Day Twelve: Roller Coaster Ride

This little guy doesn't look so much like this anymore.  I am sure I've mentioned this a time or two before, because I'm the teeniest bit obsessed about it lately, but, God willing, this May he will graduate high school.  For me, this is a big honking deal because I have homeschooled him since kindergarten--since birth, actually, if you want to count learning to talk, eat with utensils, and use a toilet.  (Fun Fact: Every mom is a homeschool mom.)

I homeschooled all three of my kids, but the girls got a few years in the local public school. The daunting tasks of teaching a child to read and cementing the basics of arithmetic were performed by the wonderful professional staff at Geneva Elementary School, God bless them.  With my girls, I just had to build on the excellent foundation they received during their first few years of formal education.

Not so my boy.  If you know me and know him, it's a little insane that I even attempted schooling him, but here we are! For better or worse, we are in the homestretch.  I should tell you, if my son were to give his version of our homeschool journey, he would say that I taught him until the fifth grade and then he pretty much taught himself.   MY version is that until the fifth grade I gave him the tools he needed to self-educate, and then from fifth grade on gave him ever-increasing opportunities to apply those skills.  Those opportunities included on-line courses, group classes through a wonderful umbrella school, and dual enrollment classes at the local community college.  (Just for the record.)

This spring will be my third and final graduation, and then this very significant task will be complete.  I know some women grieve this event, but I will be doing a hallelujah dance.  Don't get me wrong.  I loved homeschooling and the family bonds that have resulted for us.  Especially with my son.  Let's just say that this has been a beautiful but very hard thing for me.

Circle Christian School, the private umbrella school that we have used since he was a third-grader, puts on a beautiful graduation ceremony. In recognition of the vital role of parents, at the graduation ceremony it is the PARENTS who hand the scholar his or her diploma, not school officials.  Dad gives the diploma and mom moves the tassel on the graduation cap.  As each student walks up on stage to meet his parents, the audience has an opportunity to listen to a pre-recorded message from the parents to the graduate.  It's a great tradition.

As we recorded our message for our first graduate four years ago, I said to my husband, "When Reed graduates, I get the WHOLE forty seconds.  I've earned them."  Truth be told, though, I don't think even the whole forty seconds would suffice.  We may need an entire book.

Schooling this human mountain of exuberance, curiosity, and sensitivity has stretched me beyond imagining and revealed character flaws that I might have remained blissfully unaware of.  The two of us are a study in contrasts.  When we did the Cloud/Townsend assessment of personality, my score on the Introvert/Extrovert scale was on the very extreme of the Introvert end.  His score blew right on past the end of the Extrovert portion.  Seriously, they will have to invent a new test to measure his extroversion because this one just didn't go high enough.  I have a high need for quiet, he makes noise even when he is sleeping.  You get the picture.  Not exactly a match made in homeschooling heaven.

We definitely had our days.  One that stands out vividly was a battle we had over math and the fact that I INSISTED on making him re-do problems that he had miscalculated. Emotions ran high enough that I had to give MYSELF a time-out.  My friend Carla dropped by and found me sobbing on my bed promising, "I am so sending him to public school---and I don't care if they make fun of him and tell him he's stupid!"  (That little confession is for all of you out there who think I'm this sweet, saintly woman who reads aloud to children and is a constant ray of sunshine.)

To add to the excitement, when he was in fourth grade, I began teaching homeschool writing classes to help supplement the family income--leaving him with a list of tasks to accomplish in the dining room while I was in class in the living room.  This poor social being dreaded those hours and HATED those tasks.   Even though I am certain he felt that he worked diligently during those times, I was routinely left with evidence of what else had occupied his time.  Once after a long afternoon of solo work, I came to check his progress and found a disturbing amount still unfinished.  He groaned, "Can't I stop?  I've been doing school aaaalllll daaaaayyyy."  It was so pathetic I might have had pity on him, except that there was a pile of a thousand paper cranes on the table and an upside- down bike (wheels still spinning) in the front room.  On days like that I prayed his diversions were evidence that I was raising the next Thomas Edison.

Another day I finished class and went to check on him.  Nowhere to be found.  So I went outside and called for him.

