Author Archives: PearlS

vinegar on soda: moving, pests, and staying humble.

There are people who can do all fine and heroic things but one: keep from telling their happiness to the unhappy.
Mark Twain

Like taking away a garment in winter, or like vinegar on soda is someone who sings songs to a heavy heart.
Proverbs 25:20

We moved, which is why I’ve been so absent from writing here. I would tell you how wonderful it has been, except for the above sayings (one a true proverb, the other a loose Twainian translation). After being sealed in Denver for over a year–apparently the safest and best-educated, but also loneliest and most isolating, surrounded by unhappy, judgmental, politically-driven elitists–we have busted out and into our country life.

Back to Missouri. We’ve brought our four native Colorado kids back to the homeland, where salt cured ham is for breakfast and Show-Me is a way of life.

I’m afraid there is still, in mid-July, plenty of flesh on my body for the chiggers and ticks and mosquitos to consume.
There’s still bountiful opportunity to holler at kids to “shut the door, you’re letting flies in!” as an hourly call to action.
The bugs and critters we avoided by living in high desert mountains with drought and wildfire conditions are paying us back heartily for moving back into their territory.

I’ve often wondered why invasive, dreadful things like poison ivy haven’t taken over the whole world by now. I think they would, except God Himself holds them back. Just like He told the seas, “you can come here and no farther” (Job 38:11), perhaps He told poison ivy it could spread as far as Wichita and that’s it. One might come to the conclusion, then, that it is Colorado who is blessed with majestic views and a temperate, lovely, pest-less, poison ivy-less climate.

But there was never a summer free of the fear of mountain lions and bears or a roaring wildfire followed by spring mudslides. And I reckon some blessings, like rain, are being stripped from that land. We popped many a bicycle tire on goat heads there, and my withering, sandy garden was regularly demolished by hungry mule deer. 

So maybe here in Missouri the nasty buggars that crawl up my neck and legs when I pick blackberries are doing exactly what the Lord designed them to do. It’s up to me to apply the DEET or stay out of the woods in summer.

I suspect God hid his best blessing in the hardship of casting Adam and Eve out of the garden and sentenced them to a life of toil by working the land to yield its fruit. The gratification in studying, experimenting, planting, protecting, and producing is astounding. It’s a human marvel that wards off diseases of the body and mind. It tires out the flesh so there is less room for dispute and ill-will. Those folks a hundred years ago and before fell into bed too exhausted to Netflix and chill, too worn out to post a rant on Facebook. Their greatest temptation was rest, and if they rested too much, they starved.

Yes, “only God makes things grow” (1 Cor. 3:6) but having a part in the sowing and watering–for it to be your life sentence, your daily bread–it isn’t such a bad partnership. We water, He gives the increase, and we still get to eat the watermelon.

Maybe the pesky parts just keep us humble, keep us working hard. Keep us buying bug spray and calamine. And maybe it makes the vinegar on soda not quite as fizzy, if I’m inclined to talk about how happy it makes me.
I’ll just be too busy itching to bubble over.

 

Check out On Honey Creek if you’d like to read about our move.

 

Homeschool: Looking Back

I’ve been incredibly torn over the last year when I think about my kids. My mom, who is the smartest person I know, tells me that every single kid is an experiment of its own. No amount of experience makes a person more prepared to raise them.

I was cracking an egg into the skillet this morning for my little boy’s breakfast, and he told me the skillet was too hot.
“I don’t need advice from a six year old,” I informed him as the grease sizzled and popped and I cranked down the heat.
“Seven,” he corrected. 

Blast.

I think we’re always looking for a foolproof way to raise them, but the problem is we parents are a bunch of fools. For some reason, God intended it to be this way. It befuddles me. I resent being a fool.

We were all sent home from school in March with the hope we’d have a nice ten-day Spring break. When we didn’t return and things got wacky and weird, I decided the worst thing possible would be for my kids to do online work with a school-appointed device. That ball and chain called an iPad grated on me, and we had more problems than a penguin in Florida. Every time there was a glitch, every time we couldn’t access the teacher’s video class, each online research assignment waylaid by furtive visits to poki-dot-com, all the endless zoom meetings where I hissed at kids to be quiet and stop flopping about on the floor…The combination I most despised (scheduled, mandatory screen time+hyperenergetic boys) was my nightmare coming to life. I resented every bit of it.

