Jack the Bulldog

If this came in little-girl sizes, I’d likely get this for Audrey.

My six-year-old daughter Audrey just may end up a vegetarian.

I read Charlotte’s Web earlier this year to Audrey and three-year-old Fiala, and the story impacted Audrey so greatly that she can no longer eat pork.  She deeply empathizes with Wilbur.  At first, my husband Martin thought this ridiculous — actually, he still does — but I could see in her tears that she was abundantly sincere, and we’ve decided to let her eat according to her conscience.  Anyway, many people don’t eat pork for a wide variety of reasons.

Fiala, little stinker that she is, uses this as ammunition.  “Aaaaaauu-dreeey,” she sing-songs across the table with a chunk of meat on her fork, “I’m eating piiii-iiig!”

Audrey bursts into tears (yet again), and I correct Fi, admonishing her on the graces of kindness.

Audrey’s tender heart toward all creatures great and small has changed the way I evaluate books.  “How many moments in this story,” I search my memory, “will bring Audrey to tears?”

A week ago or so, I decided to read Little House on the Prairie to the girls.  It’s not in the curriculum we use, and I think its omission is a travesty.  The book is a must-read, in my estimation, for any American girl.  I discovered the series when I was eight, and read it non-stop, much of it secretly by night-light, until I was finished with all nine books within a week, an experience that left me exhausted but completely satisfied.  Shortly afterward — weeks, in fact — it was determined that I needed glasses.  I’ve read that eyestrain cannot cause one to become near-sighted, but my experience makes me suspicious.

Anyway.

The Ingalls family, in the early pages of the story, sets off in the 1870s to parts West, possessions in a covered wagon, their dog Jack, described as a beloved brindle bulldog, trotting tirelessly under the wagon.

Completely as a side-note, in the last 18 months, our family has dog-sat both an English Bulldog and a French Bulldog.  I cannot see either of those lazies trotting tirelessly anywhere.  Jack must have been the longer-legged American Bulldog, or maybe even a Boxer.  That’s just my own theory, though. 

As the wagon fords a creek, suddenly the water violently swells and rises, sweeping even the mustang ponies off of their feet, threatening to upset the wagon.  It’s quite a tense moment.  When the family arrives on the other side of the creek, it is discovered that Jack is missing.  Laura — and Audrey right along with her — is completely distraught.

I sat there as the chapter ended, a sobbing six-year-old on my left, an unmoved three-year-old on my right.  Fi had sat contentedly through the whole thing, brushing a dolly’s hair, and was now happy that the reading was over and that she could get up and play.  I put out my hand to hold her back, my mind racing.  It had been a long time since I’d read the book, but I thought I remembered that Jack was discovered later to be completely fine and wholly alive.  I surreptitiously flipped through the next chapter, and found, to my relief, that Jack’s “resurrection” happened in just a few more pages.

“Audrey,” I asked her, “would you like to keep reading?”

“NNNOOOOOO!!!” she emphatically wailed.  “I never want to read that book again, EVER!!”  She started to bolt.  I caught her back.

“Little daughter,” I told her as gently as I could, “I know you’re very, very sad for Jack right now.  I don’t want to leave you sad.  Will you let me keep reading?  I think what happens in the next chapter will make you happy again.”

“Nothing can make me happy!” she continued, very dramatically.  “JACK’S DEAD!!  HE DROWNED!!  PA CAN’T FIND HIM!  HE WASHED AWAY IN THE RIVER AND HE’S DEAD FOREVER!!!”  In her tone and in her eyes, she was dripping with accusation:  How could I read such horror to her?  How could I even consider that she’d want to read about the death of a dog??  What was wrong with me???

I looked over again at Fiala, and marveled that there can be such different personalities in one family.  Fi appeared to really not give a hoot what had happened to Jack.  Those two little girls are opposites in nearly every way, the same as my oldest two boys, Ethan and Grant are.  Grant is the anti-Ethan, and Fiala is the anti-Audrey.

In spite of both girls’ wishes, I convinced both of them that they’d be best off, listening to another chapter.  They settled in again, Fi back to her dolly-brushing, and Audrey with a grumph and a pout, tears still streaming down her cheeks.  I resumed reading.

It’s also funny, what a blank slate children are.  What is cliché and so very transparent to a long-time book reader like myself came as an absolute shock to Audrey:  The “wolf” who threatened the Ingalls’ camp that night was not a wolf at all, but an absolutely worn out, mud-crusted bulldog named Jack.

Audrey squealed with relief and joyous shock, literally jumping up and down at Jack’s resurrection.

Crisis cut short, tender feelings soothed, normal life and hope in good books and a mother’s heart restored.

I shared a slightly abbreviated version of this story with my friend Kathy on Monday, figuring that, as an intense co-animal-lover, she’d appreciate Audrey’s tender, powerful feelings toward Jack.

Instead, she cocked her head and looked at me.  “Is that what God does with us?” she mused.  “There might be something in that.”

Thrown for a bit of a loop, I think I stood there with my jaw slack.

We had just finished an epic conversation on what God does with us, when things are pending, unfinished, when the results are not easily seen, when the light at the end of the tunnel is a pinprick point, too far to fathom, and we are battling the fear that our heart’s desires might be low on God’s priority list…

“Is that what God does with us?” she posited again.  “Read the next chapter in our lives just a little sooner, out of mercy for our tears?”

