Never Say Never

I used to say to my homeschool friends when they were relating a challenging day with their children or complaining about the hardship of spending 24/7 with the little boogers, “That’s why I put mine in school, so my kids stay alive!” My teasing didn’t deter them from what they believed God had impressed upon them to do, despite the trials of teaching their own.  They pressed on while my two oldest graduated from high school, both earning college scholarships—one now graduated and newly married, the other in her second year of her pursuit of a nursing degree. With 12 year old Maddie bringing up the rear, I planned to continue sending her through public education just like her siblings.

Then I had to eat my words, “I will homeschool when hunger on earth is staved and terrorists don’t exist.” Pretty safe bet that I won’t be homeschooling any time soon. My hubby would occasionally ask, “Why don’t we homeschool?” to which I would sarcastically say, “Easy for you to say—you go to work every day and don’t have to give up ‘ministry’ lunches like I would have to.” And then…and then, I was sitting across from a very dear homeschooling expert asking her questions about uh, you know, homeschooling  when she shrieked in Panera, “Shut up, girl! I thought you were going to ask me questions about Bible study.”  I was exceedingly clear that at this point, we were exploring our options about this strange phenomenon. But, let me back up to what brought about this 180 degree turn.

A string of events instigated this investigation of something I said I would never do in a billion years. To keep it fairly short and sweet, I’ll summarize. An odd conversation I had with Miss Maddie’s teacher originated a germ of a thought in the homeschool direction. She asked me a bizarre question one day, “Is Maddie still on medication for ADD?” What in the world??

“Uh, Maddie’s never been on medication for ADD,” I responded. Not that I didn’t think she could definitely use it sometimes. Heck, I could even use it!

“Oh. Well…” she sounded a bit confused. “It’s just that some of her test scores indicate that maybe she needs special accommodation.  She has no problem with the day to day school work, but…” Oh believe me, I know she needs a little extra help in the focus department! Anyhow, as we continued our conversation, the wheels on the bus began to go round and round in my head.

Add to that a school board survey asking for parental input regarding changing the school year to a more balanced one to which they neglected to consider parents’ opinions and decided arbitrarily to do what they wanted. Not to mention that the board had made decisions the year before affecting the length of the school day without considering parental input. Oh, yes, there was a committee of strategically placed people who perhaps were unmarried university students with no children.  Am I living in Stalin’s Russia, I wonder?  What’s our recourse against a renegade school board?

In addition, Maddie had transferred to a new gymnastics facility an hour away, and we were traveling 4 times a week for 3-4 hour practices each night. As a 6^th grader, the late hours were wearing on her small physique. Getting up for school in the morning was a challenge and with junior high just around the corner, she would be forced to awaken an hour earlier. Waking her in the morning was like encountering a wild animal. Thinking the future through to its logical conclusion, even with getting as much homework completed as possible in the hour long car drive to gymnastics, Maddie faced the likely prospect of 6 hours of sleep a night. Sure, many teens survive on that, but they are bears to live with.

Thus, with all those pieces of the puzzle, homeschool was a picture that began to form as a reasonable, even pleasing, solution. Sure, my ‘ministry’ lunches might suffer, as well as my daily routine, but the more I think about it, the more homeschooling just makes sense. To top it off, Maddie is completely on board, excited about it. No homework after school, no in school distractions to distract her, no ISTEP testing! What’s not to like about that?

So, we are taking this scary leap into homeschooling this year, with friends still shaking their heads at the woman who said, “Never, ever will I homeschool.”

When My Heart Leaves

“You can kiss your family and friends good-bye and put miles between you, but at the same time you carry them with you in your heart, your mind, your stomach, because you do not just live in a world but a world lives in you.”  ~Frederick Buechner

 

It’s mind-blowing how a year and a half of planning for a huge event stretches on interminably and yet is over in a blink. When our son, Nick, and new wife Kyla were engaged two years ago, the wedding date June 29, 2013, seemed as far away as the moon. A lot of living happens in two years, and the distant date seems more like a fairy tale. People ask a lot about how preparations are going, and my standard response sounds a lot like, “I don’t really know; I’m the Supporting Actress.” A few months before, the action picks up. I’m ordering tuxes and organizing a rehearsal dinner complete with homemade centerpieces.  (This, incidentally, is a feat in itself for a non-crafty person like me.) And then, in a matter of hours, it’s completed.concluded.kaput. The anticipation and excitement of 9 family members camping in our home for 10 days comes and goes like a streak of lightning.

