As I go back through my journals and blog entries to write my memoir, I’m rather surprised at how foundational my mom’s faith is to me. I’m realizing that I emulate many of her spiritual practices, although for sure I don’t come close to her humility. I’m not trying to copy her; that would be the last thing she’d ever want, which is a perfect example of her humility. But I do find myself following some of her ways of living out her faith: going to church, visiting people, daily Bible reading and prayer, reading out loud the copy of “A Diary of Private Prayer” that she gave me, praying for people, and questioning when I judge.
Occasionally Mom and I talked about our faith, but it is what I observed, more than what she said, that grows deep in me. She would never have consider blogging about her faith or about anything personal; she was too private for that, and besides, she exuded an remarkable certainty about her faith. She didn’t question or ponder the way I do; in that way we were very different.
Like Mom, out in my world, I don’t wear my faith on my sleeve. I talk with a few friends about it, I attend church regularly, I visit, I agree to pray for people, I blog. This feels right, at least for now.
“Thanks, Mom; I’m very grateful.”
Occasionally Mom and I talked about our faith, but it is what I observed, more than what she said, that grows deep in me. She would never have consider blogging about her faith or about anything personal; she was too private for that, and besides, she exuded an remarkable certainty about her faith. She didn’t question or ponder the way I do; in that way we were very different.
Like Mom, out in my world, I don’t wear my faith on my sleeve. I talk with a few friends about it, I attend church regularly, I visit, I agree to pray for people, I blog. This feels right, at least for now.
“Thanks, Mom; I’m very grateful.”
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