I thought of my interaction with Audrey, and could clearly see the parallel.  I had felt it important to not just flat-out tell Audrey, “Jack lives.”  In those moments when Audrey was dissolving in a puddle of emotion, I made the decision that it was important for her character, and just for the appreciation of tension in literature, and to experience the coming joy, to not reveal the outcome in advance.  Yet, I didn’t want to abandon her to her heartsick, out-of-control self.

She was so sincerely broken for Jack’s death, yet I knew that Jack didn’t actually die!  I tried to soothe her, knowing things would truly be better — and very shortly! — and was almost unable to do so, because Audrey was almost violently upset at both the book, and at me.

I know that not every sad story has such a joyous outcome.

Still, though, is that what God does with us?

I’d never considered it before.

I’m learning to trust that He has my heart in His hands, my tender, short-sighted, and often mistakenly-distraught heart.

I have 100% iron-clad, unwavering confidence in the God of Philippians 4:19, “And my God will supply all your needs according to His riches in glory in Christ Jesus.”

My NEEDS.

I know He’ll supply my NEEDS.

I have a 100% iron-clad, unwavering confidence that He’ll supply all of my NEEDS.

But my wants?  The deep desires of my heart?  The things that I long for, that stir the deepest part of me?  The things that speak peace and beauty to my soul, and satisfy my emotions??

I’m much less confident of that.

I’m very aware that, very often, He’s much more concerned with building my character, molding me into the person of Jesus Christ, than He is with answering every whim of a prayer, every emotion-sotted plea.

Trusting my Father God with my heart is much more challenging than trusting Him with my needs.

Yet, does He sit with me on the little sofa in the quiet room, reading the story of my life to me, tenderly calming me by — on occasion — compelling me to sit still just a while longer and listen, because He knows that the outcome, which currently looks so bleak, will actually be filled with JOY, the kind of joy where I squeal and jump up and down with elation and relief and unabashed surprise???

Perhaps He does.

I think He does.

I think I may be experiencing a bit of that, right now.

My heart can scarcely believe it, but I’m picturing Him, right now, turning those pages, gentle voice and all-knowing mind drawing me back from the brink, longing to return to me the hope that I have almost abandoned.

Harder, indeed, to believe that, than believe that He’ll meet my needs.

But, thanks to Jack the bulldog, and an insightful friend, I’ll listen more carefully — both now and in the future — for my God to scan those pages ahead, and do more than console me, but reveal the truth that was hidden, a truth that holds satisfaction, and which does meet the desires of my heart, the heart He created.

“Come, oh winds of testing…”

I got carded last night at Trader Joe’s, buying some sparkly for New Year’s.  That cashier knew how to perk up the outlook of a down-faced 38-year-old.  I had a good laugh with the lady right behind me, who congratulated me on the event.  She was friendly and warm and had a Nigerian accent, and I left with a smile on my face.

At the previous store, Costco, I had decided that despite my current state of affairs — a really ugly situation with my ten-year-old son and a neighborhood boy, which has escalated into three families boycotting our family, and which is still not even remotely resolved — that God didn’t intend for me to:

a) walk in shame
nor
b) treat people like crap just because I’m feeling badly.

When I go on my weekly marathon grocery shopping trips, where I typically visit 4-6 stores and spend 3-4 hours doing so, I make an intentional effort to be kind to customers and cashiers, to go above and beyond what might be expected of a typical late-night shopper, and to spread the love of Jesus, if only a smile at a time, to those I encounter.  This approach almost never fails to have some sort of positive effect on someone, and often results in some really interesting interactions with shoppers and/or store employees.  Last week, a cashier at Bashas’, Nina, told me that I was her favorite customer.  I laughed, and then she prompted me, “Now, you’re supposed to say, ‘And Nina is my favorite cashier!’”  I complied, although, honestly, she’s not.  She’s kind of grumpy and gets on my case about often needing assistance to find out-of-stock sale items late at night:  “What do you expect?  It’s 10:45 at night!  We close in 15 minutes.  Of course the butcher isn’t here and there’s no one who can help you in meat.”  She also makes fun of me for taking so long in the store.  I check my list, I check my coupons, I read labels endlessly…  I’m sure I take longer than the typical shopper.  In spite of this, though, she likes me.    I think I like her more, for liking me.

Nina thinks I’m amazing for having five children and tells everyone about it — other employees and customers alike.  I don’t particularly think that’s a reason for merit, but I’ll take it.  She wasn’t there last night, though, to prop up my ego;  her son got married on the 27th and she took the whole week off.

Anyway.  Back to Costco.

My cashier there was Richard.  He’s tall and very thin, and I have often wondered where he purchases his jeans, though I have never mustered up the courage — or would it be cheek? — to ask him.  He asked me the standard question about whether I had found all I was looking for.  I replied that I had, thank you, and made eye contact with him, smiling.  He paused, responded cheerfully, and with what seemed to be an intentionally friendly manner, finished up my order.  Not friendly-flirting.  Friendly as in, “Wow, you are treating me like a person and I appreciate it.”  As I walked away, I marveled at, truly, how little it takes to make someone’s day a little better.

That’s when I resolved to still do my normal, intentionally kind shopping trip, instead of wallowing in the misery of the situation with my son.

Misty Edwards helped me, too.  To be honest, I’m not a rabid fan of hers.  Those who like her tend to REALLY like her.  I’m not like that.  I just don’t often enjoy listening to endless Misty-IHOP music;  it just doesn’t float my boat, even though I love, love, love worship.*  Last night, though, when I got into my hubby’s car to go grocery shopping, he had Fling Wide on, and I let it play, needing some soothing for my sore soul.  Track 5 came on, the title track, and I almost fast-forwarded it because I just don’t like the opening lines, “Awake, awake oh north wind, awake, awake oh south wind…”  But, I let it play because I love the electric guitar on that song, and I was thinking, “How does the chorus to this song go?  I think I remember liking it.”  And I did.  I do.  I hit repeat, really listening to the lyrics the second time through, part of which say, “Come, oh winds of testing…”

“What??” I thought, “I’m not liking winds of testing right now.”

