On children...

R. Scott Rodin writes (from the forthcoming Stewardship Resource Bible):

Children are a gift from God (even in their twos and those teenage years). They are never "ours" in the sense that we have an absolute right of ownership over them. Our children can never be considered in abstracto from their relationship to us as God's gift to be stewarded and cherished. How tragic is our human history of abusing, manipulating, devaluing, and ultimately destroying the lives of the children entrusted to us by God. What impact would it have on our world if parents saw their children as precious gifts from God that require our loving and committed stewardship?

What a convicting lesson. It is far too easy for me to forget this, especially when I'm surrounded by culture that outsources every task of parenting to others, from saying good morning to the goodnight kiss. They need this assistance, they say, to "get a break" from these little beasts who have put a damper on the fun of life. And having children does change life.

I'll admit, Fish and Mud Pie's constant bickering drives me to distraction, especially when I'm so ill. And St. Nick's endless energy (except now that he's sick too) can exhaust me. This past week (or two, or more) has been challenging, not just in the "getting better" department. It's been hard not to resent the runny noses and constant demands. The little beings who don't stop or even slow down when I'm barely able to attend to them. If anything, my illness or fear or distraction makes them all the more desperate for affection, which heightens the tension. Only, it doesn't have to.

It's my prayer that Dr. D and I will always remember that these lives are entrusted to us, and our responsibility in raising them is a sacred act of devotion. Both to them and to God.

Everything We Need

I started a post a day or so ago, a rambly whiny post about how hard life has been the past eight days, ever since my persistent cough became something truly noxious. Add to that, everything else seeming to fall apart at once - dental troubles, our mini van needing repairs, Fish needing surgery ...

But whining isn't the response I need to have. I've prayed so much Scripture the past week and a half. On the way to doctor's visits, as I've held St. Nick as he smoldered with fever, over the phone with a pastor from our church. It's right there, as obvious as can be. God has given us everything we need.

Not very profound, that. But does it have to be, to be true?

Big Fat F

That would be me, for failing. Last week we did Monday's assigned school. Tuesday I had a dentist visit and a bizarre phone call and since then it's been downhill.

Today I got a stack of books together thinking, yes, we'll get back on track today! But it just didn't happen. St. Nick and Fish wanted to play outside. They wanted to draw pictures. They wanted to play with Legos. I wanted a cup of coffee and a quiet moment with NO marker wars, doors left open to let the 9-degree air blow through the house, little Lego motors buzzing. So, the books weren't touched.

Emotions last week were insane. Riding high: God is so working! To falling off the planet: Oh, God, why have You forsaken me? On to sober reality: I want to grow, but I can't do it myself. It has to start with the Gift of the Spirit. Round and round like a carnival ride. I'm exhausting myself. Not to mention eating too much.

Wow, Truly the Greatest Story Ever Told

We'd had this film home from Netflix for a good two weeks, and since it was so long the kids never managed all the way through it, a while ago, we decided to have a Pajama Party, complete with popcorn.

Truly, truly amazing. The animation itself is spellbinding, and beyond that, this is the most accurate, touching, and compelling rendition of Christ's life that I've seen. Well, don't take my word for it, see for yourself ...



(At the moment, the whole thing is available on YouTube. Click here for the external link. Then go buy a copy!)

Sookie, Time to Pack Your Saggy Bags!

I haven't stayed current with blogs lately - been trying to cut back on digital attachments. But yesterday I clicked over to bloglines and started skimming through the dozen or so blogs I follow.

Then, at one post in particular, I stopped skimming and started reading. Karen's, Perfectionism is Nasty. I half expected my name to be mentioned. Wasn't Karen writing about me?

(Of course she was! It's her blog, sure, but I am a card carrying member of NRU*, so it had to be about me!)

See, there's an elephant in the room, only I didn't know it was an elephant until I read Karen's post. Perfectionism. This is exactly my problem.

I had another blog, and this one (which I don't really consider a blog; it's just a little journal to replace my spiral notebook because that inevitably gets scribbled in or spilled on with something that will smell terribly horrid, like coffee with cream) was my sweet little homeschool journal where I kept track of what we did and how it went. Nobody read it and I didn't care. Because plenty of people read my other blog. My professional blog (that has to be said with a snooty upturned nose, by the way). On that blog, my technorati ranking was incredible; I had links in from friends and strangers and Important People; I got advertising solicitations almost weekly.