"I'm up here," he answered from high in a tree by our front porch. "I needed fresh air and movement, so I'm doing my school outside."

 Ever the skeptic when it came to him and school, I asked, "Oh, really? What are you working on?"

Please take a moment to fully appreciate his response: "I'm doing my handwriting lesson."  (Because everyone knows that cursive is much easier to do if you are also trying to balance on the limb of a tree!)

And don't forget that proud mama moment when, on a field trip to the local radio station, my impulsive son  ANSWERED THE TELEPHONE HOTLINE when it rang.  They were not amused.

So, you can see, it's been a roller coaster educating this boy/man, but did we did it.  My boy learned how to learn.   I daresay he learned as much from what he explored while he was avoiding schoolwork as he did from the schoolwork.

And I learned a few things, too.

I learned that it's not good to shush an auditory thinker--because he has to HEAR himself say things in order to understand.

I learned that it's much easier to make up a math deficiency than a relationship deficiency.

I learned that some days it's okay to throw the academics out the window and just have a good belly laugh.  (Our go-to on days like that was a wonderful book titled, "Walter, the Farting Dog.")

I learned that even though silence is golden to me, the endless words of my son are far more valuable and will only be ringing through my home for a very short while.

Most of all, I learned to love the roller coaster.

Anything Update. What a Difference a Week Makes.

A week ago I sat teary-eyed on a couch explaining to my bible study group about my invitation to travel to Myanmar (formerly Burma) with two staff members of She is Safe. My tears were the result of an inner turmoil that had been churning for days.

I really want to go, but really couldn't see why I should.  As I hashed out my struggle to decide, one friend finally asked, "So, should we pray that you WILL go, or that you WON'T?"

My response was, "Yes."

The fear factor really wasn't an issue after the initial shock of the invitation.  As I told my friend Katy, I'm pretty much always afraid, so I've learned to mostly charge on in spite of it because I don't want to miss my life.

My reluctance really had more to do with the fact that it is a large chunk of money, and whether it's out of my bank account or the from the generosity of others, it could just go straight to the work of She is Safe and not spent on sending me halfway around the globe.  I wasn't sure (and I'm still not sure) what I have to offer that would justify the expense. In fact, when I first spoke with the adorable woman who will be leading the trip, she encouraged me just to be open to using "whatever special skills I might have" while we are in Myanmar.  I could not think of a single special skill that might be useful.  I'm really nice--which I guess is a skill--?--and I'm great at reading stories aloud to children.  Aaaannnnd that's pretty much it.

As I sit and type this now, one short week later, I'm in a completely different place, feeling that as long as God keeps giving His yes in response to my yes, I'm going to Myanmar. And I'm fairly certain that it is what I'm supposed to do.

So what changed? First, I finished the book Helping Without Hurting, which is required reading for the trip.  (Everyone should read this book, by the way.)   In the book, the authors emphasize that short-term mission trips, to be most effective, need to be in support of long-term, preferably grass-roots efforts run by nationals in the host country.  The author told of the vital importance of visitors engaging and encouraging the field workers they meet, even claiming that such interactions provide far more value to the trip than any physical or material help.  We westerners (like me) want to hit the road and serve, which too often means doing things that local people could do themselves.  We tend to think of going so far just to fellowship as unproductive.   

So false. 

Think about this: in most of the Majority World, Christians are in the minority.  In Myanmar less than five percent of the population is Christian. To be able to meet with believers from across the globe and know that they are not alone, but supported in prayer by brothers and sisters whom they have now met face-to-face and shared meals with---think what an encouragement that is.  Maybe there IS a need for my "talent" for being nice!

The book was instrumental in changing my perspective, but so were people.  My friend Katy and new friend Kristin, who will be my travel partners, have been a huge encouragement just by sharing their experience, wisdom, and confidence.  Even though we can all agree that we have very little idea how I will be of service on this trip, they are certain that I will be a valuable member of the team--and God will show us how.