I really do NOT have a “bring it on!” mentality to testing.  At all.  I don’t like being tested.  I don’t know if Misty really does, or if she simply has made peace with the value of being refined by it.  In any case, she appears to be further down that path of maturity than I am.

To most of the song, though, I really can yield, singing loudly and with full agreement, “Fling wide the door to my soul/Open up the door to my heart/Have Your way, have Your way…” even though I have to will myself to sing the next few lines about “I won’t be afraid/I’ll embrace the flame” and I’m sure any fly buzzing around the cab of the car would note the lack of conviction in my voice at that point…

I hit repeat on that track about six or seven times before I just resigned myself to the fact that I needed to put the song on a continuous loop-repeat.

Even though I really need to update that 101 Random Things About Me page, #43 is still in full effect:  “When I’m upset, I love to go on an errand by myself and BLAST worship music in the truck, singing my guts out.”

————-

*Gross generalization:  I find that most IHOP worship tends to be really internally-focused, introspective, “search my heart… I am weak and lowly…” kind of worship, and I tend to prefer songs that focus directly on Jesus and His character and ability, and/or a little more transcendent worship/rejoicing in who He is…  Hard to explain.  Not trying to pick any fights with anyone, just trying to explain where my worshiper’s heart is at, and it typically doesn’t beat in quite the same place that Misty Edwards, et al, seem to beat.

Update: Homeschooling stuff

•  Homeschooling:  Still having… issues keeping my 14yo focused and not overwhelmed.  What he feels he can do, and what he actually can do are miles apart.  He, without fail, produces well-thought-out, excellent work and I am spending lots of time encouraging him and spurring him on.  I think much of his internal conflict comes down to him longing for the “good old days” when he had less responsibility and his school day wasn’t quite as long — even though his entire day, including “homework” is at a maximum of six hours, and he often has days like yesterday, when he was done in four.  This past week, I had to take away both his iPod and his library books until he was caught up…  I really don’t like restricting his freedoms and pleasures;  I feel like he should be mature enough to self-regulate and that I shouldn’t have to do that.  I guess I still do, though.
• More homeschooling:  I am sharing my Sonlight Core 3 (American History, Part I — recently renamed Core D) with a friend for her children, and I’m a few weeks ahead of her.  For some reason, I’m really motivated to stay ahead, and for that reason, we’re getting more done, and faster, than ever!  I guess I still have some latent competitiveness…
• 

  Click on image for a link to the original post by a lady named Linda, who describes planting a Mary garden, where all the plants are symbolic tributes to the Virgin Mary. Linda attributes this painting to Jan van Eyck, and I'm not really sure that's correct. However, notice the strawberries in the raised bed behind the Virgin and Child.

  Still more homeschooling:  We’ve almost wrapped up our (fairly slow) travels through the fabulous DK’s Children’s Book of Art.  I have been pondering where to go next, with art.  Then, after church on Sunday, a friend pulled me over with an almost conspiratorial whisper, “Hey, I’m helping my mom pare down the things in her home.  Are you interested in any books?”  She opened her trunk to reveal a nice, heavy box of assorted books — from a nice hardcover copy of Kipling’s Captains Courageous to a set of Time-Life books on the States, very similar to a set my own mother owns….  Also included was an intriguing book called Signs and Symbols in Christian Art by George Ferguson.  It was first published in 1959;  my hardcover copy appears to have been printed in England in 1967, though I am delighted to discover that the book is still in print!  I may have to get an additional book of color reprints of Renaissance paintings, though…  Most of this book is in black and white.  However, I have long been intrigued with the idea of art as… teacher and entertainer, especially in the days before there was widespread literacy.  Here’s what Ferguson has to say about strawberries:  “The strawberry is the symbol of perfect righteousness, or the emblem of the righteous man whose fruits are good works.  When shown with other fruits and flowers, it represents the good works of the righteous or the fruits of the spirit.  It is in line with this meaning that the Virgin is sometimes shown clad in a dress decorated with clusters of strawberries.  The strawberry is occasionally shown accompanied by violets to suggest that the truly spiritual are always humble.”  My plan is to read a little excerpt like that, then set my boys to hunting for an example.  I’m slow to notice and understand symbolism and allegory, etc., so I’m looking forward to reading this book!

• Even more homeschooling:  I had also wanted an additional devotional book for my children — especially my 10 and 12-year-old sons.  Right now, we are using Sonlight’s book on American Indian Prayer Guide, as well as using GRN’s monthly prayer guide for its missionaries (we get a monthly newsletter mailed to us, but the link has the same info).  But, I wanted something a little more in-depth, engaging, and focused on character.  Voila!  Out of the same box from my friend’s mom came Courageous Christians:  Devotional Stories for Family Reading by Joyce Vollmer Brown.  PERFECT.  It has sixty stories of well-known and little-known Christians who acted boldly to make a difference for the cause of Christ.  So awesome to have our needs met, in such an unexpected way, and even before I really prayed about it!  I guess God knew these were the books for us…

Homeschoolers: Where do you fall on this scale?? (A poll!)

