“And then Harold made his bed”—the book shows him creating it with his crayon. “He got in it and he drewup the covers. The purple crayon dropped on the floor.”
“And Harold dropped off to sleep.”
The other night, my 12-year-old described himself, in passing, as a Christian. I wasn’t shocked, just curious. “Do you believe in God?” I asked. He nodded with a calm certainty. “Where does your belief come from?” I asked gently. “Has Daddy talked to you about it?”
He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I just feel it.”
So many things have gone through my head since that conversation, but mostly I feel relief. Somehow, we have given our son the room to explore his own spirituality and exposed him to enough that he feels equipped to do so. Another realization: My son, an only child, is many things, but lonely is not one of them. I can’t help but think that his belief in something bigger is part of the reason why.
For so long, self-rescue was my mantra. But self-reliance in a vacuum is a lifestyle I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Now, I’ve come to see that Harold had faith in himself and the universe.
It has been a long time coming, but I think I am capable of that kind of trust, too. Imagine it’s Christmas Eve in Los Angeles, and a not-so-young mother is hanging the stockings that she sewed herself, more than 30 years ago. Her (preteen) baby is asleep upstairs when, after a lifetime running low on faith, she decides maybe it’s time.
Time to grant herself a little slack. Time to trust in the cosmos. Time to take her hands off the wheel.
