Hedgehog Blessing (for Back to School)

 Psalm 116: 5-7 "Gracious is the Lord, and righteous; our God is merciful. The Lord protects the simple; when I was brought low, he saved me. Return, O my soul, to your rest, for the Lord has dealt bountifully with you. 

BACK TO SCHOOL BLESSING FOR CHILDREN & TEACHERS

AKA. HEDGEHOG BLESSING

By Kara K. Root

 

(Prior to the blessing, 

anoint children and teachers with the sign of the cross, “Name, You are a Beloved Child of God”)

 

Children and Teachers –

God made the sun and the moon, the night and the day, the oceans and the land, the sky and the animals; God made the hedgehog and God made you.

 

So to send you back to school this year, we are giving you a special ‘Hedgehog Blessing.’

 

Beloved Children of God:

As hedgehogs roam far and wide and investigate the world, may you have room to discover and grow, may you be filled with curiosity and wonder, may your body move, your heart thrill and your mind explore.

 

For Discovery, Curiosity, Wonder, Movement and Exploration, we pray.

God, bless these beloved ones.

As hedgehogs are the most deeply hibernating creature on the planet, and have no problem curling up for a nap anytime throughout their waking days, may you take many breathers and breaks when you need them: brain breaks and mask breaks and friend breaks and screen breaks. And may you know when to let go and relax, and when you are tired, may you find deep rest.

 

For Rest, Breaks, breathers and relaxation, we pray.

God, bless these beloved ones.

 

As hedgehogs are very vocal with their grunts and snuffles and squeals, so may you speak up and speak out.  Share your joys and your sadnesses, your worries and your celebrations.  May you make new friends and listen to their grunts and snuffles and squeals too, because we are all in this together.

 

For speaking out and for listening, we pray.

God, bless these beloved ones.

 

As hedgehogs’ quills offer protection but do not sting or injure, may your heart and mind and body be guarded this year.  And may you work out conflict in ways that bring peace instead of harm, because in Jesus Christ, we all belong to each other.

 

For guarded heart and minds, we pray.

For working out conflict without harm, we pray.

God, bless these beloved ones.

 

The hedgehog was for ancient peoples a symbol of resurrection, or life after death, because God made the hedgehog immune to snake venom.  So, like the hedgehog you too are protected; mean or poisonous words cannot destroy you, and mistakes and struggles do not define you.  

Who you are in your deepest self is already completely known and loved by God: You are a beloved child of God, Jesus holds you secure.

As the ancient Greeks used to say, “The fox knows many things, but the hedgehog one important thing” – so may you remember this one important thing, and I invite everyone to repeat it after me now: God loves me, now and always.

All: God loves me now and always.

 

For Protection and understanding, we pray

To know the one important thing: “God loves me, now and always,” we pray,

God, bless these beloved ones.

As hedgehogs curl into a ball, may you too let yourself feel your feelings. If you are sad or angry, scared or worried, God will join you there and hold you in it. And as hedgehogs enjoy being held, and not forced to come out of their ball but allowed to uncurl when they are ready, may you trust that you are held in God’s love, and it’s ok to just rest there, and not to move on to action too quickly.

 

To feel all their feelings, we pray

To trust God is holding them in love, we pray

God, bless these beloved ones.

 

As hedgehogs lose their baby spines and grow adult ones, first of all, many of you will lose your baby teeth and grow adult teeth, which we will celebrate with you as milestones of growing up.  But also, all of get to let go of the ways we use to protect ourselves that no longer serve us, and grow new, brave ways to stay both connected to God and other people and true to ourselves.

 

For milestones of growth we pray

To let go of what no longer serves them, we pray

To stay true to themselves,

and connected to others,

we pray,

God bless these beloved ones.

 

God made hedgehogs with a strange ritual. When they discover a new scent in their environment – some kind of plant or object they don't recognize - they will lick and bite it, and make froth in their mouths that they paint onto their spines with their tongues.  This is called “anointing” and helps them adapt to their surroundings.  You have been anointed today as a beloved child of God.  So like the hedgehogs, may that make you brave to be in whatever places you are this year, may you have courage to face new and different things. May you be resilient (which means that you get better and better at recovering when hard things happen), and may you be adaptable (which means you get good at adjusting to changes).

