I busted my son in church yesterday.
He's 10 years old. An altar server. A good kid. But Catholicism isn't easy. There are lots of prayers and lots of versions of those prayers to memorize, and he's still learning them.
In an effort to help, I handed him the cheat sheets they keep in the pews for all of us, but he waved it away, mouthing to me, "I know it!"
Okay, then. Sure enough, as we said the Apostle's Creed, he said it, too. I felt a swell of pride. That's not an easy prayer. There's words like 'consubstantial' and 'apostolic' in there.
About 15 minutes later, our Monsignor asked us to flip to the back of our books to a new prayer card tucked inside. As the congregation read this brand new prayer, I looked over at my son who was standing, hands clasped, lips moving away, his book unopened in the pew.
I stopped praying and just watched him. He was tilting and nodding his head in an animated fashion, lifting his eyebrows on the parts with meaning, his eyes wide and earnest, his mouth working away -- with not a sound coming out of it.
He was faking the entire thing. He was doing a masterful job.
I was conflicted. Part of me was impressed. Part wanted to break into laughter. Part wanted to give him a very hard time.
We talked after church and he confessed immediately, apologizing and telling me he didn't want to look stupid (I didn't advise him that it would have been smarter to open the book and pretend to follow along).
I didn't tell my son what I was thinking the entire time we had the talk. I was thinking that faking is a necessary part of life.
It's a skill set.
When kids in school make fun of you for being taller than everyone, you fake it, pretending you don't care, laughing with them.
When that boy/girl breaks up with you and then jokes about you with their friends, you fake it, acting like you're okay when you're actually mortified and heartbroken.
When it's your first day on a new job, you fake it, pretending to be the picture of confidence, when you have no idea what you're doing.
When you take your newborn baby home from the hospital and you can't believe they just let you have this human to raise, you fake it, burying your fear, adopting the face of new-parent-bliss.
When your child admits that someone at school bullied them, you fake it, calmly helping them, while hiding your Mama Bear Fury.
When you glance at your husband in the car and see hair spilling out his ear, you fake it, pretending not to notice, making a mental note to attack it with the shears at home.
When you ask someone for their honest opinion about a difficult thing and they give it to you, you fake it, thanking them for the truth, even though that truth really hurt.
When your life is in turmoil but no one at work knows, because you fake it, remaining professional, hiding the pain.
When your husband/friend/wife/parent/child has a health scare that shakes you to your core, you fake it, supporting and telling them you will be there to help..even though you're scared and you don't know if you're strong enough. You are.
When your children grow up and leave, you fake it, celebrating their independence, while silently grieving your loss.
Faking gets us through moments. It's a way to cope, until we make it to our car/mom/home/phone, so we can weep/rage/laugh/worry.
Faking cannot hide the truth -- that time is not on our side, that pain is a part of life, that joy and loss sometimes sit shoulder to shoulder.
Which brings me back to my lip syncing boy. He agreed to read the prayer sheets until he knows them by heart.
That's my little faker.
This essay was originally published on Jaye Watson Online.
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