The following post is from The Book of Belonging Substack: Weekly Sabbath Practice: Mother, May I:

This week’s practice was inspired by conversations in my real life.

It’s February - arguably the bleakest month of the year- and I can’t name a single friend who is not on the struggle bus. And I would know: I am the driver and I take roll call.

We all have our different ways of coping and - having loaded my bus with a ragtag gang of spiritual hooligans ranging from deeply liturgical to fantastically woo-woo - prayer is a coping mechanism often discussed. If you’re new here, that term might not mean what you expect : as Rumi says, there are many ways to kneel and kiss the ground. We’ve explored Scream Prayer and something I now refer to as Bug Prayer, based on Rachel’s iconography. And this week, one of my fellow riders on the struggle bus shared this video of Tracee Eliss Ross talking about her personal prayer practice.

In short, she lists out all of the uncomfortable feelings she is having - her fears, her shame, her anxiety, her rage - and flips them into a “May I…” based prayer.

For example, if her fear is:
“I am afraid I will never find a partner,”
she writes that down and then offers:
“May I remember that I am worthy of belonging and connection.”

At first, my Spiritual Bypassing Alert beeped gently.

I love the idea of meeting our biggest emotions with connection to the divine. But I always want to ensure that the process doesn’t leapfrog over embodiment. Because embodiment is how we move emotions through and close the nervous system loop. Otherwise, we’re just squishing them down and calling that trust.

And yet.

Another friend recently shared this quote with me:

“Both optimism and anxiety require us to imagine something that hasn’t happened yet. If we have the ability to worry about the future, it also means we have the ability to imagine a better one.” — Jess Ekstrom

And my busy brain can’t help but weave a web of meaning here.

Because anxiety and prayer are both acts of imagination.

Anxiety uses imagination to rehearse catastrophe.
Prayer uses imagination to rehearse possibility.

Not by denying what scares us, but by imagining ourselves resourced inside it.

So perhaps the invitation isn’t to silence fear.
Perhaps it’s to redirect imagination.

And maybe, just maybe, this practice requires the simplest act of faith:

To imagine that Goodness is actually as good as we hope it is.

That the belonging we long for is not a childish fantasy.
That the safety we ache for is not naïve.
That our deep desires are not evidence of deficiency,
but signposts pointing toward something true.

If we can imagine disaster,
we can also imagine a future where Love holds.

This week’s Practice: ‘May I’ Prayer

This is not a practice of erasing fear.
It is a practice of listening — and responding.

You’ll need:

A pen
Paper
A few quiet minutes

1.Name the Fear: Write one fear that has been circling your mind.

“I am afraid I will never find partnership.”
“I am afraid everything is falling apart.”
“I am afraid I am not enough.”

Let it be honest.

2. Feel Where It Lives

Pause and notice where this fear sits in your body.
Tight chest? Heavy stomach? Clenched jaw?

Place a hand there if that feels grounding and take one slow breath.

3. Listen for the Longing

Ask yourself: What does this fear reveal that I deeply want?

Fear of being alone reveals longing for connection.
Fear of collapse reveals longing for safety.
Fear of failure reveals longing for purpose.

Write the longing down. Underneath the fear is a desire for something good.

4. Use the Longing to Form a May I Prayer

Sometimes we just need to ask for Goodness to be Good.

If your longing is connection:
“May I remember that I am worthy of belonging.”
“May I trust that you are near.”

If your longing is safety:
“May I trust that I am held.”
“May I remember you sit with me in uncertainty.”

If your longing is purpose:
“May I believe my life matters.”
“May I notice the good I am already part of.”

Let the prayer be a welcoming, a turning toward Presence.

5. Read Them Together

Read your fear and then read your prayer, noticing the space between them.

Anxiety imagines catastrophe.
Prayer imagines companionship.

Not by denying what scares us, but by daring to believe that Goodness sits with us inside it.

Stay there for a moment and notice what happens. Maybe it’s peace, maybe it’s blankness, maybe it’s exasperation. That’s okay.

May we all remember that loving and safe relationships can hold difficult conversations.

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By the way, do you have The Book of Belonging? It's such a lovely children's bible-

I read it about it first on Sarah Bessey's Substack this summer:

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The possibility of healing through better story-telling

A guest essay by Mariko Clark, author of "The Book of Belonging" + a giveaway

Sarah Bessey

Jun 24

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Hi friends,

Back in 2019 at our Evolving Faith gathering in Denver, we invited our dear friend and children’s book author Matthew Paul Turner to read aloud from his book When God Made You from the main stage between sessions. We often heard from folks with little people in their lives who were longing for actually helpful resources to teach their kids about God without a lot of baggage and we thought this would be a great way for them to realise that there are books like this out here, books that you don’t have to edit on the fly as you read aloud (been there) or that cause nightmares in sensitive kids (done that) or that your kids don’t have to heal from later (have the t-shirt).