It has also been an amazing week to sit and see God work.  Before I even got support letters printed and mailed out, I had received over half of the money for the trip in donations from friends excited to be a part.  Given that encouraging sum, the trip leader called me yesterday saying that she felt comfortable going ahead and purchasing my ticket even though I was still a few hundred dollars shy of the full cost.  On faith we went ahead with buying tickets. Within minutes of getting the confirmation e-mail about the ticket, I got a notification that I had received a donation that would more than cover the needed cost of the ticket.

That's enough confirmation for me to keep moving forward!  If God can make all this happen (because it surely wasn't me), then I guess He'll find a way to use me, too.

Day Ten: Where'd the Money Go?

My father, because he had four children who just insisted on being fed, clothed and educated, began saving for his retirement when he was 50.  I remember this because I have a vivid memory of riding in a truck with him just after his 50th birthday and he told me, "If you start now saving $25 a month into a mutual fund, you will have more money at age 65 than I will have if I save $500 a month starting now."  (Excellent advice, by the way.)

I am now the age my father was when we had that talk.

I should have a rocking' retirement account going now, shouldn't I?  Not so much.  And because I have passed the half-century mark, I've been thinking seriously about retirement money lately.

I took his advice--at age 20 I opened a retirement account and diligently socked away $30 every month.  Then at age 25 I used the money--minus a penalty--to go to graduate school.  (It was okay, I was still young, right?)

The thing is, between the two of us, my husband and I (mostly my husband) have made a decent amount of money together during our working years.   Not riches, but we've worked hard and been paid for it reasonably well.

Lately as we look at the balances in our respective retirement accounts--and how much is NOT in them-- we scratch our heads and think, "Where did all that money go?"  Surely we should have more to show after all this work!

We joke that we are on the Rapture Retirement Plan.  Jesus needs to come back before we're too old to work.

This search for the missing money has gotten me thinking about the fact that where it went says a lot about what we treasure--so I've been looking back to see what the money trail says about what I value.

I can tell you where it didn't go.  Not to fancy cars.  Not into a fancy house.  Not into decor.  (I think after 22 years of marriage we only have three pieces of furniture that we purchased ourselves. The rest is other people's lovely cast offs.)  I don't have a problem with people spending on things like that, but if you come to my house, it will be clear that my treasure is not in home decor.

Some of the places I see the money spent make me happy--like to support two handsome scholars in Haiti and a sweet girl in the Philippines who sends me the loveliest pictures.  Some of it has helped support missionary pilots for the long term, and some has helped young people take shorter mission trips.  A fair amount of it goes to support the work of organizations who work effectively to help alleviate poverty in transformative ways or help fight human trafficking here and abroad.  I'm also a big believer in participating in the ministry of my church with both my time and my money.  I'm good with this money not being in my retirement account.

I'm also fine that we spent some money on family trips and college educations even if it means we have less in our golden years.

However. 

There is a dark side that my spending patterns are revealing about my treasures.

My bank lets me get reports in the form of pie-charts about categories of spending, and it's quite an eye opener (okay, not really).

I treasure food.  Not eating out, just eating.  When I saw the piece of pie that represented spending on groceries, I asked the hubs if maybe we could get by on just two meals per day...

I treasure books.  It's embarrassing, really, how much I spend on books when there's a library just seven miles away.   (But then the expense would be library late fees....)  Amazon prime with it's free shipping and the instant gratification of Kindle books has definitely put a hurting on my ability to retire young.

But the biggie, the deep dark underside of me is this: I have wee bit of a problem with shoes.    Not any shoes--I don't even own a pair of pumps. No, the problem is running shoes.  It may be a mental-health issue, but for several years now I have been on a rather quixotic quest to find the perfect running shoe that will protect my knees, cushion my aging hips, and at the same time make me ridiculously fast.  I fear my desperation has made me an easy target for any reasonably talented copy-writer working for a shoe company. (In my defense, I only buy shoes that are on sale.)
Don't believe me?  I submit to you my attempt at running-shoe perfection from just this past year--and it doesn't include a pair that I gave away to a college student.

(I know, right?  The purple ones are my current favs.  I've come this close to buying additional pairs--on sale, of course--in case they decide to discontinue them.)

Seriously, if I am ever going to retire, you need to pray that I will let go of this ridiculous dream and accept the fact that they will not create a shoe that can make me fast.

