Raising Kids Who Can Wonder

My ten-year-old asked me the other day if God is real.

She wasn't upset about it. She was coloring at the kitchen table, half paying attention, and it came out the way most of her big questions do, somewhere between two completely unrelated thoughts. I froze for a half second because I knew, even in that moment, how I answered mattered.

My first instinct was to try and answer the question theologically. To give her an answer that would settle the question for good so she'd never have to ask it again.

I grew up thinking that was the job. That good parents, if they're good Christians, hand their kids certainty. You give them the airtight case, the verses, the reasons, and you send them out the door bulletproof. And if they have questions later, well, you must've left something out.

But I've spent the last few years unlearning that about my own faith. So why would I want to hand it to her?

•••

So I didn't give her the airtight answer. Honestly, I'm not sure I have one anymore.

I told her that yes, I believe God is real. That I've believed it for a long time but I also told her there was a time, even recently, where I wondered the same thing she was wondering.

I watched her face when I said it, half expecting it to worry her. She seemed relieved, like it made the question feel a little less scary to know her dad had been there too.

I told her that not always feeling sure doesn't mean something's broken in her and that asking questions about God might actually be a sign she's paying attention. That she can wonder all she wants and God isn't going anywhere. He's not scared of our questions.

She nodded, said "okay," and went back to coloring. The whole thing lasted maybe ninety seconds.

But I sat there afterward feeling like something important had just happened. Not because I'd nailed it, but because for once I didn't hand her certainty I don't actually have. I gave her something more honest instead.

•••

I think I'm starting to see the "certainty" I used to chase wasn't really faith. It was control. I wanted answers I could defend, a God I could explain, and a version of all this that didn't leave me exposed. Somewhere along the way I assumed that's what I was supposed to pass down to my girls. A faith with all the corners tucked in.

But a faith like that doesn't survive contact with real life. It cracks the first time something doesn't add up. I've watched it happen to people I love. I've felt it happen to me.

What I want for my girls is sturdier than that. I want them to know a God they can bring their questions to without being afraid the whole thing will fall apart. I want them to be able to say "I don't know" and not feel like they've failed some test.

Because at the end of the day, what I want most for my girls, is for them to actually know Him. And you can't really know someone you've never been allowed to wonder about.

•••

I think this is part of why starting Rafa House, our home church, has mattered so much to me this year. Our girls have grown up watching adults ask honest questions out loud, in a living room, without anyone rushing to shut it down. They've seen us sit in the not-knowing and keep following Jesus anyway.

I don't know what their faith will look like when they're grown. I know I can't hand them mine, and I'm learning I shouldn't try to. The best I can do is show them what it looks like to keep walking toward God with open hands and a curious heart.

My ten-year-old will probably ask me again someday if God is real. Maybe in a harder season, with more on the line.

I hope when she does, she already knows the question is welcome here.