A new friend of mine from church came over for dinner the other day. She was looking at the homespun art we pin up to the walls: swirls of watercolor, stick figures and drawings.
“I see you teach them about God,” she said approvingly.
I glanced at the wall, surprised, feeling like a fraud. Why would she think that? I wondered. Then I saw it: one of the works—mine—had Praise Ye The Lord lettered in capitals over a wash of pink and blue.
My internal reaction, to feel like I’d deceived her, told me something.
The perfectionism that follows me around like a little nipping dog has its teeth in my parenting, big time.
Especially when it comes to passing down the heritage of faith.