In the meantime, if you happen to wear a size 7.5 I'm having a sale on slightly-used, almost-perfect running shoes to help fund my IRA.

Day Eight: Better Words than Mine

Today instead of offering my own words, I want to make the gift of these words that touched me this morning.  They are the words of the Apostle Paul, written to believers in Colossus.  Think how beautiful our world would be if we all just lived this advice:

"Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience. Bear with each other and forgive one another if any of you has a grievance against someone. Forgive as the Lord forgave you. And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity. Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace. And be thankful."

Shall we take this challenge, my friends?  I'm in.

Day Seven:Do-Over Lessons

Since I was a "late bloomer," getting married at the ripe old age of twenty-eight, and since there was some concern that I might have a difficult time becoming pregnant, our idea of family planning was "we'll take what we can get when we can get it."  Okay, that was Mike's policy.  Since said babies would be issuing forth out of my body, I added a little fine print to the policy: "until I am 35." 

Turns out, I didn't have a difficult time--as in three babies in four years--which was good, given our late start and all.  Still, by my calculations, I changed diapers for seven consecutive years.   In fact, because of their spacing, every phase happened all in one long stretch.  The toddler years,  preschool years, peewee soccer and basketball years, elementary years, middle school years...high school years....ulp.   With two in college already, I am now in my final year of the high school years.

Well, THAT went fast.

I joke often nowadays that once the baby (the six-foot something baby) graduates, we should get a set of "do-over" kids now that we know what we're doing.  (As if we do...)  Actually, unless the "do-over" kids come with a "do-over" energetic body, I think I'll let that dream go.

Still, I'll pass along some of the things I've learned through the phases.  (NOTE: I'm not claiming to be a perfect parent--so not.  Remember, some wisdom comes from failure.)

1. Let them eat dirt.  I know there are awful stories of kids getting sick from eating raw cookie dough, improper hand washing and what not, but generally speaking, they have a tendency to live. I am convinced that my kids are so healthy now because when they were young they ate dirt (or worse, in the case of my taste-testing last born), chewed on the occasional bug, walked around barefoot, and entertained themselves swimming in ponds, digging craters in the back yard, and making potions out of mud. Most of this was without my permission, mind you, but they are living proof that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

2. Consistency in discipline is far more important than what method you choose.  Naturally I am talking about appropriate and loving discipline.  This tip I learned from a wonderful pediatrician in Bellingham, Washington who had a rather large brood of kids with a wide range of personalities.  He told me that more important than whether I opted for time-outs or spankings, what my kids needed most were clear expectations for behavior and consistently applied consequences for misbehavior.  Children need to know the deal and know that you can be trusted to keep your end of the deal--even when it's unpleasant.

3. The goal of child-rearing is not to control their behavior, but to help them develop self-control.  Perfect behavior may feel more peaceful in the short-term, but if their behavior can only be regulated by external forces, we're not really raising adults.  Every human being has free will. Our job is to teach our children that choices have consequences, but the choices are theirs to make.  Help them own their choices by letting them make choices--even the wrong ones.

4.  Child labor is good for the child.  Give them chores.  Age-appropriate chores build self-confidence and autonomy.  At the same time, taking part in the chores of the home gives kids a chance to be part of a bigger team.  Along the same lines, (and this one was a tough one for me) don't do for a child (or teenager) what he can do for himself--even if you can do it better and faster.

5. Let them get bored!  Do I really need to explain this?  My sweet momma actually strategically applied #4 and #5 together: If we told her we were bored, she had a long list of chores for us to relieve our boredom!  Some of my kids' sweetest memories and most creative moments came from the need to find a way to cure boredom. (So did some of our biggest messes, so be warned...)

6. Praise character over performance, or intelligence, or beauty.  Hard work and perseverance are praiseworthy, regardless of results.  Kind actions are praise worthy.  Honesty is praiseworthy.  In contrast, intelligence and beauty are simply a matter of genetics and God's design--they are no more praiseworthy than freckles, height or hair color.   Although this applies to both genders it is CRITICAL for girls.  They need to internalize at a young age that their value lies much deeper than the outer shell.