 

For courage, resilience and adaptability we pray,

God bless these beloved ones.

 

As hedgehogs are clever and resourceful, such as knocking a grape off a vine and rolling over onto it to stab the grape onto its quills and carry it off, so may you find creative, joyful and imaginative ways to navigate challenges, and to find and hang onto the sweetness in this year to carry with you and share with others.

 

That they may be clever, resourceful, imaginative and joyful, we pray.

That they may taste life’s sweetness and share it with others, we pray.

God bless these beloved ones.

 

God of the whole universe and of the hedgehog too,

bless these children and teachers with all these things, and in all these ways,

as they begin a new school year.

Amen. 

 

Blessing written for the children and teachers of Lake Nokomis Presbyterian Church, September 5, 2021.  

Each child and teacher received a stuffed hedgehog for their backpack.

Copyright Kara K. Root. May be shared and used with attribution.  

In addition:

The following may be printed onto a TAG to be attached to the hedgehogs: 

Discovery, Curiosity, Wonder, Movement, Exploration.

Rest, Breaks, breathers and relaxation.

Speaking out and listening.

Guarded heart and mind.

Resolve conflict without harm.

Know one important thing: “God loves me, now and always.”

Protection and Understanding.

Feel your feelings: scared, glad, sad, worried, calm, afraid.

Let go of what no longer serves you.

True to yourself.

Connected to others.

Brave.

Resilient.

Adaptable.

Clever.

Resourceful.

Imaginative.

Sharing.

Joyful.

 

Away and home again (sort-of)

It has been a few weeks since I have posted.  The kids and I just returned from 16 days in New Zealand and Australia.  (We were all there, but just the kids and I returned - Andy will be back in a week).  And the return journey was a drawn-out doozie; I wish I would've taken before and after pictures - we looked like a trio of surly, hungover criminals slinking through US Customs.

But I have things to say, I think, things to process and share about our time there - about traveling with kids, about Christchurch and Christ's Church, about time alone with family out of normal context (but never alone by yourself), and what surprising sacred space sightseeing opens up within and between us.  I have lots burbling, I think.

But at the moment I am a foggy mess.  My edges are all blurry I can't latch onto thoughts.  (Not to mention trying to feed myself and the kids when we want breakfast in the middle of the day and dinner in the middle of the night).  So the post-travel post(s) will have to wait a few days.  (At least until all the bubble-wrapped souvenirs are off the dining room table and we all three can sleep through the night without waking each other up for an extended song, craft, story and granola bars break before returning to bed).
As Owen just said when I asked him to get the remote control, "I just can't. I have too much jet-lag right now."

How we're NOT feeling right now. Ok, maybe just one of us.

Creating Ritual - Practicing faith with children

Last week my Methodist minister friend Mandy and I took our children on our annual winter "pilgrimage" to a small retreat center in Northern Minnesota.  Each year the kids are older and the dynamics are different, but it is rich and surprising every time.  This year we had two six year olds, a four year old, a three year old and a nine month old. Two moms and five kids in a cabin in the woods with no TV or video games.  It is our living sacrifice, our spiritual service of worship.

This is our third time, and we've perfected the packing: a huge tub of outdoor clothing and boots, sleds, a giant bin of legos, a small tent, a novel or small set of children's books, a couple of board games and a container of craft supplies - which sits in my storage room completely packed until the next year's trip rolls around.  We do not deviate from this assortment. It's tried and true. Oh, and a mix cd. Each year has its own mix cd.

While we're together at "Cabin in the Woods" we practice a "Goodnight Circle" - each sharing what we are glad about, and what we are sad or worried about from our day, and then praying for one another. We walk a labyrinth a few times a day - a remarkable feat (and great risk) with short legs in the snow, where monkey business or carelessness could ruin the whole design.  But from the first time, these children held a sacredness to the practice - even when run with speed and playfulness, they respected the common experience and rejoiced in the rhythm.  This year the snow labyrinth at the retreat center was not maintained, and the children missed it so much that we decided to create our own.  We found a book with instructions, and what followed was a poignant, joyful project that I will never, ever forget.