Actually, when my parents arrive, it feels like it’s going to be forever—like going to Disney World not enduring an Italian opera. It’s important I clarify that. My brother’s family joins us the next day along with my aunt and uncle. We stuff people into three cars to various venues for the rehearsal, wedding and reception. Hours later, after all the posing for pictures, saying “I do”, and dancing of the bride and groom, we crash on couches exhausted yet content. A perfect day complete with the promise of more fun in the ensuing days. I count in my head seven more days of memory making. I open and shut my eyes aware that the days fast forward like a cassette player. Memories of  Lake Monroe in a storm, Kings Island rides and 4^th of July bonfire and fireworks imprint on my mind.  Family start dropping off like flies. First, my aunt and uncle, then my brother and his beautiful family. Finally, I drop off the sole survivors, my parents, at the airport. I hate saying goodbye. Unbidden tears flow threatening to ruin my makeup. Not a surprise for such a stoic person as I!

The silence is deafening on the way home, even with magpie Maddie sitting beside me. We feel the letdown of two weeks of nonstop activity. The only word I can think of is one that I hate to hear coming out of my own kids’ mouths—BORING! Now, what will we do? I walk in the quiet house that once held the clamor of 13 voices. I’m not liking it one bit. I text Mom, “It’s too quiet here. Come back.” She’s already flown away, cell phone silenced.

Mess is everywhere, but who cares enough to clean? I don’t even want to get up to pull leftovers out of the frig. Lethargic and listless, that’s what we are. The world stopped for two weeks, and now we can’t figure out what to do with ourselves. Between dad making breakfast and my mom and aunt fixing dinner, I’m pondering how I can approach Tony about hiring a cook. I’m sure it’s a necessity. Even with new pots and pans in the cupboard that the four of them conspired to purchase (something about my old ones being completely inadequate), I’m not compelled to pull out a recipe.

And, who knew that two retired men could fix my oven broken during the self-cleaning cycle and repair a dryer that has been taking an average of two cycles to dry? No wonder I’m crying when they all leave! The bottom line is I pretty much love hanging out with my family that lives a million miles away from me. And, no matter how much time we have together, it’s never enough. I’ve heard horror stories of the family that tolerates each other, overstays their welcome and is skedaddled out the door.

Glad those folks don’t belong to me!

Moving Out

My son is a bit too giddy as he packs his things into his car to move into the apartment he will soon share with his bride. He’s leaving our home for good and shows no glimmer of sadness or tear-stained cheeks. Shouldn’t he at least appear to be despondent at moving away from me, the one who bore him in pain and agony, changed his blowouts, helped him with his math (at least until 4^th grade), washed his grass-stained jeans, listened to 14 billion choir performances  and watched  all those boring baseball games? At least he could do a little acting and pretend like he will miss take and bake Papa Murphy’s on Friday nights! To him, this is just like moving to college four years previously. To me, this is for.ev.er.

To Nick, it’s just another move to add onto the 10 previous over the span of 3 states. One more is nothing to him. His new wife, in 15 days to be exact, definitely has a more appropriate response departing her family. Apparently, she loves them more deeply. I’m sure it has nothing to do with her being a girl or the fact that she’s resided in her home, well, ALL of her life, and the myriad of memories, mementos and moments that are plastered on the beams of her home and in her heart. Living in one place can certainly make one a bit more sentimental about sifting through and packing up belongings collected over 21 plus years. Living like a gypsy, however, allows one to not bat an eye when the door slams shut.