I’m constantly struggling with creating school in our home to be something my children REALLY enjoy;  I want school to be fun and profoundly interesting and meaningful to them, personally.  However, there are subjects or topics which I do feel are important for them to learn, even when my children have zero interest in the study.  I think that enjoying one’s studies enhances a lifelong love of learning, but sometimes, depending on the child or the subject, I’ve found that, at least for my children, love just isn’t enough, and I have to step up the rigor in their schooling.  Frankly, nobody around here likes that, myself included.  I see it as a necessary… well, not necessary evil.  Perhaps necessary character- and education-builder.

Where do you generally fit, on a scale of one to ten of rigor in homeschooling??

Freshman homeschooling angst

I love this!! from New Math by Craig Damrauer

I’m becoming more and more convinced that one of the major roles in parenting is to help children see the world in proper perspective:  to be more aware of others, to be aware of the potential results of personal actions, to discern what warrants a skeptical eye, to have a balanced view of self, to learn to look at things with God’s supernatural reality in mind and not just what presents itself as reality, etc.

My oldest son, Ethan, is 14 and has, four weeks into the school year, struggled with high school.  Not grade-wise;  he’s producing fine work.  Not with the content of his work;  he is enjoying what he’s learning.  It’s simply the volume of work, and how much it requires of his time and energy.

Our school day runs from 8:30 – 12:30.  If a reasonable amount of work is not accomplished in that time, I will often require that my children do the remainder of their work sometime in the afternoon, but my availability as a teacher is really limited after lunch;  they’re typically on their own for “homework” hours.  And, as I blogged briefly a couple of weeks ago, my approach for K-8 is very spiraling:  We cover topics repeatedly with increasing depth and complexity, so if one subject is not properly covered or grasped one week, or one month, or even one year, I don’t panic;  there’s always later.  That fairly relaxed attitude, combined with the fact that my children have done fabulously on standardized tests, has resulted in me really not having a rigorous approach to homework.

But… with high school, it’s different.  There are things that the state requires that my son learns (if I follow the track of high school diploma requirements — which is not actually necessary for homeschooled students where I live, but advisable).  And there are things that he needs to learn regardless of who is or is not requiring it.  And we can’t just catch up “next year.”  Our spiral is running out of room.  So, really, for the first time ever — other than math, which I’ve always insisted that they keep up on — I’m now communicating to Ethan, “If your stuff isn’t done in those four hours of ‘official’ school, you must get it done on your time.”

He’s having a really hard time with that, and feeling really, really, really, really overwhelmed, to the point where the entirety of his waking hours — from when his eyelids open in the morning to lights-out for the night — are heavy.  He hangs his head, he seems frequently on the verge of tears, he tends to pessimism, he’s on edge, he sighs incessantly, he needs lots of hugs (which is totally fine;  I’m thrilled that my 14 year old son wants hugs from me)…  Heavy.

I’ve told him that the mercy in me wants to just say, “Oh, it’s all right.  You don’t have to do it.”  However, I feel that it’s the right time to require him to manage his time, be consistent, persevere, work hard — even when he doesn’t want to, develop study skills, step up in responsibility, and any other number of practical skills and character traits that can be developed by hard work and persistence.

Plus, I just want him to learn.  I do, definitely, want him (and all my children) to enjoy school.  I want them to be excited about learning, and truly enjoy what they’re doing, and that desire daily factors into how we do school.  But, I would hate to look back on Ethan’s high school experience and know that my laxity as a teacher and a mother limited his options for college and/or career.  I don’t want to shortchange his education.

So, I’ve been pretty hardnosed about it.

Perhaps, though, I’ve been too hardnosed.

Yesterday morning, my husband Martin told me that the previous night (when I’d been out grocery shopping), he and Ethan had a heart-to-heart, and Ethan was pretty despondent about school, really feeling like he’s drowning and I don’t care.    Martin suggested that I pray about how to handle it, and that perhaps I needed to ease up.

I prayed…  Not a 40-day intense time of prayer and fasting, but not simply a, “God help me.  Thanks,” kind of prayer…  Somewhere in the middle.  Well, “somewhere in the middle,” but on the shorter side of the middle, because after fifteen minutes of prayer, I had some guidelines in my head for a bit of a different approach.  As I told Ethan later that morning, I wasn’t claiming that they were totally inspired by the Holy Spirit, but they might be!  I also asked him to give the new system two weeks to see if it helped.

In short, the new system is this:

• Maxing out his school day at 6 hours.  The four hours from 8:30 – 12:30, plus up to two hours of additional work in the afternoon and/or evening.
• Requiring that he does the ‘hard stuff’ first.

Knowing my son, part of his battle is that while reading is a great deal of his schoolwork, he so prefers to just read that he’ll consume his schoolbook of choice (often a novel) all morning, getting himself a week or two ahead of schedule on that book, yet he’s four days behind on math, and three days behind in science, and he still has that writing assignment from Monday that is due on Friday, and here it is Thursday and he hasn’t even started.  Etc.

And with all that behind-ness, he just feels like there’s no light at the end of the tunnel.  There’s no end to the school day, and no chance — so it seems — of ever getting caught up.  The new system gives him clearer structure to order his time, and gives him hope that the day won’t perpetuate forever.

He is doing Apologia Physical Science; Teaching Textbooks Algebra I; P.E.*; and Sonlight’s Core 200, which covers Church History, Bible and Apologetics**, plus English (comprised of Writing, Vocabulary, and Literature).

So, now, I require that he starts the day with his choice of:

• Science
• Math
• Vocab
• Writing

Once those for subjects are completed, he can do the remainder of his work in any order, at his discretion:

• P.E.
• Bible Memory
• Reading — Literature
• Reading — History
• Reading — Bible & Apologetics

Ethan was pretty amenable to the plan, and felt cared-for, but still feeling overworked and somewhat distressed, and not convinced that it would have any effect on his schoolwork.