Most days we follow a trail to a prayer gazebo, where we light a candle and everyone "writes" prayers on small papers and shoves them in the cracks between the rocks.  Their paper prayers have gone from scribbles to single letters to whole words and now sentences as they quietly add their message to the silent, faded joys and griefs of visitors gone before.  Then we must sneak down the trail past the hermitage where someone is tucked away in silence and solitude with God, either blissfully unaware of, or mirthfully peeking out at, the parade of tiny, simultaneously sweaty and cold pilgrims in snowsuits and boots trudging through the trees.

Every day we eat lunch in the lodge, startling, overwhelming (and delighting?) solitary adult guests who are staying in retreat.  There the children fall into the lunch rhythm, which includes a reading - for which they must sit silently, and concludes with singing the World Peace Prayer, which in theory is sung by people at lunchtime in every timezone making it an endless prayer for global peace.

Bread is important to our time, for every meal and snacks, both because it is delicious and because the variety of heathy, organic vegetarian meals does not include anything remotely like pizza or chicken nuggets. (Wine is also important for the mommies' late night chats when all the kids are snoring under handmade quilts).  Mandy and I give each other breaks from the chaos; one of us will stay in the cottage with the kids while the other spends a couple of hours in the lodge for adult conversation, silent prayer, or to check email and Facebook.  And we end every night by the fire with our feet up and the deep forest darkness wrapping the cottage in stillness.

Somehow this crazy little trip to the last place you could ever imagine bringing children (winter, Northern Minnesota, a generally adult retreat center) has become an annual Sabbath ritual for us that we cannot imagine our lives without, and which has impacted us and our families in profound ways.
 Whether it is the kids' requests for the World Peace Prayer or ARC bread for dinner, the way the goodnight circle lingers in our evenings for a few months and resurfaces from time to time after that, the labyrinths they draw or are drawn to in worship settings, or the freedom with which they talk about God hearing their prayers, the power of this ritual has permeated our children.

And it has shown me that maybe one of the greatest spiritual gifts we can give our children is ritual.  Bedtime prayers, mealtime candles, Advent calendars and deep woods walks - helping our kids notice and experience God in ways other than speaking and listening, frees them.  It, paradoxically, helps to give them words.  It loosens up questions and opens up connections. It helps them see the sacredness of the world and the mystery of their place within it.  It gives them permission as children to create patterns  for themselves - (my daughter demands the Doxology as her bedtime song and my son collects prayer stones and shells).  It places their experience in church -- the lessons in Sunday school, the hymns in worship, the passing of the bread and cup -- in a wider, more generous context, and calls them personally to engage.  It reminds them that they belong to God, and that God is always with them.

And as parents, it gives us greater permission and courage to talk about God with our kids.  Ritual provides shared experiences and contexts from which to raise questions and tell stories. Impromptu praying or talking about God's presence in world events and frightening circumstances, struggling together with ethical issues and wondering what difference Jesus makes in our daily life and relationships becomes easier because we have shared in a common spoken and unspoken language of faith.  And for Mandy and myself, whose vocation is to speak about God ad naseaum, these simple rituals give us an alternative way to express faith, and to encounter God, our children and ourselves.

Most importantly, practicing simple rituals with our kids reiterates the oft-forgotten truth that faith in God is not a destination but a journey. Faith is not about learning right answers or correct beliefs.  It is about learning to trust ever more in the Creator of all who came to share this life with us -- birth and death and everything in between.  Faith is about discovering ourselves in the hands of the one who overcame death with life, and who is moving and breathing hope in the world even now.
And that is a journey we can share together.

Confessions of a Humbled Multi-tasker or Lessons in Grace

I was just recalling this experience with a friend.  This post is from January 2010 - all you Minister Moms out there know the challenges... they soften and shape us.

I was bit today in church. With teeth.
 An angry 5 year old knew he had me over a barrel, unable to escort him out or chew him out. With too much self consciousness to have a real, full-throttle outburst, he chose instead to writhe, bite, crawl under pews, whimper, and finally to slide his chair past all the pews up to the communion table while I was officiating, and generously bring another chair along for his little sister.

