Non-terrifying spirituality for children

I grew up in a Catholic family in Boston. As you can imagine, this was an especially Catholic upbringing. I loved being religious. For my first communion, my grandmother gave me a gold cross on a gold chain. I would kiss the cross before walking up to the plate at my little league baseball games, feeling the grooves of the gum I’d packed in my lip with my tongue to settle my nerves against a familiar texture. At night, in the room I shared with my two brothers, I’d sit crosslegged on the gray carpet next to my bed and say an Our Father. I’d ask for stuff. I’d ask for a good grade on a test or that a certain girl would talk to me the next day at school, and that when I talked back, I’d be funny and I’d say exactly the right thing. I’d pray that there would be no more hunger or pain or other bad things in the world. I felt like someone cared about me, and was looking out for me, and that there was an underlying order and justice to the universe. I liked praying and I liked sitting in…