But it was an albatross. The very week of its inception, I began to resent it. My every thought: what do I blog on next? What would be a good post? How can I attract more readers, and how can I satisfy my fans? (Fans! I'm shaking my head here.) I'd spend hours I didn't have brainstorming posts and sketching them out. Each had to be better - funnier, more insightful, more novel - than the one before. Before long, what little time I had for other things (beyond the day to day things, like SCHOOL) was gone.

"It's so fun!" I'd say, watching my hit counter soar creep up a dozen, then a hundred or more every week. Pretty soon I had attracted readers from far away places, and important readers I wanted, almost desperately, to impress. It was marketing. Building a platform for my career, I thought. Or at the very least gaining inroads to an industry that has very few doors, most of which are guarded by hydrophobic three-headed beasts.

The more I thought about my readers, the more questions arose. "Can I post this? What will those Important People think of me? If I post on bioethics, won't some of my readers think less of me? And my friends? They know I'm pro-life, right? Wouldn't they have to know that? But, I can't post a link to this, even to just point out that Dr. D's name is mentioned. It's way too controversial."

And religion. I have dear, dear friends who are not walking the faith path with me. Some are furious with God; others deny Him altogether. Yet I also have wonderful Christian friends, friends who would not understand my hesitation. I was hamstrung. Post about faith and risk isolating those not on the path; don't post and run the risk of being misjudged by the rest.

There were other topics too - family, homeschooling, untouchable for one reason or another. Soon I couldn't write anything on any level for any purpose. The blog was, at that point, the least of it, although it was the initial cause.

So I deleted it. Two clicks, gone.

And I picked up here, thinking anonymity would free me from the shackles I'd bound myself in. After all, if no one knows who I am, why would I worry about what I write? Why would I care if I'm too sarcastic or too scatological? Too esoteric or too simple? A religious zealot? A backslidden heathen? A crunchy liberal? A *gasp* Republican (I am, when I bother to think about it, which is just a few seconds shy of zero, fyi)? A hack? A fraud? No one knows me here, so why would I care?

But ... I do care. It all comes back to one thing: perfectionism. Having to be understood. So that if someone does disagree with me, it's not because I haven't been rational and reasonable, because I've been very careful to be right. Perfectionism. Which, as Karen pointed out, is arrogance.

I was so focused on who people thought I was, and I got so wrapped up in trying to control their opinion ("the spin" as Dr. D puts it), that I forgot - entirely for a while - who I am.

Perfectionism is just innately wrong. It's arrogance. It's thinking you are something when you're nothing. It's thinking you can do things perfectly, which is a lie, or that things depend on your performance, which is a lie. It's setting up your own standards and believing that if you fulfill them, then you are good and God is pleased. Total legalism. (And, I'd add, idolatry.)

I became so obsessed with numbers - stats, inbound links, comments, popularity - that I let it define my value, and I forgot the origin of my value.

Like desiring the favor of men; like wanting to feel approved and worthwhile because of your accomplishments when the Bible says you're already approved and worthwhile in God's eyes because of HIS accomplishments...

I became so crippled by fear of how my words would be received, or if they'd ever be received (those Important People again) that I am going on six months of "vacation" from something all of those closest to me say is as much a calling from God for me as is motherhood.

Yet even as I write this, staring truth in the face, the loudest voice is crying, "What will they think of you? Surely they will misunderstand!" So, there he is, Sookie, the Saggy Baggy Elephant, moping in the corner. Despite my efforts to be anonymous, it hasn't changed a thing, because the real cause of my struggle doesn't need my name attached to torment me. There's only one way out. Which, as usual, means opening my hands.

* Narcissist's R Us, or rather, are me. Just me!

Opening My Hands

Today was the last sermon in a series at my church on the Story of the Christ. I wish now I had thought more about each one and had written up detailed notes because the teaching is something I want to take into a quiet corner and gnaw, like a dog with a favorite bone. I've loved the Author for a long time; now I'm learning to love the Book.

One of the main points of the series - eleven weeks illustrated - was the shocking nature of who Christ actually is, as opposed to who we (now and the Jews at the time) expect him to be.

The Jews were waiting for a Messiah, for the one who would lead the nation of Israel against the tyranny of Caesar and reclaim their national and religious independence. They were looking for a warrior, a fighter, a King.

