Author Archives: PearlS

Fit more babies in the car.

At the moment, in this period of quarantining, there are three games I refuse to play with my children: Sorry!, Monopoly, and a game called Life.

For beginners, nothing is worse than having four tokens per player to laboriously move around the board (sorry!), except, maybe, if you get held up in Jail and roll no doubles three turns in a row. Nothing is worse–except not having a good excuse to not play these blasted games because, after all, we are staying home and avoiding people at all cost. 

And then there’s the game of Life–I’m sure you know it. While I fold clothes, I listen to my boys argue about what’s better: going to college or taking the straight-to-work path, retiring early or being a famous rock star. And, of course, if winning a forehead contest should really earn a person $40,000.

It’s so funny, and it reminds me of MASH, that old fortune telling pen and paper game girls played in junior high. We’d sweat out our nightmare scenarios and potential dream lives–Mansion? Apartment? Shack? House?–and fall over laughing at the absurdity of marrying a classmate someday.

The boys poked little pink and blue pegs into their tiny cars–each one ironically had a pair of twins. I heard Luke say to his brother, “You know, I think we should play with a different goal this time. Instead of early retirement, let’s play whoever has the most babies at the end wins.”

I smiled to myself, paused my folding, and went over to the desk to pick up my most recent mail. If I’m counting according to Luke, I’m winning, because I’ve got eight other babies around the world.

Eberson sent me a photo with his new baby ox. Paul is grinning ear to ear, holding a wily little goat by a rope. Lucina has lost her front teeth. Shedrack’s mama has bought a new piece of property and is ecstatic to begin a business. Fatima, at age three, has finally taken her first steps. I am as proud as can be, a mom who has sent out some tiny words and scraps of hope and been blessed a thousand times over. These kids of mine sprinkled around the world aren’t drawing any lucky cards; they are masters of hard work and sunshine. They are evidence of God’s love for me.

When I get mail from them, I hear the Lord whisper in my heart, Watch, Pearl, and if you keep your eyes on the prize, I’ll let you play a small part in what I’m doing.
Believers in humble circumstances should take pride in their high position. But the rich should take pride in their humiliation–since they will pass away like a wildflower. (James 1:9-10)

This is a teaching I can understand. I grow wildflowers–plant them right under the sprinklers in my front yard–I know. I cut down those barren stalks last weekend, I remind myself on purpose how swiftly one’s fortune can fade. If life were about me and what I can hold onto, He would’ve never made wildflowers to remind me how fragile it all is. They wilt in a cup of water. They drop their seeds all over the place; just a flash of glory, barely a memory.

We are at home, nine months into this coronavirus gig, nine months of bearing with one another, clueless to what the future holds. Sometimes I still can’t believe my luck, that the biggest aggravation today will be breaking up simple sibling spats, deciding what to make for supper, and trying to pretend I’m too busy to play board games. 

My husband’s job is fantastic. My family is healthy. 

I stay up late to remind myself this is passing away like a wildflower. I sort through my stacks of correspondence and wonder if we can hold up one more of our brothers and sisters in humble circumstances. They are so loved, so elevated, so very highly thought of by our Father. It’s those little blue and pink pegs, those precious children with forever souls, that God wants to see move forward and win in this game of Life. It is a far worthier goal than early retirement or rockstar status. 

So be it if we are the token cars to get them there.

So be it, if I am just a wilting wildflower. Let’s fit more babies in that car.

 

Perhaps you have been overlooking your own wildflower status, when we’ve been directed by our Savior to notice and uphold the cause of the poor. How has education, nutrition, and encouragement factored into your life? If it has been a sizable impact, would you consider passing this favor on?

Pause to consider the impact a child released from poverty can have on her community. Pause to consider the impact this same child can have on you.

In a recent email I learned that more than 250,000 children are waiting for a sponsor through Compassion International. 

World Vision says,

 “thanks to the Coronavirus Aid, Relief, and Economic Security (CARES) Act, the cap on cash contributions to charitable organizations like World Vision has been lifted from 60% to 100% of adjusted gross income if the gift is made in 2020”.

Please think about supporting a family today.

https://www.compassion.com/

https://www.worldvision.org/

 

He upholds the cause of the oppressed

    and gives food to the hungry.

The Lord sets prisoners free,

    the Lord gives sight to the blind,

the Lord lifts up those who are bowed down,

    the Lord loves the righteous. 

The Lord watches over the foreigner

    and sustains the fatherless and the widow,

    but he frustrates the ways of the wicked.