Perhaps, he might shed one tear when we dance to Rascal Flatt’s, “My Wish,” during the Mother-Son dance as he looks into my eyes and ponders my terrificness. Fond memories like lunches with fruit snacks, mounds of clean laundry unfolded on the couch (another wrinkled shirt to wear) and grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner again will bring a drop of water to one eye. Or, maybe it’s just my heels stepping on his toes. Whatever; a tear is a tear, and I’ll take it! 

Finding Wings

 

 

 

 

I notice something sitting stationary in the middle of the entry to the bluebird house and grab binoculars. As I focus in on the baby bluebird peering out, I realize this is an auspicious occasion, the day when little ones leave the nest to venture into a huge world of gigantic trees, large fields of green grass and miles and miles of flight space containing evil predators waiting to scoop them up. Settling on my back deck, I silently sit and study.

Papa bird, donned in brilliant blue coat, perches nearby along with mama bird in her drab blue. Does it bother anyone else that males get to wear the bold colors, or is it just me?  The birds chatter constantly as I envision daddy chirping, “You can do it, child. Don’t be afraid. Just push off and start flapping your wings. Mom and I are right here, and we’ll keep you safe. Nothing’s going to happen. We’re keeping laser sharp eyes on all the surroundings.”

Time clicks on, and baby appears to summon courage then slips back inside the safe confines of the tiny house. Fear of the unknown pulls it back from the door to new adventures. Rousing its confidence, the bird fluffs its wings, placing tiny feet on the outside of the small hole. Then, it disappears from view again. To fly or not to fly, that is the question. Maybe this little one argues back to dad like Moses did with God, “I can’t do it. Maybe I can just stay here and you can keep bringing me worms and bugs. It’s kind of scary and really, really big out there. I’m little and I might fall.”

Fifteen minutes, and I’m still stuck to my chair. I can’t miss this, since my own firstborn is finding his wings right now—getting married in a few weeks and soon to be out of my nest. I’m here to learn how birds do this empty nest thing. I observe the baby edging out again. Looking right and left, peering way out to see the male, it pushes out and away, flapping furiously until it precariously lands on top of the swing set. Shew! First flight not pretty, but successful. The baby is absolutely still, yet I’m certain its heart is pumping a million beats a minute.

I swing the binoculars back to the nest where a second baby is peeking out. I wonder how many comprise this family and how long it will take for each of them to gain the courage to flap into the world. I wait. And wait. This baby looks about ready to take off, then chaos ensues. Birds squawk and swoop. Mama and Papa bird sense danger and chase off crows and others who threaten the successful flight of their baby. The parents depart and return about a hundred times while the baby looks like a statue in the middle of the hole. It does not move a feather.

At least 30 minutes pass before the baby moves. I can only surmise that he’s been given the all clear signal. Examining the surroundings, head straining far out of the nest, this next bird begins flapping towards his mom and dad and safely lands. Papa flies to the seed feeder a few feet from me, pecks a bit, zips back to the newly flown bird and plops food into the open mouth. Did this dad just bribe his son to fly with food? I wonder. Didn’t I just do that last week urging bites of broccoli with the enticement of ice cream? 

I look once again to the nest and wait for another head to pop through. The hole remains empty. No more birds. I guess they really are empty nesters now. Sigh. I ponder how they feel, if they are sad when they look at their cozy home with no babies left. Siting the family of four alighting on top of the trampoline I watch as the parents pause for their babies. They don’t fly off as soon as the babes are out of the nest but stick around for support and encouragement. They wait for the babies to practice using their wings more, and yet the tiny feet seem stuck like glue. Wings flap but feet fix tightly to the trampoline. It’s hard to fly that way, feathers fluttering but feet not letting go. Yet, the only way for these birds to find their wings is to let go of their comfort zone.

My firstborn is also finding his wings. A two and a half hour trip north to college began his journey four years ago. Split between home and dorm during holidays and summers, his wings fluttered the distance between both. But, he always came home. This summer—in three short weeks—he flies away, not returning to the nest. Just as the baby bluebirds will eventually, he is creating his own place with his bride. This journey to his new life outside familiarity began gradually years before and culminates with wings fully spread soaring smoothly to bright skies.  He’s excited and ready to go.