Well, at 3:30 p.m. that same day, he came back to me and said, “I’m all caught up.”  I replied, “That’s great!  You mean for the day?  It’s 3:30 and you’re done for the day?”  He clarified with a huge smile, “No.  I mean all caught up with all my assignments for the whole school year!”

Wow.  Awesome!

I was pretty giddy.  So was he.

I told him, “So… I guess last night was the dark before the dawn, eh?”

He looked blank.

“You’ve never heard that maxim?”

He hadn’t, so I explained.

I think this whole thing was a good experience for both of us.  For me, in that I still need to provide clear guidance and give him hope.  For him, that the work is doable, and that his emotions in a situation are not always a reliable indicator of reality.  Less than 24 hrs after feeling completely hopeless, the light was shining again, his face was beaming, and all of the despondency was behind him.

Now today, he’s in a new quandary, and dark clouds are again threatening.  But, I think we’ll get through this storm all right, too.

————————————-

*For P.E. (required by the state of Arizona for freshmen), Ethan is doing 20 minutes of activity four times weekly, and three times weekly, reading two pages of DK’s The Sports Book (which is a really engaging and well-illustrated book on how a wide variety of sports are played).

**Ethan is really enjoying Apologetics, to the surprise of us both.

So, maybe He wasn’t trying to kill me after all…

When I was 27 years old I was fairly certain God was trying to kill me.

I was reminded of this upon recently reading about an old acquaintance’s plans to adopt a baby after two birth children, but not perhaps as you might initially be thinking as you read this account of the hardest season in my married life — a season that lasted, oh, about five years.

Reading the adoption-plan story also made me consider my standard response to the numerous people who ask me whether or not my husband and I are having more children.  For a canned response, perhaps it falls under the category of “TMI”, but it encapsulates my thoughts on the subject,  “Well, we’re not planning on it, but we’ve done nothing permanent to prevent pregnancy, nor will we do anything permanent, and two of our five were conceived when we weren’t ‘planning on it’, so you never know what God has in mind.”

Back to when I was 27:  I had a one-year-old boy and my oldest son was three.  My second son had been a surprise:  I had decided, after one, that one was more than enough, and I privately extended grace to all the mothers of “only children” over whom I had stood in judgment.  I also — seriously — asked the Father for forgiveness for my wrong attitude, rooted in abject ignorance, over how difficult mothering is, and how one child can truly feel like plenty — very fulfilling.   So, there I was with my two boys, and daily, I felt like I was barely, barely, barely keeping my nose above water.  Literally, every day, I felt like I was drowning, only to just survive another day.

Then, I found out that I was pregnant again.

I remember laying on my back on the floor of the family room one night, early in the pregnancy, after everyone else — including my husband — had gone to bed.  I was weeping, laying it all out there before God, in ugly and brutal and heartbroken honesty.  I told him that I was sorry I didn’t want the pregnancy, sorry that I was having great difficulty accepting His choice for me, sorry that I was even having those thoughts, and so on…  I had to lay there  — a position of my choice, being entirely vulnerable, before Him –  and in all seriousness, confess to Him that if He was intending for this to literally kill me, that He was going to have to help me trust Him on that, too.  It was just… too far beyond me to consider that this pregnancy, and the resulting baby, could be for my benefit at all.  So, I considered that maybe that God wanted that baby’s life so dearly, for such a specific and important purpose, that He would need to sacrifice mine in order to bring that little one into existence.  I’m not being melodramatic.  I was completely serious, and that was the best I could come up with:  That the baby needed to be alive, even if it killed me.  Even if God killed me.  “Though [You] slay me, yet will I trust in [You]…” reverberated in my mind, alternated with, “Lord, I believe;  help my unbelief!“

Teaching (or, should I say, “teaching”) your children (and yourself) Scripture

Luke Holzmann, over at SonlightBlog, posted recently about teaching children the Bible.  He asked readers how they handle it, and offered his own suggestions, including, “Read commentaries, talk to friends and teachers, consider the context and the rest of Scripture, look up articles and, again, read the passages themselves.”  My comment got kind of out-of-control long, and when I got done, I thought, “That would make a pretty good blog post in itself.”  So, here it is:

My mother read two chapters from the Bible every night (except church nights — Sunday and Wednesday) to the four of us siblings for my entire life, while I was living at home.  She’d finish Genesis, then on to Matthew.  Then Exodus, then Mark.  And so on.  I knew the Bible better than just about any kid I knew because of it.  She never offered any commentary, but she would answer questions when they came up, and, in retrospect, I think she did a bit of editing on the fly for some of the stickier bits.

I will never forget the day when I was 16 and a couple of Jehovah’s Witnesses came to the door.  No one else was home at the time.  There was a man who did all the talking, and a lady who hung in the background, who looked increasingly ill at ease as I countered the man’s statements, suggesting to him that he was wildly (but craftily) misquoting virtually every verse.  In exasperation, and with an air of condescension, he finally said, “Fine.  You know so much?  You find it in your Bible and show me.”  I asked him to hold on, fetched my Bible (which had a concordance), and did just that.

Although I really enjoy conversations with my children — scriptural topics included, I think that, most of the time, if we just keep exposing our children to Scripture, that, eventually, it will sink in, as maturity unfolds, and as God’s Spirit speaks to our children’s spirits.  They will get to know His nature and His ways, if they just READ, and/or if we read to them.