 

Psalm 146

We Homeschool (an update)

I hesitate to write this. Many people read what I write from the view of a happy public schooler. I really don’t want it to sound like I’ve lost my first love, so to speak. I also don’t want anyone to get the vibe I am anti-homeschool. But I promised an update on this situation, and I think there are plenty of us in the same weird boat, so here goes:

I used to notice how relentless homeschoolers were with mentioning that they homeschooled. Relentless, I say, because it was the unabating, reliable first words off their lips.

We homeschool, was the inevitable answer, when asked everything from what grade the kids were in to if they celebrated Halloween. I think it annoyed me from the get-go, because life can be both simple and complicated. It immediately shushed me as if I were an outsider, daring to insult or challenge a system I had no business anywhere near. It brought into clear view a once-invisible scaffolding: we are building a fortress, and you public schoolers will never understand.

What can I say? I’m too sensitive–though I still think it’s a pertinent observation for the homeschooling crowd. People are curious, and curiosity is not, of itself, a screaming insult tossed like a grenade in your direction.

Yes, but level are they at, grade-wise? Just an honest, friendly question.

And why, exactly, would you not take the opportunity to visit with your rarely-seen neighbor who happens to be passing out free candy only one night per year?

Now I am a homeschooler, and I sort of get it. I can’t claim the title–I’m far too disorganized and pell-mell for a legit schoolroom and steady curriculum. I am sure it’s to the chagrin of many a pro homeschooler we are invading this hallowed territory and stamping a big fat “better-than-nothing” label on it, but: we homeschool. I’ve found it’s a catch-all explanation, and it has a nice, wholesome edge to it. My kids are at home all the time. We do everything together, and the lines are a little blurry.  We have values. It’s none of your business.

Like it or not, it puts a firm and polite end to the conversation, one that many homeschoolers are unwilling to pursue. I can see why one doesn’t wish to hash out their convictions in line at Walmart. I like my freedom like anyone else. 

Besides, I’m not at peace admitting it, but there comes a self-assuredness with limiting outside influences and challenges. It’s a yellow danger sign to the uninitiated and curious–we homeschool. Leave us alone.

I’ve had an ongoing snail mail correspondence with a dear friend of mine where we’ve written out pages, longhand, weighing the pros and cons of every educational approach. We both are reluctant to throw shade on any particular perspective, mostly because we’ve met wonderful, life-giving, encouraging people in every corner. We see certain unique benefits to private, public, and homeschool sectors.

But we’ve recently admitted that the public school scene is encountering some major problems. Flaws that might not be resolved. That separation of church and state that seemed (once upon a time) so constitutional–well, the gap is closing with government-instituted mental health care and humanistic, progressive ideology. Government is re-introducing itself into education as hope and hero, and kicking out parents. Even a mild Halloween celebrator like myself draws the line somewhere.

And private school is so…expensive.

This year I happened upon a really awesome (almost too good to be true) online program that has finally centered homeschool well within my capabilities.
It’s put into my hands virtually every curriculum and software a school could offer, plus tech classes for my more advanced kids. I can do simple things like print off worksheets, or they can follow a step by step lesson on digital animation in Adobe. I’ve been given a stipend to buy things like books, DSLR cameras and tripods, 3D printers, sewing machines, ski lessons, drones, musical instruments, language tutoring.
All I had to do is mail in an intent to homeschool form, and enroll in this free, online option, and the funds were diverted from the state, some of it directly in my pocketbook.
The opportunity dropped out of the sky and into my lap in August–no doubt a heavenly nudge, perfectly timed.

Now, three months in, and as schools around me are sending kids back home to remote learning, It’s enough for me to really, truly wonder why I wouldn’t homeschool. This program is fantastic for us, flexible and forgiving.
But those funds came from the state, and I can’t help but think for every cool thing we are doing at home, we are ripping a bit off the public system. And, quite possibly, ripping my kids off when it comes to life experience.

I’ll tell you how easy it is to ignore the world outside my home when I’m focused on helping my own kids get their schoolwork done. What a relief it is to not be tied to the zoom teacher schedules all day long. To not have to monitor the screen time or trust they are marching right along with state standards.

To have an eye on everything and think, foolishly, it’s all under control.

I want to be clear: we are in weird, crazy times. I will finish out this school year with side eyes, wondering if we actually made headway or if we just were treading water. We wanted to escape the heavy political climate due to Covid, and we’re doing it. But I’m hoping and praying I don’t finish this year thinking I’ve got it all figured out.