Homeschool mocked me–see, Pearl? I told you the grass was greener over here. You could be hiking and discussing Thoreau. You could be teaching them gouache and practicing Bach’s cello suites. Remember how much the boys love science experiments?
The weather just so happened to be gorgeous during the first eight months of the pandemic. Since school in person wasn’t going to happen, I might as well…homeschool?

Fools will be fools. I didn’t feel like I had any other options. But there were many highlights, and we ended up traveling more last year than I have in the last decade. We camped in the desert, we kayaked Lake Powell. We played with friends in the mountains and made a handful of cross-country road trips. We flew to the beach and brushed up our Spanish. In the cracks of our adventures we did Greg Tang math worksheets and picked up new instruments. We discovered Mark Rober on youtube. We read a thousand books. We wrote silly stories. We perfected our dog treat recipe.

All maskless. All fearless.

I would recommend this lifestyle change, except it has come at a great cost. Many of my friends were able to return to in-school learning before Christmas. I couldn’t believe their luck. In fact, just tonight I got an email from our district informing us parents that kids under 11 will be welcomed back to school as if all is normal, but ages 12 and up are required to prove they are vaccinated or must wear a mask. This seems like a recipe for a brutal seventh grade year. Let’s talk about peer pressure, hm?

Yes, our inclusive school thinks it is doing humanity a favor by weeding out the idiots, or at least humiliating them in the public square.

But this isn’t every school–it’s just where the piranhas feed. The woke (how I’m beginning to hate the word) who have awakened to give hell to everyone who disagrees with them–they tell us how our money ought to be spent. It usually funnels to less and less academia and more and more pockets, followed by self-actualization.
I don’t miss my second grader coming home from music class and asking me if I could explain the Taylor Swift song, You Need to Calm Down because his teacher called it her “anthem” and blasted it on repeat.
I don’t miss my fourth grader’s assigned reading, CNN, or writing a persuasive essay on climate change and green energy–no choice in the matter. I don’t miss the election year class banter that usually turned into a teacher’s right-of-way to propagate new voters. I don’t miss emailing the teacher and explaining why I disagree with a bring-your-device-to-school party (I’d gladly donate pizza, if we need to celebrate).
Obviously, I don’t miss screen-time busywork.

But I could see past all of it to a point, because it made it necessary for me to put my big girl pants on and speak up. It forced me to be an example for my kids; it smacked reality right in my face and made me answer the questions, how are you going to handle this? How are your kids going to watch you react?

And that is exactly what I’m after. I want real life engagement with my people. I want them to look around, then look at me for confirmation or disapproval. They are training for what will someday be an all-out moral war.

It’s unfortunate, but it’s also beneficial, as are the numerous beautiful encounters we have on a daily basis in public school. I mention them here on the blog often, but there is nothing, nothing! Like having an awesome teacher in your life. It’s a kind affirmation over your shoulder, it’s a red pen note at the bottom– “needs work, but getting there”. It’s relief to the parent who actually didn’t pay attention to trigonometry or physics the first time around. Or like me, the parent with terrible penmanship who cannot figure out how to teach penmanship to a first grader. It’s hope that there is room for improvement, and it is accountability to get there.
It’s a sealed envelope from the school nurse, the first to find your child is nearsighted. It’s notes from the kitchen manager, your kid is blowing all his cash on hot Takis for his friends. It’s the administration, giggling with excitement because you’ve brought in fresh donuts. It’s showing up for parent-teacher conferences and surprising staff with salads from Panera because they haven’t eaten in six hours.
This is what we’ve been missing while we picked flowers and painted pictures. We’ve been missing having real life relationships with people.

We are moving out of our school district. Once again, I feel like I’ve failed; this fool parent can’t get a hang of things. But everything truly is an experiment, and I am grateful each time for a new beginning.

I’m so glad we can always start over, and that we can switch gears when one situation is no longer working.

I’m so glad kids are resilient, and I pray they look back and see I was trying to do what I thought best, even if it wasn’t always on target.

I flicked my wrist and flipped the fried egg; no spatula. “Whoa, did you see that?!” I exclaimed to my boy. “That’s the first time I’ve ever done that! Did you see me? Wasn’t it awesome?”

“Kinda,” he said. “On a scale from 1 to ten, I’d give it a three. I mean, it’s not exactly a magic trick.”

I shoot him a cool look. He shrugs.
“You should be grateful I gave it a number higher than one.”

