A couple of years ago, Tim and I arranged an early morning outing with our dear friends: four adults, three cups of coffee, two dogs, and one forest trail with a fantastic creek. It was a Sunday morning. We laughed, only a little, at our apparent blasphemy. We were comfortable in our heathenism. Friends, our form of family at the time, and a morning in Nature. A spiritual experience, indeed. The Church of the Dog, we’d all said.Countless Sundays have come and gone since then, including yet another this weekend. I haven’t darkened the doors of a house of worship during that time, but I’ve tread thousands of steps on countless miles of mountain forest trails, breathed volumes of fresh air in remote places, and cast my eyes upon God’s creations in each of those places and in my own backyard. I have shared every emotional cornerstone with the closest of my friends, and have been humbled by the beauty and wonder of the lives we all live. The Church of the Dog.I’ve also added children to my family during that time. And, much to the dismay of their grandfamilies, they’ve been raised in the Church of the Dog, too. I’m not sure whether their unorthodox spiritual upbringing started out as unconscious inaction or a conscious decision, but it became apparent, early in their lives, that their Sundays were not going to be the same Sundays I’d experienced growing up.A good friend of mine once told me to be honest with my kids about religion and spirituality. “Tell them what you really believe, ” she said. I think that’s the best piece of advice I’ve ever been given. I’m uncomfortable teaching my young children a series of lessons they’ll take literally, knowing that I myself dismantled those stories as allegory later in my life and then called them entirely into question after that. So I don’t.But honesty isn’t so simple. I know I’ve chosen I tough road. In a way, it’s easier to head to church each Sunday and follow that lead. The books are written, the materials are there, even the social structure exists. Instead, I’m forced to look at what I really believe, what I really trust to be true, and then find a way to illustrate that to my children.The rituals of church, as I know it, don’t resonate with me; the echoes of nature, peals of laughter, and, yes, choking sobs in the arms of friends, do. So my children’s Sundays (allegorically speaking) are spent in the woods, at the creek, at the park, at the museum, with friends, and with family. No dresses and ties. No songs about Jesus. No Vacation Bible School. Their lessons? Respect for Nature. Respect for Life. Respect for the Divine. Love and Friendship. It’s not easy; I fumble a lot, but I have faith.It’s taken me a while to get my daughter to curb her initial impulse to stomp on a bug when she finds one on the sidewalk. “Zoe, leave him alone. He won’t hurt you. He’s a living thing.” It may seem like an absurd form of empathy. My mother rolls her eyes each time she witnesses it. But, for me, it’s an important lesson. Every living thing — every living thing — deserves respect. Cockroac, ahem, palmetto bugs, pose a particularly prickly spiritual problem, but I also believe in forgiveness. Crunch.Who said Nature isn’t one of God’s best spiritual classrooms? Bring along a friend and it’s positively divine. The Church of the Dog. After all, the reverse spelling of Dog isn’t entirely coincidental, in my mind.