And, as Jeff (the pastor) pointed out, we today expect a different sort of Jesus. A wandering Buddha-prophet (only thinner), aimlessly hiking the rocky wilds, stopping now and then to wax eloquent and give us nifty sayings we can later immortalize on little plaques in our kitchens. Oh, and healing anyone he happened across. I unwillingly think of Miss America on tour, waving from a parade float, visiting orphanages and spreading smiles and good will.

Jeff painted an altogether different picture, intricate and richly detailed, and wholly scriptural.

Jesus, a man with a mission, a message that had nothing to do with Rome and taxation. And most certainly not an aimless wanderer, seeking out the downtrodden so he could demonstrate his powers. Wherever he went, he was mobbed by diseased - mobbed by them such that he couldn't do what he'd come to do. Soon he couldn't set foot in a city before the crowds would seek him out, so he hid, avoiding crowds, and if he did get found out by someone needing healing, he would say, "Shhhh, don't tell anyone!" It wasn't some perverse reverse psychology - don't tell! (But do!). He needed solitude to do his work - to train the twelve. And what was he telling them? That he wasn't interested in revolts against Rome. That he was going to die.

Die? What kind of Messiah dies? They didn't get it, thought he was speaking in metaphors.

His actual message - that he is the Son of God - was not what anyone expected to hear. Blasphemy! When he so much as hinted at it, people picked up stones. More than once his disciples spirited him away from a crowd set to stone him. Over and over those opposed to Jesus couldn't catch him. During daylight hours, the crowds protected him, and at night his disciples kept him in hiding. Until one of the twelve defected. Maybe Judas was disenfranchised. This Jesus guy sure isn't the king he was hoping for, the warrior, the second David.

People today don't want to hear this either. They're fine with Christ being a prophet, or some really good guy. Jeff taught on this today. Imagine the eleven (since Judas wasn't in the picture anymore) holed up in a room the day after Passover, the door locked. Jesus was dead. Dead. So he couldn't be the Messiah, because as everyone knew, a dead messiah was no Messiah.

But who was he? Minions of hell feared and obeyed him; the winds receded at his command; water bore his weight; disease fled at his touch ... he had even proved power over death!

He couldn't have been an ordinary man, with a few delusions of grandeur. Not with the power he had demonstrated.

A prophet? Sure, they may have thought. A prophet like Elijah. Prophets could die.

Only ... he'd said he was Messiah. He'd said he was the Chosen One. Had he lied?

Only ... then he would have been a false prophet.

And when the Marys came pounding on the door shouting, "It's empty! The tomb is empty!" what would they have thought? And when He appeared, bodily, they didn't break into cheers. They thought they were seeing a ghost. They were terrified!

But He took off his sandals. He ate. Not a ghost but a corporeal being, the same as He was before, but different. And very much undoubtedly alive. He had turned back the clock to the Garden, the choice of the first pair. The break - which He had now repaired.

I've always known the story. I could quote along, in a dull monotone, near any passage from the gospels and yet all my life the picture I've had in my head has been wrong.

No wandering prophet, patting children and snacking on loaves and fishes in the windswept grass. A man, at once man and God, with purpose and power and who has called me to Follow Him.

And here is the point of the past eleven weeks.

Follow. It's not about where I'm going. The Jews wanted to be free of Caesar, but Christ didn't care about Caesar or, ultimately, the political nation of Israel. He didn't come to lead their revolution.

Or, as Jeff said again and again, He didn't come to head up the parade I'm already leading.

Follow.

It's not about where I'm going; it's about where He's going.

My parade, my plans, my desires, my goals - all of those things I'm clutching, knuckles white.

Leave.

Follow.

I'm holding tight. But if I want to follow, I must open my hands.

Reading Street Signs

St. Nick likes to always know what street we're on, so instead of the constant, "What street is this?" I pointed out the little green signs on most every street corner. This morning on the way home from church, we heard from the backseat of the van: "Are we on Lake Doctor?"

Dr. D (who really is a doctor) got a chuckle out of that.

I must say, it's nice to be able to write, "on the way home from church." It had been nearly two years since we'd been able to say that with any regularity, and it's quite possibly the first time in over six years I've been able to say that without the accompanying prayer, "Thank You GOD we're on our way home now! Do we really have to do this again next Sunday?"

