I was raised right. Black Pentecostal, pastor's kids, you know the drill. Church Sunday, Bible study Tuesday, youth ministry all the rest of the week.

I swore I was going to raise my kids the exact same way. Scripture before cartoons. Prayer before pancakes.

Then one night, I'm laying next to my youngest, minding my own saved business, and I have a visitation. Not the kind we sang about in choir. Two beings, not human, and a painful procedure on my abdomen that had me questioning everything — my body, my Bible, and my bedtime routine.

I did what good church girls do. I told everybody you are supposed to tell. Doctor, counselor, church folks.

You know who believed me?

My three children.

Just looked at me with their little serious faces and said, "We believe you, Mommy."

And I had to laugh. Because of course. The only people who believed me don't even believe me when I say we have food at home.

But that laugh was my medicine. Because in that moment I realized — I don't have to raise them exactly how my parents raised me to still raise them right.

My parents gave me reverence. They gave me rhythm. They gave me how to pray when you're scared.

I'm keeping all of that.

I'm just adding a new rule: We get to ask questions. We get to say "Mommy doesn't know, but Mommy loves you and God is still love."

If you were a PK, a youth minister, a mama trying to figure out faith after life shook you — you're my people.

So here's my medicine for today: Laugh anyway. Even when no one else gets it. Especially then.

What is something your kids believed you about that no grown-up did? I know I'm not the only one.