I don’t read a lot of commentaries.  I do appreciate good Scriptural exposition, and can get some good, meaty info out of Greek/Hebrew word studies.  I also enjoy historical studies, which lend a deeper insight into one passage or another…  But, still, I predominantly let the Scripture stand for itself, asking Him, as I start to read, “What is it You want to tell me in this? Please don’t let me miss anything.”  I see the Bible as, in essence, a love story, with God revealing Himself to us, Jesus’ bride and the Father’s children.

I TOTALLY think that God and Scripture can stand up to scrutiny, and sometimes, it can be really helpful to unpack a particularly troublesome verse.  However, it is my observation that too many people — Christians included — get caught up in dissection, instead of simple contemplation, led by His Spirit.  Then, reading the Bible becomes simple knowing ABOUT God, instead of KNOWING GOD, Himself.

It’s a fine line.

Spin

I am a firm believer in NOT manipulating one’s children.  Someone I know used to tell his daughter, when she was much younger, that everything was “chicken,” because the girl refused to eat anything except for chicken.  So, rather than telling her it was, say, watermelon she was eating, or a hot dog, he’d say it was “chicken.”  Hm.  Not into that.

To this day, years later, he laughs over that season in his little girl’s life.  But to me?  That’s too close to lying.  And, too high-maintenance.  My style is more along the lines of, “Eat it or go to bed hungry.”  And, well… I guess both sides have merit, though mine is particularly less merciful, so perhaps I shouldn’t be patting myself too hard on the back for my honesty.

There is certainly a fine line there, I’m discovering, especially for little ones for whom appearance and perception truly matters.  In our home, that would be Audrey.  She’s almost five (gasp!), and this has been the case since she was very young.  I have to be careful not to wield unwisely my power to get her to do what I want her to do.

For instance:

• She used to fight me tooth and nail when it was time to wash her face.  I had a little revelation, and, appealing to her vanity, I solemnly explained that she had so much muck on her face that I couldn’t see her “pretties”.  As I gently rubbed her cheek, nose, and chin, I started to exclaim that, bit by bit, her pretties were shining through!!  Audrey was genuinely excited.  After I washed her, she insisted on looking at her glowing face in the mirror, happily admiring her pink, clean little self…  It stuck.  We’ve been uncovering her pretties, after mealtimes, for years now.  It works with Fiala, too.  Fi is not quite 2½, and has never been quite as enamored with the idea of beauty as Audrey.  So, getting her pretties to shine through isn’t quite as effective, but nearly so.
• About a year ago, I bought a pair of brown jeans for Audrey.  I couldn’t pass up the deal — the cost was less than $2 for them, brand-new!  I anticipated a bit of a struggle, though, with Audrey.  Brown, according to very small girls who have a very persistent “girlie” streak, is not a very feminine color.  She looked very dubiously at them, and proclaimed brown to be a “boy” color, because it is the same color as dirt.  “Oooh,” I cooed conspiratorially, smoothing the rich brown fabric, “These aren’t dirt-colored.  They’re chocolate-colored.  These are chocolate jeans!”  Instantly, Audrey’s face was all delight;  she changed her tune completely.  “Oooooh!  Chocolate jeans!  I looove chocolate jeans!”  And, she’s loved them ever since, calling them “chocolate jeans” every time she wears them.
• I bought Audrey a pack of undies, not too long ago.  There was an assortment of patterns and colors, most a variety of pinks and purples.  One, though, was not to her taste:  The pair featured a number of different sizes of elephants, colored various shades of blues and reddish-pinks.  Elephants, I could hear her thinking, are boy animals.  And, to make matters worse, some of them are blue.  Blue is a boy color.  Everyone knows that.  Disdain clouded her face, and she opened her mouth to protest.  Preempting her, I pointed out, “These aren’t just elephants.  They’re elephant families.  Look.  The larger blue ones are the daddy elephants.  The lighter blue ones are the brother elephants.  The bigger pink elephants are the mommies, and the littler ones are the sisters.  And, look!” I continued with a tiny, tender gasp, “There are itty-bitty elephants, too!  Those are the babies!!”  I do know my daughter.  “Ooooh!” she squealed, eyes open wide, anticipation filling her whole self, “Baby elephants!  Elephant families!  Oh, I want to wear them right now!”  And the pair of underpants which, at first blush, she would have gladly chucked into the trash, unworn, became her favorite in an instant.  They are, still.
• Audrey takes a nap on my bed.  The two girls share a room, and while that works fine for night time, when they both sleep, room-sharing during naptime is not nearly as successful, especially since Audrey actually sleeps only once out of every three or four days.  Normally, I time it so that I’m not doing laundry when she goes down for a nap;  somehow, I knew it would bother her if the sheets were missing.  But, on a recent Saturday, it just happened that the linens were in the wash when it was time for Audrey’s nap.  She walked into my room and balked.  “I can’t sleep on that bed.  It has no sheets.”  Now, I could have put on an old set of sheets just for her nap, but I balked at the extra work.  Instead, looking at the mattress pad — a new one, bright white, soft and puffy — I whispered conspiratorially to Audrey, “Look!”  I patted the bed.  “You get to sleep on a cloud!”  Instantly, her eyes lit up, and I knew I had sold her.  “A cloud?!?” she asked, dreamily.  “Oooh, it’s so soft.  Just like real clouds.  Do you think real clouds are soft like this?”  She napped, like a dream, on a cloud…

Manipulation?  Yes, a bit.  Spin?  Definitely.  Lying?  I hope not.