I could go into a laundry list of things that didn't work about previous churches, but I won't. There's no point in that - the point is, we have found a church now and have been going since late summer, overjoyed to finally be getting some spiritual food again. The hardest thing to believe is that it's a mega church. With a praise band! And coffee and cookies during the service! And we watch the pastor on a screen! And we love it! Dr. D and I met at a similar church - we both worked there, scrubbing our way through school - and once we left, I never thought I'd visit a large church again. Ever.

But six years of nursery duty and/or teaching Sunday School in small neighborhood churches, churches where I was one of the only stay-at-home moms and the only planning-on-homeschooling mom ... well. At one church, it wasn't unusual for someone on staff to call me and say, "I have this volunteer position open. All you'd need to do is make phone calls to arrange adult Sunday school teachers. What do you think?" "Ummmmmm. What did you say? (to the toddler) Shhh, honey, I can't hear!" And they'd press on, "Since you're home all day, we thought ..." Thought I had nothing else to do than hide out on the roof to make an undisturbed phone call? Because that's about the only place I can go to make an undisturbed phone call. (Undisturbed until I smell the smoke from the kitchen, that is.)

At the next church I made the mistake of volunteering to teach PreK Sunday School. I say mistake - I shouldn't consider it a mistake to serve, and I don't, but ... Not only did I get the pleasure of watching St. Nick interact with children who've spent most of their childhood in day care, I got to enjoy the germs of half the care centers in the city. Since it was a fairly small church, many of the other parents were serving in other areas, so when little Alex or Bailey had green slime coming from his or her nose, sweetie couldn't stay home, else Mom would have to find another deacon to replace her. So I got Alex and Bailey. And then I got sick. And then Little Fish (who was an infant at the time) got sick, but since I had to be in class, he'd go to nursery and I'd go downstairs to share the joy.

I suppose this is typical. But as the stay-at-home-er, there was an attitude from the other mothers that it didn't matter if I got sick. I was at home anyway! No missed time at work for me. One occasion made this clear - one week when the PreK and K Sunday School classes were combined. The K class's teacher smiled (grimaced?) at me, as I sat in one of the kiddie chairs with my pregnant (Mud Pie!) belly about to burst, and she said with a straight face, "It was such a busy week at work, and I haven't been in church in weeks, so I'll just go on up to the service, ok?" She was gone before I could remember the last time I'd attended the service (about three months earlier).

After that we tried a "family" church, with no nursery or Sunday School. I think I've repressed that particular memory. We left early.

Today, rather than drag home after a long two hours in the nursery or Sunday School, we bopped from classroom to classroom picking up our kids, refreshed and nourished. A part of me worries it's wrong to consume the Gospel, to take without giving back, and maybe it is, but right now the church is just going to have to be satisfied with financial gifts, because by Sunday morning, the rest of me has been spent elsewhere.

On Moving On

I've had trouble stringing two thoughts together lately, largely because we're planning to list our house soon. I've spent far too much time scouring MLS listings and wondering why the hell everyone can't just be like me. Who would ever call a 6'x8' closet a fourth bedroom? I have rugs larger than that. And what drove another owner to finish the entire lower level of his home with thin wood-imitation paneling? Of course, we're also remembering the jaw-hanging moments of our current home: Plumbing fixed with aluminum foil (which necessitated a new sub-floor in the upstairs bath and a mostly-new kitchen ceiling), electrical to the dining room severed in order to provide an outlet in the half bath (good thing my father is an electrician!), the gloppy river of caulk that was used to cover over the moldy old caulk (which we painstakingly removed and replaced on Saturday).

Truth is, I love my house. I don't want to sell it. I don't want to move. But I have no choice. There's no way we can keep our sanity and all three children, here. I suppose it's good that I'll be leaving with a clean conscience. Nothing hidden, nothing covered over with a thin layer of cheap paint (or aluminum foil). We simply don't do that sort of thing. Ever. Sure, there are things that will make a new owner wonder, "What the?? What were they thinking?" Different things for different people. But when fat Aunt Helga comes to visit, she won't sit on the potty and end up in the kitchen sink. Well, don't take my word for it. See for yourself.