All in a whisper I bargained, cajoled, threatened (a lot), scolded, pleaded, and was bested. Daddy was away teaching, a guest preacher shared the word with us today, and I sat in the pews with my children. Which may have been manageable if that was all I did, but I also led communion, and was involved enough in the rest of the service that I couldn't leave for a kneeling in the hallway come-to-Jesus, or a family escape to a room with toys.  Instead I did the concluding prayer with one kid sobbing on my hip and the other thrashing on the floor in the center of sanctuary.

I made the mommy-minister mistake: I crossed the line. For other minister-moms it might be different. But for my family, we have a line.  We had set it up that there are are certain times mommy is not available.  And over time, we had all gotten to be ok with this.  Mommy just doesn't sit with us in church.  We can see her, and shake her hand at the passing of the peace, and stand with her at the end when she says good morning to people, but she is not here to sit with us.  But today, I thought, why not?

Ohhh. That's why not.

My friend asked me, on the phone afterwards, “What did you learn from this?” I sheepishly admitted that I cannot do it all (especially at the same time), and that next time I would arrange for someone else to watch them, or let them spend the day with Grandma, or otherwise try not to be all things to all people, because then I am not very much for anybody.
Sorry children.  Sorry congregation.

I can't help but hope that when they grow older our minister-mom line will disappear. That one day they, and I, will be able to handle me being in both roles simultaneously.  And I can't help but wonder and worry what they are absorbing subconsciously, what our actions are teaching them about God, or church, or grace.
But I do know that when things are really bad - like today- they still feel from the congregation that they belong. That they are loved.  As when they were included in the communion circle despite their refusal to participate in anything else.  As when someone brought them instruments for the closing hymn, despite their brazen flaunting of order and decorum.

And so when someone looks into my kid's face and says, "The body of Christ, broken for YOU" and then helps him pass it to the next person, I guess my kids are learning an awful lot about God, and church, and grace.  And maybe they teach us something too, or me, at least.  That this is a place - or THE place - where we bring all of who we are, messy and tidy, and participate as much as we are able.  And together we share in the task of being human, with and for one another, and letting each other be human, as we gather in the presence of God who shared our humanity, God with and for us.
May I learn that lesson too.

en route...

Sitting at the airport…

Traveling makes me hopelessly nostalgic and sentimental.

I blew dramatic air-kisses to my freckle-nosed tow-head as the school-bus pulled away, and shed a few tears after squeezing my pig-tailed wonder goodbye. 

And then I almost hugged my cabby.

My heart is swollen and I feel love for the world and all in it. 

If Andy were here he’d groan, roll his eyes, and put a chair of distance between us. 

I almost wish I could do that myself. 

I’m off to see my dear Mandy – inside her belly my goddaughter has kindly waited 5 days past her due date for my arrival, and I hope not to wait too long for hers.  I’d like a few days of nuzzling and sniffing her before I have to take a plane home. 

I checked the world’s largest suitcase, stuffed to near-splitting seams with all manner of tiny, feminine clothing, shoes and hats, and the gate agent politely looked the other way when the scale read a bright “51 lbs”, rather than charging me $75 for the extra pound.  For a split second I imagined myself rummaging through the thing and removing one pound’s worth of onesies and miniature leggings and stuffing them all throughout my pockets, carry-on and computer bag…thumb-sized socks dropping out of my purse in the hallways of the Lindburgh terminal as I rushed to catch my flight. 

Thank you, Kind Gate Agent. 

When I travel with my children I am the picture of efficiency and control, managing all manner of travel predicament with resourcefulness and economy.  Alone, I am fumbling, meandering, taking forever to reassemble my strewn-about self and baggage after the security screening, bumping through airport shops and forgetting which pockets hold what items.  Unencumbered, and untethered, I also feel small and quick if not a little haphazard, and I must seem young because every single uniformed person today has called me, “Miss.”  I'm buzzing with anticipation, zeroed in on my goal; I'm a godmother on a mission. Get there before she does. And then hope she comes quickly. I'm coming baby Sloan... are you?

Tonight we plan to eat at Scalini’s.  Their famous Eggplant Parmesan is credited with inducing over 300 babies – whose photos are displayed under the title “Eggplant Babies” on a wall of their dining room. 

Come tonight, sweet Sloan.  Don’t you want to be an Eggplant Baby too?

The plane is boarding now, Lord help the poor person seated next to me.