I’m still just his mom, and that’s fine by me.
Dang it, they’re going to really miss me next fall.

Memorial Day vs Pride Month

I’m going to be real honest: I can’t for the life of me understand how Memorial Day gets a blink of a weekend–a day, actually–of barbecues and appliance sales, yet Pride gets a whole month. They don’t mention veterans, but the email from our school district (school’s out for the summer, peeps) asks me to click on a link to explore Pride history with my kids. (I don’t, and I’m not sure how sexual content somehow gets a pass for kindergartners.) My phone and my computer both make sure I’m aware of Pride: I get an unsolicited rainbow flag screen saver and a daily calendar reminder. Around Memorial Day, I used to get paper poppies outside of the grocery store; but not anymore. Those sweet VFW men and women are hardly safe in the King Sooper’s parking lot.

Memorial Day: We are talking about people who died for our right to pursue happiness, put our kids in school, defend our homes, remain silent in a sticky situation, have a fair trial, hire a lawyer. We can drive to McDonalds and order a burger and a shake any time of day or night. We can sue said McDonald’s for making coffee too hot. We’re allowed to camp and play in a nation that claims 200,000,000 acres of national forests (we citizens own it). We can dream up a job, apply to any college, worship in any temple, mosque, church, or Applebees. We can spend all night playing Pokemon, we can refuse to floss our teeth. We are free to start up hippie communes or become professional cage fighters. We can give all our money to the Sierra Club or spend it all on cigarettes. We can have twenty kids and forty cats and star on a show on TLC. Just about nothing is off limits: We can adopt shelter pets and slap the perfect bumper sticker on our car. We can apply for unemployment. We can get abortions. Yes, we can even decide we don’t like how God made us and make up new realities where we aren’t hes or shes, but theys. Men can dress like women and women can misrepresent men. 

This is all because of what Memorial Day represents, for better or worse. So I’m unclear on Pride Month. What is everyone so proud of? You being you and me being me? Living exactly how we want? Excuse me for saying it, but that is straight up America. Lean into your roots.

Pride actually collapses on itself in the face of scrutiny. It is pure humanism–man becomes its own savior, its own god–and then destroys itself with its ever-shifting reasoning (ahem, wokeness). Exactly how much do we all need to know about each other before we are more accepting, or more acceptable? I’m being sarcastic, of course, because looking at the news today, I’m pretty sure the more we know, the more we hate. The more we dig into history, the more reproach we bear. The more I find out about you, and vice-versa, the more us-versus-them it becomes.

But I keep seeing more and more layers being added, more confessional-style posts, more politically-bent discussions, more say-this-and-say-it-right-the-first-time. The initial mild disagreement morphs into a heated, blood-boiling hate for everyone who opposes your self-appointed worldview.
The humanistic mentality–“Pride”–tricks you into thinking you are the judge and jury, a demi-god of goodness and acceptance. Meanwhile, you’re actually burning the whole world to the ground.
Trust me, you bastions of progressive freedom: your children will despise you someday for your moral ambiguity. May we never get the hang of using pronouns, lest we destroy the precious soul who demands we use them. 

I’ve had a coming out of my own.
It took me a solid three and a half decades before I came out in public as an unconventional Jesus-follower. Most of it was a fear of unacceptance, but also I was scared pretty early on by the door knocking scene of the 1990s and the scream it from the rooftops evangelicals. The pressure put on an eleven year old at church camp to lead someone else to Christ via dogeared Bible pages (verses highlighted) or a nifty folding cube with pictures of a chasm and a cross–well, it’s safe to say that felt like a warm hell of its own to my timid, pre-pubescent self. I might as well get used to the flames if that was what it took to follow Jesus. I didn’t even know what I’d say to God if I died that very night in a car crash, which was the most probable end-of-life scenario according to the pastor who urged us to close our eyes and raise our hands if we needed prayer on the matter.
Many years of trying to figure out the good girl Christianity only ever led me to one conclusion: God saves sinners, of which I am foremost.

But now I am–as they say–out and proud. You’ll probably never catch me door knocking and passing out tracts, but my life has been hidden in Christ with God–which is why you will see Jesus in me. You’ll hear me talk about Him, unashamed. You’ll see me following His rules, because I am taking heed when he says, “what a man sows so also he shall reap”. Day by day I trust Him–in my health, my marriage, my family, my parenting, my work, my relationships, my dreams.
You who are experts at slapping on labels–I will take your Pride pass, and I’ll celebrate my own becoming.
I wish it were half as accepted as identifying as a queer person. It won’t be, but that’s ok. I don’t get just a day or month–I get every day, every month, every year of my life to identify as a believer by turning things over to Jesus. 