It's my prayer that I will not "Be Overcome" in this search. Caulk and three kids do not go together, and I spent far too much of my weekend thinking, "I'm tired of being stepped on," and the like. The whole point of this change is to shift our lives to someplace less stressful, someplace where homeschooling can be a natural part of our lives, not something we take from one room to the next, precariously balanced on the lapdesk or spread over the dining room table or spilled on the kitchen floor, and always being put away half-finished because, imagine!, other people in the house need to eat or cook or walk across a room.

Perhaps the passage should read, "Bless those who nail drywall over plaster and lath, and call it "refinished"; bless and do not curse them; weep with those whose garage roofs have fallen in upon their heads because they left the loft windows open all winter. Live in harmony with one another even though five acres of impassable, poison-ivy-infested woods separate you from your nearest neighbor...."

Humor aside, I failed to accomplish those things (the real list of things) this weekend. May we all keep perspective, be our ceilings be vaulted oak or aluminum frame and Styrofoam tile.

Week 11 - off the charts

Har har - off my planning charts, that is. I promised myself I'd do better keeping track of things, since this is supposed to be a place where I keep records of homeschooling, so here goes.

Language arts:
We covered Syllables (Reading Reflex p. 311), which we talk about being "word chunks"; we made it through lesson XXII (22) in McGuffey's First Reader; St. Nick picked a couple of level 3 I Want to Read readers to read; and we did a spelling puzzle.

How'd it go? Well, word chunks made sense to St. Nick and the reading was easy (he also got an Arthur reader and one on dolphins from Grandma for Easter, which he read aloud on our drive yesterday). The spelling puzzle, however. I'd decided to let him try it on his own, without hovering/helping. He didn't read the instructions and only did about half of it, but once we DID read the instructions, he went back and fixed it up without issue. Except, of course, that his handwriting is eh, not so hot. But this is Kindergarten! C'mon!

Math:
We did Singapore whatever it is we're on (first grade, first book - 1A?), the intensive practice for Topic 4. We were supposed to move on to Topic 5, but, well, we didn't. Too bad!

Topic 4 was meshing addition and subtraction, which was driving both of us a little batty. But what's funny is, suddenly yesterday (in the van, when he wasn't reading about Dolphins or Arthur) St. Nick started making up math problems and solving them. "Mommy, I know what ten plus ten is! It's twenty! I know what ten minus ten is, it's zero!" Dr. D (aka Daddy) was extremely impressed (so was I)!

TOG/Humanities:
As usual, life and illness and all that sort of pushed this to the edge. We read about Rahab and the spies, and about the wall of Jericho. I'd intended to do more with this, like find some books at the library but, well, life happens.

And what of Little Fish and Mud Pie? Well, Fish lost his voice due to this nasty nasty cold (which has ensured no more than four hours sleep for Mom and Dad for the past week) - but this is really wonderful! It's been so peaceful. I mean, he can still talk, but that ear-shattering scream of his, it's sort of a hiss. And it's funny (in a mean sort of way) to hear the hiss-scream and watch how mad he gets that he can't cause his usual amount of disruption. Considering the number of times he's gotten us up - for potty and medicine and to inform us his nose is stuffy and on and on - his lack of voice may well be the only reason he made it through the week. Oh, I was also surprised to find that he knew his colors. How'd that happen? We were sorting math blocks and on a whim I asked him what color one was (a green one, which is his favorite) and he got that right, along with the rest of them. I know St. Nick did not know his colors at 3.5 - he didn't "get" color yet at that age.

Oh! And Mud Pie took a step. One itsy-bitsy step and quickly clung to Mommy, but she was SO proud of herself! I have long since given up worrying about her walking even though she is now officially even later than Little Fish - she'll do it in her own time.

The thing I feel very badly about, however, is Easter. Not only did we not go to church ("Hi! We're visiting today! Oh, no, he's not sick, his voice always sounds like a hair dryer, and she's not sick either - it's allergies, you know. All that snot, and the fever! Just allergies!") but we were so overwhelmed and overtired from Saturday night that we didn't so much as mention what I consider to be the most important holiday of the ecclesiastical year. St. Nick saw Passover on the calendar on Friday and almost pitched a fit because he had so wanted to do Passover, and Easter. Well, I felt like the worst mother of all when, late Sunday evening, I finally said to Dr. D, "Happy Easter," and St. Nick said, "What? TODAY is Easter?!?!"

Um. *Cringe.* Yeah. Sorry.