Oak-corns & Apple-thorns
Modred January 1st, 2012
A Cobbler’s Child
“The cobbler’s children have no shoes,” I said to myself aloud. I was watching my thirteen-year old daughter walk down the street in her Sunday best toward the church at the end of the block. I’m not exactly sure what brought that particular adage to mind. Perhaps, seeing my youngest child go down a spiritual road I’ve already traveled, I had the sensation of failing to provide the proper footwear.
But that’s an unfair bit of self-criticism. Having raised three other children to adulthood I’ve learned a thing or two. I watched without comment for a month-and-a-half as she continued her weekly ritual.
On Friday evening she was in her room upset after a tough day at school. I asked if there was anything I could do. She confessed she was struggling with feelings of guilt concerning her failures – some poor test grades, forgetting her household chores, not being respectful to her mother, and so on. That’s why she had started going to church. And so far it wasn’t helping.
“First off, you’re feeling more guilty than you should for such small mistakes. Everyone makes them. Just learn and try to do better next time. And second, sitting in a church and getting lectured once a week is not going to help you,” I said. “After all, it’s just a building. Going there won’t help you any more than going to the mall once a week. What you need is to do something, to take action. Would you like for me to show you how to start?”
“You can do that?” she asked, her eyes lighting up.
“Of course!”
Together we went to the craft store and I bought her the beads she selected. At home we sat together and strung them into a rosary. From the bottom of my jewelry box I gave her my old silver Celtic cross to cap it off. I showed her how to dress her candles and set up her altar. We lit the incense, and by candlelight I instructed her on how to bless and consecrate her new beads for use in prayer. When I taught her how to pray, her face was filled with delight and joy.
“But Dad, you’re a witch. How do you know the Lord’s Prayer and all that stuff?” she asked.
“I used to be a Christian, the only one of all my Christian friends who had read the Bible cover-to-cover. Twice.” I said. “There’s more than one way to bake bread my dear. You can bake it using the names and books of the Christian way, the Muslim way, the Hindu way, or what-have-you. I know the Christian way, but I’m a witch because I believe that God – and Goddess – are bigger than the names, rules, and books of the other ways.” We talked awhile longer. I told her how proud I was of her, and made it clear I would be happy to work with her as often as she likes. She went and told her mother how much fun we had, and related every detail.
My wife, a Christian but not a church-goer, smiled, hugged, and praised. She knows that few thirteen-year-old kids have the courage to walk into a strange church by themselves and take a seat, and that fewer still would get up early, get dressed, and set off down the cold road alone six Sundays in a row. She knows our daughter has inherited our bravery and our love of God.
Only time will tell if she has inherited my love of the Goddess as well.
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