I don’t need a flag or a screen saver. I don’t need hugs from a random mom at a parade.
I don’t need the approval or acceptance of the multitudes. But I do rely on freedom of speech to write this on the internet, and so I am grateful for the folks who have risked their lives to keep my beloved country free.
I have decided to leave the excessive and flamboyant up to God. What if I give all I have to gain what He gives? How could I not be satisfied with His over the top attention? It is enough to write novels about, enough to light up the sky.

A friend let us clip some peonies from his yard to add to our flower vase. I sat at the kitchen table, and stared as the bud for two days as it opened into flower. It really is something, as if God made a fist like a magician and poked petals inside until he couldn’t hold anymore. Enough petals that when a peony blooms, God opens his fist and the flower bends over, its full weight laboring until a million soft, fragrant petals are born.

In my mason jar are stalks of lavender, their purple jewels majestically leaning over the peony. Starry columbines tilt their heads down to look on the showy scene. Bright bachelor’s buttons and massive fuschia poppies burst like fireworks around the full-tutu pink peony.
It’s kind of silly to say, but I want it for every single person–to see what rainbows are in a handful of flowers. The Creator of colors, textures, scents, feelings, and every human expression–He wants to know you–YOU. His power in changing you into a new person is profound and spectacular. We don’t have to dig up dirt or drag old sins into the spotlight. We don’t have to dress up and create a new version of ourselves, one that is more inclusive or culturally aware. We just have to ask Jesus to take over.
Looking at a fistful of blossoms, I can attest there is a God that puts on a parade every day in my front yard. He’s a Divine show-off. 

Maybe I’m biased, but I think it is kind of American, too.

Spring: Exhibit A on Hope

There was only–spring itself; the throb of it, the light restlessness, the vital essence of it everywhere: in the sky, in the swift clouds, in the pale sunshine, and in the warm, high wind–rising suddenly, sinking suddenly, impulsive and playful like a big puppy that pawed you and then lay down to be be petted.
Willa Cather, My Antonia

I do believe everyone should write at least one essay a year on the seasons. Seasons, the marked time changes occurring regularly throughout the year, as the earth spins about the sun in one orderly orbit.
Write on a season, if not all of them. Seasons are magnificent, and if a man can write a beloved book about them called Charlotte’s Web–from the viewpoint of a happy, dumb pig–so you, too, ought to be able to marvel for joy’s sake at the miracle of life.

Nothing gives me more hope than spring in Colorado. To be fair, the winters aren’t terrible, just long in a miserable sort of unending way. On the mountain, we would have snow sometimes from September to the end of May. Nine whole months. It would sit on my roof and surround our home. From above it looked no different than an igloo, the brown siding hardly peeking out beneath the weight of it. From the inside looking out I could only see a wall of ice to the east, a chilly, bare mountain peak to the west, and my neighbor to the north–a determined, hardened mountain woman, who constantly stomped up and down her outdoor stairs with a shovel, clearing the path from her house to her car. 
There were three hours in the day where the sun would hit our homes on the north-facing slope. It’s no wonder we suffered from a lack of vitamin D, no wonder we felt the need to linger in town on grocery-run days. Each week I made my faithful trek to the rec center swimming pool with kids in tow. We would wade into the deliciously warm water, risking the scolding of whatever teenage lifeguard thought it necessary to remind us that the water wasn’t open to children before 10am (we generally arrived ten minutes early).
It was no wonder I felt overwhelmed and trapped when I had to return with my car full of kids on those days. No wonder despair hit me as I pulled off the main road and into our shadowy, Narnia-esque subdivision. The bears had their lucky advantage of hibernating; all I had was little pots of starter seeds by the window (my tiny green exhibit A on hope) and my own not-exactly-iron will to wait patiently. Ice would thaw and freeze, thaw and freeze on my deck like some science experiment, a life-sized diorama showing how nature destroys and reforms the earth’s crust–only it was my back deck that resisted and then bowed beneath the slow, ever-moving, mantle-shifting glaciers.

