What I find interesting or, more accurately, challenging about the day-to-day work of being a Christian - the work (really) of looking and acting more like Christ; putting more good into the world than bad, bearing more "fruit" as we Christians like to name virtue - is that it's absolutely, totally and finally dependent on those small decisions we make, moment by moment by moment. I used to think that I'd grow spiritually simply by using the tools of the Christian tradition, tools like prayer and scripture and meditation. And it's true that these tools definitely help us grow, not because they make us more Christ-like in and of themselves, but because they help to set us up to make "fruitful" decisions. But, when it comes down to it, growing in the likeness of Christ - the real work of Christian spirituality - depends more than anything on how we choose to live and act in the very smallest details of our lives.
The other day I had the opportunity to grow in generosity. And I blew it. The details got the better of me. I'd like to be able to look back at my time as a mother with young children to say that I met the day-to-day challenges with patience, creativity and grace; that, when presented with the option to choose virtue over emotions that come more naturally (anger, resentment, despair), I'd see myself choosing the good every time. But more often than not this turns out to be wishful thinking.
Yesterday I needed to fit in a last-minute trip to the grocery store in order to have something to cook for dinner. I was on a deadline. Steve had an event, dinner needed to be ready by 6:30pm, serious storm clouds loomed and threatened drenching rain and I had no car to get to the store. What I needed was to get in and out and home again quickly, but I should know by now that in-and-out trips to the grocery store never pan out with kids in tow.
Sebby wouldn't get in to the stroller; I had to strap him in forcefully. Once we were in the store, Emma wanted to push the cart...and so did Sebby. I got anxious as we seemed to waste time arguing over which fruit and vegetables to buy, watching the fish in the aquarium, and tracking Sebby as he ran up and down the aisles.
Then, at the check-out, Emma wanted to help pack the groceries. This was thoughtful, yes, but I knew it would hold us up even further. The storm clouds pressed closer. I pictured us soaked to the bone. I was conscious of how much time the errand had already taken and now I couldn't see Sebby anymore and knew that he was running somewhere in the store. I looked back to see a line-up of people behind me, all waiting for me to hurry up and pack my groceries already. So when Emma picked up the bag of apples the wrong way and they tumbled out the opening and all over the floor - a dozen apples, rolling around people's feet and carts and all over the place - I couldn't be generous and help her pick them up and laugh about the situation and show her how to hold the bag so that wouldn't happen again. "Go find your brother," I snapped. "I'll do this; I'm better at it than you."
That was just mean or, more to the point, miserly; what I put out into the world was the very opposite of goodness and generosity, which would have been the virtues to reach for in that moment. There was my daughter, trying to help, trying to be generous herself. Looking back, I wish I could have given her something in that moment, instead of grabbing at her work and stealing it back for myself.
The 19th century German philosopher, Arthur Schopenhauer, said, "It is in the treatment of trifles that a person shows what they are." Indeed. And I don't think there's anything in the world that presents us with so many trifling details as our relationships with other human beings. If you're like me you have racked up a daily tally of failed attempts at virtue and Christ-like living, but let me say this: parenthood has got to be the best training ground we'll ever get when it comes to opportunity for spiritual growth. While our relationships present us an endless supply of trifling details, they also act as a natural and intrinsic means of spiritual refinement. Eventually, we'll gleam.
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