Unfortunately, a son finding wings causes a mom to find a few boxes of Kleenex!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

New York City Makeover

Pinky, Reesie, La La, Noica—these are some of the names of women my daughter,  Alix and I encountered last week in a New York City women’s shelter. Women broken by life and some by husbands. Women mentally ill in some cases. A group of 55 women traveled from Indiana to share the love of Jesus by washing dirty feet, massaging stressed hands, helping them choose a new outfit, styling straggly hair and putting makeup on tired faces and seeing smiles brighten once dark countenances.  As we encouraged this women with the words, “God loves you; you are valuable to Him,” we viewed visible changes. Shuffled feet became springy steps. Loud laughter replaced angry words. God visited this place where broken down, discarded women live. 

What did I learn on this trip to beautify women who feel ugly and unnoticed?

1.      Makeovers can change a person from the outside in. When you feel ugly, you act ugly. It works the same in my own life.  The day I throw on my shabby sweats and glasses sans makeup to make a quick trip to the grocery is one in which I prefer to remain incognito. Slink in and slink out because I’m feeling unkempt. These women, however, experience day upon day feeling forgotten and frumpy.  As ladies bounced from station to station, whether choosing a new outfit or sitting for someone to apply their makeup, a visible transformation like Cinderella emerging from her cinder-stained face and garments took place. Worn out, lackluster women began to believe the words each station worker voiced. “You are beautiful to Jesus; He loves you; you are not trash.”  

2.      Even homeless women desire to be heard and touched. I caressed hands and paid attention to some who had lost their identity, values and families. I listened to women speak with foreign accents and others mentally bewildered with stories a mile long. While tragic circumstances and even poor decisions had landed them in this place, my purpose lay in feeling their pain, hearing their cries and conveying that God sees them and knows their names.

3.      God doesn’t want me to be comfortable. It’s scary to step out of your comfort zone and do something you’ve never done before. Yet when I feel unqualified, He promises to equip me; I just need to be willing and available. Fear can hold us back from doing things God wants to do in and through us to impact the world around us. It’s the first step that’s the scariest! As I began to massage the first hand, heart thumping in my chest, I felt completely lost. Thoughts swirled in my brain, “What can I say that would make a difference to this wounded woman? How do I help and encourage her?” I jumped in with both feet, like Peter jumping out of the boat to walk on water to Jesus, and each conversation became easier and more comfortable, as God gave me His words and His strength.

4.      Serving brings great joy. By the end of the day, I was tired and spent, yet filled with joy because God had used me, in spite of all my fears and feelings of inadequacy. Not only had the women’s spirits brought me delight because of their physical transformations, but also the simple act of pouring out spilled gladness everywhere. Excitement and laughter filled the room as women departed in joyful thankfulness. The act of serving blessed me far more than it did these women.

5.      God is in the transformation business, not me. The word says, “Not by might, nor by power, but by my Spirit, says the Lord Almighty.” (Zechariah 4:6) My job this particular weekend was not to judge these women or force and cajole them to be different. Too often, I try to manipulate others through guilt trips or other methods. During this experience, my role was to listen, love and pray for these women and allow the Holy Spirit to work on their hearts. After all, Jesus is the only one who can create a clean heart in anyone. How freeing it is to know that someone’s transformation is not up to me yet realize that I have a vital part in relaying the message of love and everlasting life to those living in dark and desperate circumstances.

Perhaps this last lesson hit me the hardest as I reflect on the way I treat my family, my friends and others I encounter daily. My micro-managing and manipulation of others is ineffective and a poor substitute for the mighty power of God to change a life completely.  I am to be a vessel God can use, a conduit of His love and grace to those around me, so they can infected with His Spirit. In my willingness for God to work in and through me to impact my children, my church, my community, I pray that God pours out His Spirit in magnanimous ways, that I am not a hindrance to the work He wants to do in someone’s life, and most of all, that I always give God the glory for the changes that occur!

