Simple, Not Easy

Silence was the language of my childhood—in our home, in the car, walking side-by-side. When our kids were born, I wanted to make sure car rides were filled with music and laughter and conversation. Some of the very best of the latter have taken place on the way to school.

Here is one of my favorites:

“Mom, am I a Christian?”

We’re stopped at a red light, and I catch a glimpse of her behind me in the rearview mirror. She’s looking out the window, head upturned at an uncomfortable angle. She’s taking in the clouds again.

“Well, that’s a great question, honey.” I immediately buy myself some time and try to put away the baggage of years of evangelical thinking about what it means to believe in “right” doctrine and all the possible ways I could royally screw up this conversation, and I inquire, “What do you think it means to be a Christian?”

“I think it means to believe in God.” I can hear the settledness in her voice. She has at peace with her answer.

“You and God have had a special relationship since you were born.”

I turn around briefly and catch her brother’s eye. “You have had a very special relationship since the time you were born too.”

He responds quickly, “I’m Jewish.”

“Okay.” I’m more curious than stunned. “What do you think it means to be Jewish?”

“Wait, what do Jewish people believe?” he asks.

This should be fun, I think. “Well, there are some Jewish people who believe Jesus wasn’t who he said he was…” I don’t get to finish my sentence before he interrupts me.

“Oh, oops—but so-and-so in my class believes in Jesus, and he’s Jewish.”

“Right. So, you guys know that one of the names for Jesus is Messiah, right?”

They both respond with enthusiastic yeses and refer to Christmas stories.

I try to think through all the ways not to lose their attention.

“Right, so Messiah means “Chosen One.” There are some Jewish people who believe the same things as other Jewish people and also believe that Jesus is who he said he was—they’re called Messianic Jews.

I pause and wait for their heads to explode. Instead, I hear what is quite possibly the truest of phrases from my son, who can always be relied on to tell it like it is.

“Mom, this is getting complicated.”

“You’re right. Humans make things really complicated sometimes. But you know, I feel God’s love every time I see a yellow butterfly. I feel God’s love every time I see a tree in the wind, clapping its leaves because trees know they’re doing exactly what they were created to do.

To my daughter, who is still looking out the window at the clouds, I say, “You might feel God’s love when you look at the clouds.”

To my son I say, “You might feel God’s love when you see sunbeams or that bald eagle when we pass the pond.”

“Mom, can we listen to songs now?” Clearly the moment has passed, and I know better than to try to pull them back to it.

“Sure,” I say.

Spotify takes over for the next 10 minutes, until we pass the pond and my son exclaims, “Mom! There’s the bald eagle!”

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Vanessa Sadler is a trauma-informed Spiritual Director and Enneagram Specialist. Through her company Abide (@abidinginstory), she collaborates with clients who seek deeper abiding and a greater understanding of the ways they relate with God, self and others. Vanessa has Level I and Level II certificates in Narrative Focused Trauma Care from The Allender Center, located within the Seattle School of Theology and Psychology, and also offers Integrated Story Work to her clients along with a culture identity component.