We live across the street from a church.

Every Sunday morning, the people march in ... and then, an hour later, they file out.

As a young adult, I observed organized religions as one would a herd of cattle on the Discovery Channel. They follow the leader. They make the same noises. And every year, typically in December, they come together in mass numbers to eat, drink and socialize.

I vowed, long before I swallowed my first prenatal vitamin, that my children would never find themselves part of the pack.

Never would I haggle them into dress clothes on a Sunday morning. Or convince them that tithing their allowance will ensure their place in heaven.

It’s best to leave it alone, I told myself. That way, they can find their own path. They can possess their journey of faith, emerging on the other side with beliefs that they can wholly claim.

The idea works. Only if I find faith as arbitrary as choosing what shirt to wear each morning.

I care. Deeply.

It’s not necessarily a certain God that I want my children to embrace. I can’t say that I believe in the father figure sold by Christian religions. Or the beautiful, gauzy tales of Hellenic god and goddesses.

But I believe in beauty. I believe in awe. I believe that the world is bigger than the tiny chasm of my existence.

I want my children to find spirituality in themselves and their surroundings. The wonder of a brightly colored butterfly and a dip in tepid ocean waters should always be reason to celebrate. The Grand Canyon should make them feel small. The suffering of others should bring tears to their eyes.

They should own their actions.

They should never accept what other people call fate. Never bow to what others call authority.

They should be seekers.

The Earth should be their place of worship.

Poetry their prayer.

Consequences their rosary.

Empathy their tithe.

I know that in a world filled with uncertainty, religion offers a blanket of security. But too often that blanket smothers ingenuity and the desire to find answers.

In my backyard, watching the church parking lot fill and empty, there was safety in avoiding the questions about God or church or religion.

But I’m failing them every time I suggest a trip to the sandbox.

Faith, in life and humanity, is a gift I can give my children. Abandoning them to find their own way is akin to dropping them off in the middle of a busy intersection.

There are so many people, rushing about spouting off their certainties.

My voice should be there. It doesn’t matter that my beliefs don’t come prepackaged in ancient text.

Just like I hold their hand when they cross the street, I need to start leading the way when it comes to their faith.

And then, when they are ready, they can cross all by themselves.

Betsy Lee is a freelance journalist. She lives in a perpetually messy house with her husband, three children and a neglected basset hound mix. You can e-mail her at contactbetsylee@gmail.com.