Feminism, marketing, raising little girls, plus a bit of homeschooling

From the couple of articles I’ve read, and the excerpt of her book, I can tell I’m not nearly as feminist as Peggy Orenstein.  But, I still put her brand-new book, Cinderella Ate My Daughter:  Dispatches from the Front Lines of the New Girlie-Girl Culture, on hold at the library.  We seem to think very similarly, at least on some things.  In one article, Orenstein recounts how her daughter’s tastes radically and immediately changed, upon entering “preschool” at the age of two, discarding her formerly beloved pin-striped overalls and love of Thomas the Train and taking on a new, rabid adoration of pink tulle and Disney Princesses.  For now, let’s skim past the part where people feel compelled to SCHOOL THEIR CHILDREN AT THE AGE OF TWO, to the part where marketing and peer pressure have so adversely affected our society that our two-year-olds reject their “first loves” in lieu of what’s being shoved down their teensy throats by Madison Avenue!

You think I exaggerate?  I do not, fair reader!  It starts even earlier than that!!!

Late last month, the company quietly began pressing its newest priority, Disney Baby, in 580 maternity hospitals in the United States. A representative visits a new mother and offers a free Disney Cuddly Bodysuit, a variation of the classic Onesie.

In bedside demonstrations, the bilingual representatives extol the product’s bells and whistles — extra soft! durable! better sizing! — and ask mothers to sign up for e-mail alerts from DisneyBaby.com.

The above excerpt is from a New York Times article dated February 6, 2011, my emphasis added.

Another disturbing tidbit:

Disney estimates the North American baby market, including staples like formula, to be worth $36.3 billion annually. Its executives talk about tapping into that jackpot as if they were waging a war. “Apparel is only a beachhead,” said Andy Mooney, chairman of Disney Consumer Products.

For those who may wonder about Disney’s intentions to further infiltrate your home,

Beachhead:

1. A position on an enemy shoreline captured by troops in advance of an invading force.

2. A first achievement that opens the way for further developments; a foothold.

I am stridently opposed to marketing directly to children.  I praise the likes of my cousin, Romney, who has campaigned to rid her own preschooler’s school of its McDonald’s affiliation, in which the school receives money in exchange for “events” where children attend mandatory pep rallies with Ronald McDonald, and are given Happy Meals, all without parental consent, all built into the school day.  (And people wonder why homeschooling school days are so short.  Why, because we actually LEARN STUFF during our school day — apparently trivial, outdated stuff like math, and literature, and grammar, and history — and don’t attend baldfaced marketing sessions given by the McDonald’s corporation!!  But, I digress.)

Well, maybe I’m not digressing.  One of the unintended benefits of homeschooling is that my children feel much more free to develop into the people God made them to be.  They’re not mocked (at least, not regularly!) for their interests, nor pressured away from something — anything, be it their Christianity, to their choice of clothes! — just because The Herd does not endorse it.

So.  I’m sure Orenstein, in her book, is not trying to make a case for homeschooling.  But, since that’s a passion in my heart, I can’t help but see that part of the problem might be the pressure to place our children in preschools as early as the tender age of two, schools which aren’t so much a center for real learning, but a hotbed of social conformation, where our wee ones are unknowingly being sucked up into the “invading force[s]” of the likes of Disney Baby!

ALL OF THAT SAID…  Part of me is really pleased that my four year old, Audrey, feels very free to be a girl.  I was startled when she began exhibiting true girlie-girl behavior — coyly flirting with Daddy and having a passion for shoes — before she could even crawl!!  And, I’m glad to give her a home in which she feels confident in her super-girliness.

Just this morning, I laughed delightedly over the Pillow Princess she made.  Onto the floor, she laid a (hand-me-down) Disney Sleeping Beauty dress-up dress, under which she placed various throw pillows, to give it a plumped-out appearance.  Another pillow, fringed, formed the Pillow Princess’s head, onto which she placed an Ariel tiara (also hand-me down), and cut-outs, made from white paper, colored with Crayons, which formed the eyes, nose, and very pink mouth.

There’s a fine line there…  I know I’m treading it with care, trying to give my daughters the freedom to express their femininity — even if it does include an excess of pink frilly stuff! — without exposing them to so much marketing that they feel like they’re “supposed” to love Disney Princess, and they need to discard anything not-pink.

~sigh~

An evening in the life of a honest-to-goodness Mommy

So, my dear husband came home from work tonight with a monster headache — migraine-y, wanting to lay down and hold his head very still, lights off…  Perhaps only the second migraine of his life.  I gave him some Tylenol and water, and hurried him off to bed.  Distracted, I was, by dinner preparations…  Minutes later, as I was feeling badly for not being very attentive to my hubby’s needs and pain, I went into the bedroom to check on him.  Audrey was standing by his side, and had put the Kleenexes next to his head — just in case.  She had the idea to get the ice packs for his neck, as that was hurting as well.  She had already prayed for him — her idea — and as I stood there, she kept a gentle hand on his head…  Gave me hope, that did, for that crazy, rough, rowdy, smart-as-a-whip, loud little four-year-old.  It made me remember when I was 36 weeks pregnant with Fiala and ill, and Audrey took care of me by covering me with her favorite blanket and commanding, “Now, suck your thumb!“

I sent a text to Martin’s small group leader, letting him know that Martin would likely not be in attendance tonight.

Martin borrowed Ethan’s old MP3 player which has some great worship music on it, and plugged in.