But as Matthew read the beautiful book aloud to the more than 2300 folks gathered there in the auditorium, something unexpected happened: people began to weep. Tissues were passed. Hearts were clutched. “I really needed that,” was said over and over. As I looked around the room, I saw that this book - which he had quite clearly written for children - was somehow healing that heart-hungry kid so many of us carry inside still. That “children’s book” was clearly not just for the children. It was for the kid in all of us. We all needed that message on that day.

As a mum of four myself, I do always have my eye out for children’s books and particularly Bibles that build strong foundations and speak timeless truth to my kids. I’m always looking for good language and images which communicate how much God loves us and how we are called to love one another well. But since that day with Matthew at the gathering, I’ve become highly aware that those same books for kids can actually end up healing the grown-up reading them, too.

Why? Well, many folks were discipled at a young age to believe that they were wicked or broken, sinful or disappointing to God (or our caregivers). And so our base code setting for how we see God or ourselves or the world is still set to believe that we are a disappointment to God, broken even. The tears in that room were a sign that Matthew’s words were doing important work, healing work, in us. During my time leading Evolving Faith I came to realize that as we grow up, we often have to do the work of “re-parenting” ourselves in matters of faith too and yes, part of that work can be healing what we were taught about how God sees the child-version of us.¹ There is a pathway towards healing in better story-telling. It’s an important part of our post-deconstruction life.

That is one of the reasons why I asked this writer to join us here at Field Notes.

When I first read Mariko Clark’s retelling of the Bible’s stories called The Book of Belonging, I was so impressed and deeply moved. In cooperation with the sincerely gorgeous illustrations by Rachel Eleanor, Mariko re-tells the Bible stories we think we know - and a few that we may have missed, as you’ll see below - through the lens of celebratory diversity and inclusion, kind contemplation, “wonder moments,” blessing, and invitations to love. (I may never recover from that last chapter about Revelation.) These stories are beautifully told with powerful imagining, mindful moments, and invitations to questions or conversation. As I read it aloud to one of our kids, my voice kept catching on beautiful lines that I hope are written on her heart: “This child belongs. This child is beloved. This child is a delight.”

I’m so excited to introduce you to this lovely and strong book that will set the kids in your life up well but also do healing work for us grown-ups, too. It’s Bible stories² that you will buy for the kid in your life but end up sneaking back to read for your own devotions and conversations, too.

*We have 3 copies of The Book of Belonging to give away to readers today too so keep scrolling down to see how to enter to win below…

“Mom, does God love boys more than girls?”

by Mariko Clark

There is something that I believe will happen to all of us, if we live long and lovingly enough: A younger person will come to us with a question. They will offer it to us with trust. And as we hold it, like a fragile baby chick, we will notice how familiar it seems. Something in the weight, in the gaze, in the pricking of our palms. This question will recall our deepest pain in a way that is so specific that it is nearly offensive.

“Mom, does God love boys more than girls?”

This question twisted up under my ribs and into my past. In her own pursuit of belonging, my daughter nudged my own.

But if we can stand it—if we can stay present with the discomfort—our attempt to answer the kids in our lives might just lead us toward healing for the kid in our heart.

And so it is with me and belonging.

Five years ago, my daughter dropped her question in my lap. The little story bible on our shelf at the time included only two female-centric stories, and her five-year-old brain drew its own conclusions. Conclusions that echoed, raw and familiar, in my own heart. At that point, I had been in therapy for years, learning to speak with compassion and encouragement to the younger version of me who grew up—spicy, curious, female—in Christian fundamentalism.

I grew up in a culture bereft of belonging. I was given a construct of love defined by exclusivity—you’re in if you think the same types of people are out.

I was taught that obedience would keep me in. A memorization of rules and a hustle to modify my behavior based on “Biblical truth” which was supposed to be timeless, perfect, and unequivocal. Certainty was what I was sold, even as experience pulled me toward mystery.

I was told repeatedly that “God is better than you can imagine.” But when I used my sacred imagination to envision a place to belong—one shaped by more diverse, equitable, and inclusive storytelling, interpretation, and worship—that imagination was squashed.

I grew tired of splitting my soul. Tired of welcoming others to a place that didn’t welcome my fullness. Tired of parenting with more compassion than I was told God has. Tired of leadership that elevates “Biblical values” and not the fruit of the Spirit. Tired of loving my neighbor with asterisks.