Eggplant Babies at Scalini's

Simulating Spring

Daylight savings time changed today, and it is 60 degrees outside.
60 degrees.
If you are not a Minnesotan, you can't appreciate the significance of this in our lives.  March's snowfall is second only to December's, and we still have a good month and a half of winter left. But suddenly two feet of snow is gone in just over a week, and the kids are dogs are splashing through the muddy yard and it smells like spring.
Going outside in shirt sleeves makes us giddy, but it creates a strange anxiety when it is this beautiful out this early in the season.  We are a hardy people, strong and flexible. We can take whatever Mother Nature throws at us.  Two feet of snow on Halloween? No problem!  Two weeks of sub-zero temperatures?  We can handle it!  But teasing us about Spring - that is something that could bring these marathoners to our knees.  The way to make it through winter - especially in these last months when the rest of the country is posting pictures of their budding tulips on facebook - is to hang on through the ups and downs of our winter and not even hope for spring yet, which comes as April turns to May.  "Keep your head down and your right arm pumping" as they say.
We don't know what to do with this weather.  There truly is a pit in my stomach, an anxious roller coaster of emotions as I throw open my windows to let the breeze into a house that has been closed up for 4 months and hear my husband say to the neighbor (because we stand around and "visit" with our neighbors when the weather turns nice), that he is "trying not to get his hopes up."  I want to go right now and buy seeds for my garden, I want to box up the winter coats and pull out the spring clothes. I want to make smoothies and salads and grilled meats for dinner, and tuck the chili and pot roast recipes deep into the recipe box and forget about them for a while.
But I have been a Minnesotan for the better part of three decades, and I know that even though it looks like spring is coming, we are still in winter.  Quit playing with us, world. I don't think my heart can take it.
But seeing my children squealing in the sunshine, and my husband chatting with the neighbor, hearing cacophony of birds at my window, and smelling the deep earthy scent of mud, I've decided that, for today, I am going to surrender to the brutal charade and play along.  I'll mop up the pieces of my broken, melted heart when the next snowfall comes.
Fire up the BBQ and pull out the potato salad.
We're playing Spring!