7. Let them take risks and give them permission to fail.  You can't have great success without risk, and risk brings with it the possibility of failure.  Encourage them to count the cost, take risks, and recover from failure.  Share stories of your own failures and what they taught you.

8.  Model humility by admitting when you are wrong.  Ask for forgiveness. Kids don't need perfect parents (which is good, because there aren't any); they need authentic and humble parents.

9. Let them see you and HELP you serve others.  It's great for kids to experience their parents serving them, but they also need to see their parents serve someone besides them.  The most unhappy people I've met in my life are people who live only for their own happiness.  Help your kids experience the satisfaction of looking beyond themselves and working for the happiness of another.

10.  Always remember that your life speaks much more loudly than your words.  Live the truth you want them to understand.  If you want them to value honesty, be honest. If you want them to be kind, be kind yourself. If you want them to love Jesus, delight in Him. 

Day Six: That's How We Roll

This will be a short write.

Today was filled with teaching, meetings, processing thoughts.  Tonight will be fellowship.

In the midst of it, I got a message from my husband telling me the excitement of the day in the remote location where he is working.

I'm just wondering how many other women out there have to send messages like this to their men:

"Please don't try to make friends with a bear."

Welcome to my world.

Day Five: This One's for You, Doc.

This post is in honor of "Doc"Alvin Warnick (sp?), whom I had the pleasure of meeting at the Cattle Reproduction Clinic the girls and I attended in early August.  At 94-years-old, he still suited and gloved up every morning and tutored us in the finer points of pregnancy palpation in cattle.  On real cows, mind you. During one conversation he told me, "I have an idea that I'd like to write a book.  You may have noticed I'm very interested in people.  Well, I would love to write a book about married couples that tells all the different stories about how people meet one another."  This one is for you, Doc!

Ask anyone who knows him, and they will tell you that I married one of the best men on the planet.   Frankly, I'm not really sure how we ever found each other, because you could not meet a more unlikely couple.  We are living proof of the maxim that opposites attract.

When we met--goodness--I was a Birkenstock-clad, free-spirit graduate student, and he was a redneck Marine.  He liked fishing, chewing Redman, and going mudding (or muddin' as they say in Florida). I liked reading books, watching foreign films, and napping.

One thing we both liked, fortunately, was dancing--two-step to be precise.

So, one night he and his friends came to the place where I was taking two-stepping lessons with my friend. It was sort of a yuppie-ish, urban-cowboy kind of place that they typically avoided (because they were the real thing).  For some reason they gave it a try that night.

I love the way Mike first told me of that encounter.  He said, "I saw you standing there with your friends, and your jeans were all torn and frayed at the bottom, and the soles were coming off your boots, and you were just laughing and having a good time, and  I said to myself, 'Now, there's a girl without a lot of money.'"

That's right.  He picked me because I looked happy and poor.  (I was, actually.)

I didn't notice him or his friends that night, but they came back a week later, and we danced.  Good old-fashioned country dancing.  Two-step, swing, and waltz. George Straight and Alan Jackson.  The real deal.

 I loved that he wore snap-button shirts, had an accent, and was so polite. (Not to mention the rather impressive biceps I could feel when I placed my hand on his arm to waltz.)  When I told him I was in graduate school and he asked me what I wanted to do with my degree, I responded, "What do I want to do?  I want to knit and bake cookies.  Unfortunately that doesn't pay."  Apparently that sealed the deal as far as he was concerned.

Our first date was to the National Zoo in Washington, D.C..

The night I first met him, we was wearing a striking black cowboy hat and looked like a cross between George Straight and Patrick Swayze.  When he came to pick me up for the date, he was wearing the lovely hat in the picture above.

It was a test.

I think he was trying to make sure I wasn't some prissy woman who would fuss at him about his clothes.  (I guess my crumbling boots weren't evidence enough.)  Anyway, I passed the test.  Nary a word about the dog hat.  (True confessions: I was actually thinking that as long as he was wearing that awful hat, I could pretty much have him--and his great arm muscles--to myself.)

After we were married and the hat mysteriously went missing, my single friends would often ask me how I managed to find such a great guy.

My response was and always will be, "You have to be willing to look past the hat."

I'm so glad I did!