
I’m not actually worried about whether Harris learns how to pray. I’m worried about whether I can teach something I’m still learning myself.
I thought tonight was going to be about starting a new practice for them, but it’s showing me that I need this more than they do.
If I want my children to feel held… I probably have to learn what it feels like to be held.
If I want them to trust Life… they’re mostly going to learn that by watching whether I trust Life.
Not by listening to my beliefs, but listening to my tone and seeing my reactions and attuning to my energy.
I cannot lead my kids somewhere I’m unwilling to go myself.
I wish parenting was like shaping playdough. Give me the right books, right habits, right bedtime routines, right school, right words. Then surely they’ll be sculpted into the adults I want them to be.
But they don’t respond to my attempts to shape them like playdough. They respond more like sponges. So my job isn’t sculpting them. It’s becoming someone worth absorbing.
Every day I’m preaching a sermon with my nervous system. If I spend my life anxious, controlling, hurried… they’ll learn that the universe is anxious. If I practice being someone grounded and surrendered, maybe they’ll begin to feel the universe is trustworthy.
There are a thousand beautiful family practices - prayer, walks after dinner, gratitude, meditation, lighting candles, reading poems before bed…. The practice isn’t magic. It’s an invitation. To become the kind of person whose inner-life is becoming more aligned with this practice.
That’s really why I’m on my knees. Much of me doesn’t want to do this awkward thing with my kids, my wife… But I want to have the courage to keep practicing the things I hope become true of me. And I want to be someone who can live held by something larger.
I don’t know how our nightly prayer practice might evolve. I don’t know if my kids will become adults who pray to a God. I don’t know what name they might resonate with for God/the universe/the Ground of Being… But I do know that I want them to be people who feel deeply at home in this world, in their bodies, in their feelings. People who feel that this universe wants them and knows them and cares about all of them, exactly as they are.
That is my prayer for them.
That is the prayer that I want to practice living myself.
Amen.
Really wonderful! Thank you for this, Brandon!
This is so beautiful! 💕✨