 March 2, 2007

                                                                                                       April 1, 2009

On Seeing Santa

 "Have you been a good boy this year?" 
"No. I haven't.  Sometimes I hit Maisy. And sometimes I am mean to her."
But honey, you've been a good boy. You've apologized when you've been mean to your sister, and she has forgiven you. It's ok. You have been a good boy this year.  When he asks, you can say yes."
"No Mom. I have been mean to my sister. I have not been a good boy."
   We were prepping for our visit to Santa, and I found myself in the middle of several ethical and theoretical dilemmas.  My dear, introspective five year old could not bring himself to say that he had been a good boy (whatever that means anyway).  This discussion had followed immediately on the heals of a strange conversation about why we could NOT bring Santa some pumpkin bread as a gift.  Why not?  Their teachers got pumpkin bread. We gave it to our friends. Why in the world wouldn't we bring some for Santa?
   The whole reason we were going anyway, is because my two and a half year old had gotten it into her head that Santa would be coming to visit. And we would give HIM presents, and a big hug. In that order.  For days she said, "I am so excited for Santa to come, so I can give him presents and a big hug."  No amount of explaining - including her brother informing her that "Santa isn't real, Maisy, it's the grown ups who bring presents", which she summarily dismissed - would deter her from her anticipation at the Man's visit.
   So I decided we'd better go to the mall and see Santa.  
   Second question, "What do you want for Christmas?"
Maisy announced that she was going to ask for a teddy bear and a baby doll. Owen, after much internal wrestling, had decided to ask for new legos.  Maisy was giddy with anticipation. Owen had just remembered that he'd seen Santa last year, and he wasn't all that.  Actually, he was a little scary.  At the last minute, Owen backed out, saying he'd rather stay home, but he gave careful instructions to his sister to pass on his Christmas request when she saw the Man in Red.
   We got to the mall and hurried to the Santa area.  Maisy was confused as to what Santa was doing in a shopping mall, and why we weren't at his home.  I had no answer for her. I'd given up defending and explaining this bizarre and slightly disturbing ritual of putting our kids on a sweaty stranger's lap, all the adults lying and pretending and all the kids suspicious and confused. 
   We arrived at the line, easily twenty people deep, children crying or swinging from the velvet ropes, parents looking haggard.  Many of the children wore dresses and tights, buttoned up shirts and fancy shoes.  My daughter looked up at me and asked, "Where's Santa?"  So I asked and the woman behind the camera told me he would be back at 2:15.  It was 2:10.  That seemed ok.  Then the woman in front of me turned around and said she'd been waiting for a half hour, and they told her he'd be back at 2:00. Her nine year old son stood patiently next to her.  
   Finally at 2:25 HE came strolling through the mall, a ripple of relief went through the line, and my daughter squealed and clapped her hands.  He climbed around the ropes, smothered his hands in Purell and pulled on his white gloves.  He spritzed breath freshener into his mouth, adjusted his hat, and settled into his chair.
   As the line inched forward I learned that the boy in front of us still believed in Santa; his big brother had lost interest. Despite the fact that her husband had been out of work for a year and a half, the mom was willing to shell out the $17 for the cheapest photo package (two 3x5s) to keep the magic alive for him for one more year, because even though she brought it just in case, the giant sign in front of us said she would not be permitted to her to use her own camera.
   At one point I noticed another "Santa".  Coming down the escalator, eyes upon the Santa scene below, was an old, plump man with a full white beard and a full head of grey-white hair in jeans and a black sweater.  He watched all the way to the bottom of the escalator, then rounded the corner and tucked himself underneath the escalator where he stood gazing at the Santa scene for several more minutes. I imagined he was an interviewee who didn't get the job sizing up his competition, or a prospective Santa, working on the beard and the gut this year so that next year he might audition for the role himself. Lurking to pick up some pointers.  Or maybe hoping some kid might notice him and think he was the real thing checking up on the fake. Or maybe he was.
   I looked back at the one who had gotten the job, as he slid a child off his lap, removed his thick fur hat and mopped his bald head with it before putting it back on.  What if Santa had a heart attack or stroke? I wondered. This seemed like a kind of grueling ordeal for someone of his age.
   After fielding several more Santa questions - "Where are his reindeer and sleigh?" (on the mall roof, if you could peek out that skylight, you'd see them) - Maisy's turn came.  She marched up to the Man, chin reaching just above his knee as he perched on his giant green throne, and said to him, "Hi Santa."  
He was very sweet with her. Engaged her in conversation. Asked her baby doll's name, and what she wanted for Christmas.  He never asked her if she'd been a good girl.  That question must be out.  (Owen would've been safe). Finally I picked her up and set her on his bright red knee, and backed up so they could snap a picture. 
   I could see it all over her face. It wasn't what she thought it would be. Mechanical deer bobbing its head next to her and furry snow all over the mall floor.  She clammed up, finally giving us a obligatory half-smile in response to my and the picture lady's screeching ("Smile honey! Like a princess!  Say CHEESE!"), and Santa gently set her down on the floor.  He reached over and folded a crown of paper antlers and placed them on her head.  She waved and said, "Bye Santa," and then took my hand and we walked away.  A few steps later she stopped and gasped. "Oh! I forgot to give him a hug!"  I looked back at the scene - line wrapping around the piles of snow and red velvet rope, the picture lady screeching at the child screaming in the bright red man's arms. "It's ok, honey.  You sat on his lap.  That's enough."

awe and wonder

These are poignant days.
He is moving away from me, his own tiny self out into the world. Pride and grief, worry and thrill all churning inside as I look down at his peaceful face, pressed into the pillow, limbs curled in and hair smashed up on end.
His life is less and less about me, as my own is hardly about my parents at all.  These are his days, his struggles and triumphs, his thoughts and experiences, his memories and meaning.
This is now his story.
It is no longer the story of me and my baby, me as a mom. Sure, that's still part of my own story, but now there is another story out there, a new story, a different story than has ever been.  And I get to be an accessory in this new story, a supporting cast member.  I get to watch it unfold and marvel as he becomes.
Who ever knew this would be so hard and so wonderful?

He Was Brave Today.
Afraid and excited and brave in the way brave is really brave - feeling scared and doing it anyway. He was strong and honest and real.  My boy.

Look out world. Here he comes.