Winning Our Kids to Christ
"The Blessing" - How a seemingly insignificant family prayer tradition became so important.
By Jan Petroni Brown

It’s almost impossible to remember just when our family ritual began. It seems as if I’ve been doing it forever; yet, I know there once was a time when a kiss on the cheek had seemed enough. Maybe it would be easier to address the “why” rather than the “when.” Just what had prompted me to start this gesture that has now become so much a part of our lives?

And who did I think I was, anyway? I knew who I was—the person who loved those three little people from the depths of my soul, fretted over their every sniffle, and felt their pain of growing up in a world that is not always kind. I was their mother. I was their protector, just as a swan spreads her wings and covers her young like a blanket.

Unlike those babies who can stay tightly nestled under their mother’s shield, my little ones had reached the point of needing to test their wings. Beyond that front door was the world—or the rest of it—the part that is unprotected, sometimes unloving, sometimes cold.

Although life on my side of that door often seemed chaotic, it was a world of unconditional love, where tears flowed but not as often as the laughter, where hurtful words were spoken but apologies quickly made, where hugs were abundant and free, and where you could be anything you chose—from artist to magician to the best bathtub polisher in America.

A Simple Gesture. It was a simple gesture, really, but the significance was greater than I had imagined. With backpack slung loosely over one shoulder and a dab of toothpaste still filling the corner of his mouth, my oldest child, Nathan, raced for the door.

“Wait,” I yelled. “Not yet!” With my hand firmly on his shoulder, I began the ritual. Right then and there.

“Please, dear God,” I murmured with curious eyes on me. “Bless this young man. Let him have a good day. Keep him safe. Let him learn all that you wish for him. Let him be respectful of his teachers and make good friends.”

There it was, spoken like a mom—with little flair but overflowing with love. Ever since that day, the words have remained the same. But try as I may, the reason for beginning the ritual still escapes me.

It might have begun the week that Nathan’s kindergarten teacher called, dropping “divine revelation” like a bomb. Apparently the new kid in town, who happened to be my fair-haired firstborn, was not the perfect child I had surmised. “He’s having difficulty getting along with the other children,” she dutifully reported.

I shouldn’t have been surprised, since Nathan had recently begun sporting “difficulty-getting-along” badges on his face. “Maybe it was the adjustment of moving,” my husband and I theorized. The transition from Denver to Vernal, Utah, had been quite a culture shock for the entire family.

Maybe the ritual started when Nathan, still having some difficulty getting along, reached second grade and began falling behind in school. “Time for academic testing,” the principal said. The results surprised everyone but Nathan’s father and me. We knew what kind of mind they were dealing with. Nathan’s intelligence test scores should have kept any student at the top of the class. Possibly our “perfect” son was one of the many children with attention deficit disorder.

Or maybe “The Blessing,” as it soon became known, came into existence after we noticed that our younger son, Jordan, busily making his way down the hallway in our Denver home, was suddenly overcome by something bizarre and frightening. There he stood, eyes glazed, motionless except for rhythmic movements of his lips. And then, as if someone had replaced a toy’s failing batteries with new ones, our toddler was back to his healthy, vibrant self. After the move to Vernal, his “spells” began occurring daily, sometimes several times a day. “I think Jordan may be having seizures,” I casually explained to our pediatrician.

Perhaps the ritual began the following week, after the horrible night my husband and I had spent praying, crying, and holding each other. The next day, our little guy was immobilized and placed in a steel cylinder. The piece of machinery, which resembled a time capsule from an old science fiction movie, scanned Jordan’s brain searching for the reason for his seizures. A tumor was likely, we were told.

How wonderful! No tumor! We would just have to learn to say “epilepsy” and accept the fact that it wasn’t such a terrible word. Sure, we would ride the bumpiest roller coaster of our lives trying this medication and the next. Sure, the medication would turn our “teddy bear” into the most aggressive kid on the block. Sure, every school year would mean a new teacher and a new effort to dispel misconceptions along with this letter from Mom: “Although you may not have won the lottery this year, you have been awarded a ‘special’ student in your overcrowded classroom.”

Power Behind the Words. Whatever the reason for its inception, I knew that “The Blessing” would be my gift to my children, pure and simple. The power behind those words would replace me as the shield I had been for them all those years, because I wouldn’t always be there to kiss a freshly bandaged knee. They would be on their way—with a kiss on the cheek and “The Blessing” to give them wings to fly over the threshold from one side of the door to the other.

That rocky first year in a new town and a new school gave way to three much better years. Nathan’s behavior and grades improved. (Or could it have been “The Blessing”?) And Jordan seemed to be doing better every year. He was just like any normal boy—the seizure medicine was working. (Or could it have been “The Blessing”?)

As baby sister Angie entered preschool, she joined her big brother at the door and waited for the first blessing of a new school year. It had become as much a part of our family as our love for one another.

Not until a night a few months ago did I realize how significant the gesture had become. As I hurriedly gathered my things and headed for the door, trying not to be late for my first college course in years, I heard familiar words. “Wait a minute!” they called. Joining hands in a circle around me, my three beautiful children along with their dad began to pray, “Please, dear God, bless this mom. . .”

Jan Petroni Brown lives with her husband and three children in Evanston, Wyoming.