Now I am in town with blessed pavement for a driveway, where the snow shovel hits concrete when I scrape. There is no north side of mountain, blocking the sunshine and trapping snow and ice and holding it hostage for months on end. We haven’t had a snow blower in three years, and I am giddy when it comes to shoveling the driveway because my car is safe in the garage, not buried like some hotwheels car in a sandbox. There’s no more attempted rescue missions to get the Honda Pilot out of its snow tomb before the school bus arrives at 7am, all while babies scream for breakfast and kindergartners search for missing shoes. 

All I have to do is pull on my boots, press the button to raise the garage door, and move snow off the driveway. I can get the job started knowing the sun will do his reliable thing like he always does. He will meet me halfway and melt the last glitters from the ground before the morning shadows have shrunk to noonday.
It’s a pesky matter, snow in May. But it isn’t a surprise. It’s just Spring.
Oh, snow. Again. On my baby tomato plants. Guess we’ll start over.
Compared to my upbringing in Missouri, there is hardly a mud season (though the boys and dog intend on finding the exact three days with maximum mud and spreading it generously on my white kitchen floors), which is something I need to remember to be thankful for.

In Missouri, winter bleeds into spring and spring bleeds into summer. There is no all-illuminating marquee announcing its arrival. Little by little, there is no more mud. There are daffodils and lilacs and a sweet thickness in the air; wet socks, shoes, and ankles on your morning jaunt through the yard to take the trash to the curb. Another day you must mow the grass or risk the lawn becoming an untamable beast. You wake up later than usual and discover, to your dismay, that the humidity outside is oppressive at 7am (you remind yourself you really must get up earlier). In the evenings, mosquitoes begin to hum their reliable song of D sharp. You find your first tick, feasting discreetly on some unfortunate piece of your skin.

This is spring in Missouri. Or is it summer?
See? One cannot tell. But it has happened, and it is a glorious miracle, even thought I hate ticks and mosquitoes with an all-consuming hate. Food for the Charlottes among us, I suppose.

The science of seasons is incredible to me. How God Himself wakes up baby seeds and old perennials and dormant trees in His dependable way, not a moment too soon or a moment too late. Even the spring snow which is heavy and bends branches inevitably has its purpose–moisture is added to the ground, limbs are pruned. The earth, which we know has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth as it waits for children of God to be revealed (Romans 8) is, in the midst of her turmoil, still measuring time in heartbeats, in fruit and in flowers; in the reliable gestation of all creation.

The sun comes up and goes down. It is Law. The moon sits, never moving, above the earth at such a perfect distance and angle to reflect the sun at night. In predictable phases it pulls the oceans to shore and mysteriously keeps its eye on the shadows till dawn.
The skies meet the ground, and yet they never mix, because God separated them in the beginning. The water leaves the earth and eventually returns to the earth, not because we beg the gods to make it so or because we are responsible stewards of the earth, but because one perfect God designed a perfect cycle to nurture His creation.

Even more incredible is the reason behind His perfect creation: it is the Author of life who writes the story, the Artist and Composer who paints a perfect picture in words and colors and songs we understand, because seasons changing are a miracle we rely on.
And this is the eternal metaphor, the picture the Creator painted before time just so we might recognize Him:
As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.
As the rain and snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish,

(He is explaining spring to me, even the Colorado and Missouri versions I know and love!)

So that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater,
(Now summer, and the fruit and harvest!)

So is my word that goes out from my mouth:
It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it.
Isaiah 55:8-11

He speaks to us through His creation. He tells us exactly His intentions and purpose. He is precise in His dealings with men, just as winter turns to spring turns to summer. Just as Colorado winters drag on, just as new blossoms drop their heavy scent, just as pollen blows off the trees with a strong wind to cover my bar-b-que grill in a yellow dust. Just as woodpeckers jackhammer their beaks and magpies scold the dog for eating its kibble, and weeds pop up and kids suck out their nectar. Just as we are drawn outdoors for warmth and sunshine–just as creation speaks to me, “Pearl, go sit outside and get some vitamin D and watch your kids laugh and giggle on the trampoline…” Even as natural as the weather beckoning me to enjoy it, God is speaking through His creation.

And though it is imperceptible like a Missouri change, mud to marvel, it is reliable. We know what we are looking forward to, because it has happened before and is happening even now. His word will accomplish what he desires. His purpose will be fulfilled. 

Send me whatever script or poem or painting you come up with about seasons, and I will marvel along with you. Copy the Creator, if indeed imitation is the most sincere form of flattery.
Sing the song that all creation sings.