A Tween's Example

Every night when we tuck Maddie in, we take turns praying. For the past several years, on Maddie’s night to pray, she talks to God about Uncle Tim’s back. Every.single.time. One particular night, she asked me, “Why doesn’t God answer my prayer? How come Uncle Tim’s back is still hurting?”

“I don’t know, Maddie. I just know God is not like a magician. He doesn’t simply wave a magic wand and make everything the way we want it. Sometimes, He wants us to learn to trust Him in the midst of our unanswered prayers.”

Through the years of modeling prayer, we’ve prayed about school, friendships, sickness, bad attitudes and everything else in between. This little girl is grasping the importance of talking to Jesus about everything. A few weeks ago, she heard that her dear friend’s mother was experiencing some health issues. She immediately created a card, mailed it and began praying for her. Everyday, she’d ask, “Do you think she got my card yet, Mom?”

One day, I received a text from this sweet friend relaying thanks to my daughter for the card and the request she had placed in the prayer basket at church. My friend just happened to be on the 24 hour prayer chain that particular day and cried as she read Maddie’s heartfelt request for God to heal. It moved me too knowing that my daughter is realizing the importance of crying out to Jesus for every need.

I am often proud of my children for their school and sports accomplishments. But this particular day, Maddie’s developing prayer habit for those in need surpassed any champion medal she could’ve received. Her commitment to bring someone suffering before the God of the universe caused me to ponder my own passion to pray. What a beautiful reminder that God desires that our first impulse be to bring our concerns before Him, large or small.

In fact, a few days later, Maddie rattled off her own prayer request before boarding the school bus. “Hey, can you pray that I’m nice to Clay today and that I do well on my test?” How grateful I am that God hears our sincere petitions for kindness to that person who is difficult to love. Maddie’s example reminds me to bring all my concerns to my Savior who hears me whenever I call.   

Endings and Beginnings

A week ago I watched my firstborn walk across a stage, shake a few hands and receive a degree he’s worked for four years to obtain. With watery eyes and sniffles, I slipped back in time to my own passage across a platform to receive my English degree about a thousand years ago, yet I remember it like it was yesterday. Now, I’m my parents and I know what it’s like to be on the other side of the stage, sitting prouder than a peacock, watching my tall son go through his rite of passage with honors. I glance at my husband whose eyes are also brimming and red. Our eyes express our feelings. No words needed. 

We’ve watched this boy grow from child to man. And though we felt a smidgen of this ending of things four years previously at his high school graduation, it doesn’t compare to the finality of this ending. How could it? He still came and went, summer and fall, holidays and weekends. We’d play games, watch movies and he’d sleep in his bedroom in our home. But now. Now?! It’s different. He’ll be home long enough to save a few more dollars, move into his own place, marry, make his own home and eventually raise his own family. An extension of us, but nevertheless, his own. On his OWN. Without us.

Bittersweet, yet isn’t this what we as parents are supposed to do? Raise our little ones to manhood or womanhood so they can step out on their own?   Raise them to know the One who is present with them always even when Mom and Dad aren’t? Raise them to know that no matter what, no matter what, Jesus can be trusted through any situation they may face? Many times as a mom, I’ve wished for do overs. I’d have handled many situations differently, but one thing I’d never change is sharing Jesus with my son. Because the one thing I do know is that if my green-eyed boy knows the One to go to in any circumstance, it won't matter where life takes him, he’ll be fine.

So, life right now feels strange. I’m sad and happy rolled up together. I’m Jesus’ mother, treasuring all these things in my heart (Luke 2:51), holding onto that boy for just a few weeks longer, until he truly flies away. In my mind he’s still mine. Always will be. Yet, I know another has taken his heart, as it should be. Nevertheless, I carried, cuddled and corrected that kid for 22 years, and if I’m like my own mother, I’ll feel compelled to continue even when he’s 40! So, even though he’s moving out, establishing his family and career, giving his heart away to another, I will hold him close in mine forever.