Cate was yelling at me. Again.

Every day it’s the same story. I pick Cate up from school and she happily shows me the new trick she can do on the peddle car; the stone she dug up in the sand pit; how many times she can hop the jump rope on one foot. We find Eden and start the ten minute walk home. By minute seven Cate is screaming about something. Anything.

We started with sympathy, then moved on to time outs, and I’m sure at some point there’s been some yelling on my part as well. Clearly Cate was struggling with the transition between school and home. Clearly she was angry. And clearly whatever she was yelling about was not what was really bothering her.

Finally, I sat her down at the kitchen table and got down at eye level. I addressed her very calmly and very seriously, “Cate. This isn’t working. You’re having trouble moving between being at school and being at home. I can see that you are angry, right?”

“Yes! I. AM. ANGRY!” (also crying)

“It’s totally okay to be angry. But screaming at Mommy is not okay, right?”

“RIGHT! OKAY? OKAY? RIGHT! RIGHT! RIGHT!”

“Did you know anger is a cover-up emotion? It covers up some other emotion. Something else is hiding under there.”

“It is?” (now backing down to mere sniffles)

“Yes. And I need you to think about it and tell me what it is that’s hiding under there.”

With that, the floodgates broke open. She missed all the friends she left behind when we moved. She didn’t have any friends at school. And she missed BF Day (her old school.) And some of the kids said mean things. And she doesn’t know Danish yet. And her only friends who speak English live far, far away. And did she mention, she didn’t have any friends at school?

Well, I’d already addressed all of those things. We talked about how making friends was her superpower, but that it took time. I had reminded her that we had only been at the new school for 2 weeks. I had explained that it would take a little longer than usual because we don’t know Danish yet. But, I had assured her, friends would come.

Knowing I’d already said all of this, and having a not unsmall amount of parental wisdom, I did not go into this again. Instead I asked her a question of clarification, “Cate. Do you want Mommy to talk about all these problems with you, or do you just need someplace to put them all.”

“Like what place?”

“Like a shrine.”

“I could make a shrine?”

Sure could. I dove under my desk and came up with three or four odd little boxes and tins. Cate chose a tin that used to hold bandages – Jesus bandages to be exact. After asking for stickers, tape and some scratch paper, Cate went to work. Soon she had a bonafide Shrine for Hard Feelings. It consisted of the bandage tin, a sticker of a sacred heart Jesus, some fortune cookie sized strips of paper cello-taped to the side, and one of those tiny golf pencils. Cate wrote her hard feelings down on the pieces of paper and tucked them into the tin.

“If I put these in here, Jesus will make the sad feelings go away.” she said.

“Well,” I fine tuned, “Jesus might not make them go all the way away, but at least he can hold them for a little while.”

Cate has been faithfully using the Shrine for Hard Feelings for a week now. Sometimes she’ll start ramping up into a yell-fest, but then you can see her sort of visibly pull up, and she’ll say “Wait a minute,” and go find her shrine. I’ll see her scribbling away, then tucking the paper into the tin and snapping it shut. A few minutes later she’ll be back with me, or her sister, or her dad, and the steam will have been vented.

Sometimes I wonder what all my ad hoc spirituality is teaching my children. I’m trying my best — but so did my parents, and my church, and my religious school — and I sure ended up with a bunch of crap mixed in there with the goodies. If I make up random sacraments, if my children spend their lives building Shrines for Hard Feelings and hurling plates at Anger Altars, will they regret it? I am not sure. But this I believe; my attempts, though small and flawed and most assuredly open for misinterpretation, these humble attempts at caring for these precious souls will teach them these true things

Your feelings are real.
Someone loves you enough to help in hard times.
God is big enough to handle your anger.
There is a place for you.

That seems like a good place to start.

Cross-posted at BlogHer with links to other great blogs about children’s spirituality.

Buy a Farm Animal: Change a Life
Donate a buck or a billion at ChipIn

<
Original art by Jen Lemen
for Let’s Help Ourselves and Others

It’s a rare day that I find a project so solid and so personal that I’m ready to champion it from the rooftop – but this is one of them! My soulsister Jen Lemen has fallen in love with every African immigrant in her D.C. neighborhood. They inspire her ever day, and she in turn extends a loving hand of assistance whenever she can. From springing someone from human trafficking to getting a sick daughter in Rwanda to the hospital, Jen and her network of passionate folks gets the job done.

Now Jen and Odette are on a mission to take Rwandan school girls the supplies and inspiration they need to be the next generation of leaders in their struggling, determined country. The inspiring Grace McLaren passed the opportunity to Jen to go to Rwanda; Jen asked her blogging pals for some financial support; and in 24 hours there were funds for the trip AND enough to print a book. What kind of book? A full color zine in two languages depicting the story of Odette and her brother Innocent’s clever microbusiness…in a Ugandan refugee camp…when they were 7 and 9 years old. (I cry every time I hear it.)

If this doesn’t convince Rwandan schoolgirls (and middle aged American ladies!) that small attempts can bring significant change, I don’t know what will.

Now that the books and supplies are taken care of, Jen is doing one last ask for a little more money. Innocent needs a cow. I know. It doesn’t sound like much, just one cow. But his niece (Odette’s daughter) is sick, and the meager little house flooded this year, and the cow, well, it will keep his family afloat in a highly tenuous situation.

Do you know what a cow costs in Rwanda? $600 – the equivalent of three trips to Costco or one really crappy dresser from IKEA. Now the Cotsco thing might keep you rolling in frozen lasagna, which I will admit, feels like a lifesaving act some nights in Americana. But a cow will produce enough income to keep this large extended family feed for as long as it lives.

Paul and I are down for $100. Let’s see if we can get her the rest of the way there, shall we?

Donate a buck or a billion at ChipIn.

Friends, thanks so much for reading this. Hold on to hope: all is not lost, Africa can thrive, Rwandan schoolkids can change their world, and one cow can make a difference.

In Kindness and Hope,

Rachelle Mee

For the whole Rwandan Project in orderly detail click here.