About 45 minutes later, Martin staggered out.  Either prayer, Tylenol, worship, a profound sense of responsibility (he’s the worship leader for his small group), or a combination of those allowed him to rouse to his feet and head out the door, our 13-year-old, Ethan, carrying the guitar.  (The small group meets at the home of one of Ethan’s friends;  he accompanies Martin most weeks.  Ethan and his buddy play video games pretty much nonstop during their “time together”.  The ideas about what constitutes relationship are much different between a mother and her teenaged son.)

A short time later, I put dinner on the table for myself, Fiala, Grant, Wesley, and Audrey.  Fiala had been fussy all evening, but that’s common after a late nap, as today’s had been, as we had been at a park with a number of other homeschooling families, during what would normally be Fi’s nap time.

Early into the meal, it became apparent that Fiala would rather go back to bed than eat, so I gave the other children some instructions, and went to put Fiala down for the night.  She kept saying her tummy hurt.  “Uh oh,” I thought.

I returned to the other three children, and fielded a somber report from Grant that, in my absence, Audrey had been speaking something so dastardly that he could not repeat it.  After assurances that Grant would not get in trouble for repeating what Audrey had said, and more than a little curious, I asked him to divulge what had happened.  “How bad could it be?  She’s four,” I thought.  I won’t write it here, but suffice it to say, it was startlingly crude, disrespectful, and downright ugly, and all of it had been apparently directed at me.

I was hurt and disturbed, and decided that Audrey needed a spank.  (Yes, we spank on occasion.  Wooden spoon.  One to three whacks.  Then, kisses, forgiveness, love, and reassurance, restoring the relationship.)

After I spanked her, we sat talking.  I felt a need to know what was going on in her little mind, why she could say what she had about me.  She started out by telling me that her brothers had made her say it.  I knew it wasn’t true, but I just kept calm, kept my voice gentle, made sure I was motivated by love and concern for her and for our relationship. It turns out that she had had a bad dream about me the previous night, and in her little heart lurked offense, hurt, and even fear over how I had treated her, in the dream.  Saying yucky things about mom behind her back was her way of “getting back.”  I gently assured her that I would never, ever, ever do what I had “done,” in the dream — tossing her bodily out a window, telling her that I wouldn’t keep her any more, and that I didn’t love her.

We were both in tears, Audrey apologizing with sobs, and me holding her close and loving on her, making a mental note that perhaps she needs more attention from me…  Since I do structured school with the boys, and Fiala is the “baby,” honestly, Audrey gets short shrift many days.

Audrey, who thinks she is the bomb, quite certain that her external prettiness is the trump card that allows her to do anything, only very, very rarely acknowledges her sin — not too surprising for a four-year-old.  She then leveled me by telling me that she was afraid the dream would come back because her heart was “crooked” and her crooked heart would tell her brain what to dream, and her brain would tell her thoughts, and that she would dream the bad dream again.  We then had the most heart-to-heart talk ever, about how only Jesus can come in and heal crooked hearts and make them soft and kind, and that He can bring His goodness to her brain and her thoughts, and that He LOVES it when little girls ask His forgiveness, and that He delights to come in and fix crooked hearts…

Part of me wanted to assure her that her heart wasn’t crooked;  it breaks my heart to think of a preschool-aged wisp of a beautiful girl bearing anguish over her “crooked” heart.  However, I fully remember when I was four, and one Sunday morning, somehow, in an instant, becoming aware of the blackness of my sin, and feeling the weight and the depth of the guilt of it, and knowing that I needed salvation.  Though I was only four, the absolute tearful, distraught conviction I felt needed a true… release, a true healing, and I’m so glad that my Sunday School teacher, Mrs. Hammons, took me very seriously, and tenderly took me onto her knee and led me in prayer confessing my sin and asking for Jesus to come into my heart.

I just knew that Audrey didn’t need reassurance from me.  She needed Jesus.

It was beyond touching, how very sincere she was, and how she obviously felt the depth of her error, and how she acknowledged that it was beyond her, and how relieved she honestly was, that Jesus would come in and heal her.  She prayed a sweet, simple, heart-felt prayer, asking Jesus to forgive her for saying ugly things about her Mommy, for lying (she even threw in a bonus confession for another lie I didn’t know she had told), and asked Jesus to heal her crooked heart.

Then, as Audrey and I tearfully clung to each other, from the other side of the house, Fiala started throwing up.

I wrapped up things as quickly as I could with Audrey, ran past the boys at the kitchen table, wiping my eyes, and burst into the girls’ room, where, sure enough, there was my little two-year-old, in tears and muck, saying that she had “hiccuped yuck.”

I got her cleaned up, and Audrey sat with Fiala, singing sweet songs to her while I changed Fiala’s sheets and started the load of laundry…

Twenty minutes later or so, after I had tucked both girls in for the night, and re-prayed for both of them, I left the room with a sigh and a prayer of my own for their sleep to be peaceful in every way.

I stepped back into the living area of our home, and my 11 year old, Grant, piped up, “Can Wes and I take turns playing on the computer?”

Deep breath.

Not, “How’s Fiala?”  No, not a word of concern for either sister…  just looking for the computer time he always feels is “due” to him.

I had to work hard to keep my voice even-keeled, as I expressed to him that I understood that though he has a hard time with empathy for others,  he needs to understand that absolutely no empathy is really not acceptable, and that if he can’t bring himself to care about others who are spanked or crying or throwing up, the least he could do is just keep his mouth shut.

Perhaps I over-reacted.  I was just gob-smacked that, after coming up from the depths of emotion and deep spiritual issues and tears and throw-up, Grant’s first thought was, “I want computer time.”

~sigh~

Still, I think it was a good night.

Now, I’ll go eat my dinner and read a book.