Illustration by Rachel Eleanor from The Book of Belonging. Used with permission.

My daughter broke my heart with her question, and I spent the next five years answering her—researching and writing the story bible I needed when I was younger. The stories that would have welcomed me and my spicy, curious questions. The characters that would have honed my leadership and embodied my doubts and fears. The wonder and contemplation that could have fortified me in times when God felt far or contradictory.

I wrote with the goal of introducing the kids in my life (and the kid in my heart) to a God who can be trusted—an expansive God with whom everyone belongs. But belonging isn’t a container I twisted the Biblical message into. It’s the message that’s kept me coming back to a table I was told had no place for me. It’s the satisfaction of my most aching curiosities. It’s the theme I found most clearly threaded throughout scripture.

I found it in the subtleties of the Genesis poem, with God’s delight over humans at its core.

I found it in the life, ministry and death of Jesus, as he repeatedly aligned himself with the marginalized and challenged the systems that pushed them to the edges.

I found it in the stories kept from us. The nameless women. The women who were only afforded one or two sentences. The women whose stories were excluded from children’s collections to prioritize traditional favorites.

Like the first story I wrote: The Five Fearless Sisters. It’s right there in Numbers 27: a man named Zelophehad dies, leaving his five daughters without a male heir. Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah and Tirzah bring their case before Moses, the elders and God. They receive a unanimous ruling and a permanent update to the law: females have a right to inheritance. It’s gutsy, it’s concise, it’s warm – it’s story bible gold. And yet, most people have never heard it.

Most of us were never told how unapologetically these spicy, curious girls insisted on their own belonging. Most of us were never told how vehemently God agreed with them. And how overtly the law was expanded on their behalf.

Before I wrote The Book of Belonging, I told this story to my kids often. I have a daughter named Noah and I wanted her to hear her origin story. I wanted her to know that belonging is her birthright. And the child in my heart took notice. The five fearless sisters knew that obedience is not what keeps you. They didn’t split their souls. They used their sacred imaginations to envision a place to belong through more diverse, equitable and inclusive laws. They asked God do you love boys more than girls? And God answered with an unequivocal NO.

Illustration by Rachel Eleanor for The Book of Belonging. Used with permission.

God met them there, expanding God’s people’s understanding of who belongs again and again throughout this story and many others. My book is called The Book of Belonging because God is a God of belonging. It’s what the whole, big story is about. I belong with you and you belong with me. You’re my beloved. In a garden, in a family, in a tabernacle, in a kingdom, in Jesus and now in human hearts everywhere.

Five years ago, my daughter came to me with her question. I parented and reparented my way into an answer. One that healed me and affirmed what some part of me knew all along.

Growing up fundamentalist, there were really only two expectations for my little life:

That I would marry a man of God and have many babies…

And that I would, to quote 1 Peter 3:15, “always be ready to give an answer for the hope I have.”

What I couldn’t have prepared for was the circuitous, sacred path I’d take to live into—and through—those expectations.

That my spicy, curious self would give birth to a spicy, curious mini-me.

That she would ask the kinds of questions that set my heart on fire.

And that my answers—halting, tender, searching—would lead me to the hope I now hold:

When it comes to the love of God, everyone belongs.

Mariko Clark is a Japanese American author, mother, and storyteller on a mission to help kids embrace diversity and wonder. Her time as an editor with National Geographic Learning sharpened her ability to make complex topics accessible and engaging. She equips kids and caregivers with spiritual resources to navigate the messy middle, wrestle with tough questions, and find community in the journey. Mariko lives outside of Indianapolis with her husband and three sweet and spicy kids.

Thank you so much, Mariko! And thank you to Rachel for allowing us to include her beautiful illustrations, too.

If you want to buy the book - and I think you do! - here’s a link to Penguin Random House’s website for retailers. Here is a Bookshop.org for our American friends and for us Canadians, here’s the link to the Indie Bookstores and at Chapters Indigo.

Bonus: You can find The Belonging Workshop here on Substack, too. It’s a weekly Sabbath resource of sacred practices for folks in liminal faith spaces. Their offerings are a mix of explicitly religious practices as well as mindful and somatic practices, all family friendly and including visual resources!

Giveaway + Community Conversation

I’ve got 3 copies of The Book of Belonging to give away here in our community!

Tell us: just as Mariko’s daughter’s question ignited her book, I’m curious which questions have ignited you? What is a question that you (or someone you love) asked that sparked a renewal or perhaps a crisis or an invitation to explore deeper? Where did answering that question lead you?