I hope I never give up knocking on our neighbor’s doors for Halloween in favor of celebrating Reformation Day (no offense to those who do, I just never knew what it was till recently, and ironically many non-Halloween-celebrating folk of the homeschooling variety have found a handy substitute holiday. God bless Luther). I pray to God He reunites us with teachers and coaches who will love my kids and, for Pete’s sake, teach them some upper level math.

I’m realizing the more I think I have it together, the less I usually do. The more confidence I put in my arrangement, the less I actually depend on Jesus. The more I talk myself into an ignorance-is-bliss mentality, the more of a light under a bushel I become.

I’m forever reminding myself to distrust safety and false assurances which promise I have any control over the situation. Everyday is reality, undulation, wonderful highs and desperate lows. It is fine to test my intentions with a gut check–necessary, even. When all this cautious, careful, home-staying business is over, will I still understand our safety and security was never dependent on my ability to maintain it?

Covid. Schooling. Politics. Our lives have been rolling along on these three wheels, anticipating the next bump. Day by day, the only thing I can trust is Jesus. 

For me, I’m finally able to put it into words. Sure, I homeschool. It’s the quickie version and cheap explanation for how we are moving through these times, biding our days until parents are allowed back in school and voices are heard. But “we homeschool” still certainly doesn’t answer all my questions (nor anyone else’s) when it comes to much else. It doesn’t address more than our current situation. To the rest of the world, we homeschool is not code for Jesus is my Lord. You’ve actually got to say those words if your intention is to confess Him before men.
And that is a legitimate challenge for every believer, no matter where you fall on the educating-your-kids spectrum. It will set you apart like nothing else, and it lands a bit more resounding than any conversation-ending “we homeschool” comment.

Anyhow, saints, I know you are trusting Him, too.

Whether you homeschool, private, or public school–you’ve really only got one Hope. This year has not been any bigger disaster or triumph than a previous year. It’s all going perfectly according to His plans, even if maddeningly so for us humans who cannot quite grasp it.

So hang in there–till things change, and even if they don’t. Rip the bushel off and burn bright on your hill, wherever that is.

To you hard working moms and dads juggling school however and wherever that may be:
What has changed for you in the last eight months?
Does anything still need to change?
How can you balance humility and shine brightly in your circumstance?
Do you need to let go of some control issues you have and allow Jesus to take the reins?

Eat a sandwich.

Four years ago, and not a minute after it was announced Trump won the 2016 election, a friend of mine sprinted out the side door at work and racked up a quick ten miles over the span of his one-hour lunch break. It wasn’t a celebration lap–more of a get-the-rage-out-before-I-punch-something reaction.

Once there was a king who prayed and refused to eat because his baby son was very sick. He thought God might see, hear, have mercy. He desperately hoped the Lord would heal the boy. For seven days he didn’t talk to anyone.
When the baby died, the king’s servants were too scared to tell him he was gone. “What if he kills himself?” they asked.

But when King David heard his baby son was dead, he immediately got up, washed his face, put some fresh clothes on, and ate a sandwich (or something like that). 

“While the baby was alive, I cried and refused to eat because I thought, ‘Who knows? Maybe the Lord will feel sorry for me and let the baby live.’ But now he is dead, so why should I refuse to eat?” he told his people. “What good is it? Can I bring the baby back to life?”

I do not write this to make light of a child dying–David still grieved, after all. I’m sure he made that sandwich soggy with his tears. But isn’t it possible that losing an election is probably less of a cause for pouting than the loss of a child? Far less.

Here are a few other token verses, if you are feeling less than peaceful:

Don’t put your confidence in powerful people; there is no hope for you there. Psalm 146:3 NLT

Stop trusting in mere humans, who have but a breath in their nostrils. Why hold them in esteem?
Isaiah 2:22 NIV

The Lord says: “Cursed is the one who trusts in man, who draws strength from mere flesh and whose heart turns away from the Lord. That person will be like a bush in the wastelands; they will not see prosperity when it comes. They will dwell in the parched places of the desert, in a salt land where no one lives.”
Jeremiah 17:5-6 NIV

There are far more, my friend. Go crack open that sturdy book this weekend and drink up the wisdom that flows from it. Go calibrate your soul–abide in the Word and let it conform you again to love what God loves.

Sometimes we forget and think impassioned political activism or interest counts for something. 

That pride for country can be chalked up to good Christian living. 

That the tears in my eyes during the national anthem drip down and enrich the soil of my fair home.

I’ve believed all of these things before. I probably still put off that aroma, actually. I teach my kids to be fascinated with American history, to respect individuals’ rights and differences, to be well-informed, unashamed, and fearless. This is our tradition and our legacy as citizens of the United States.

But…I’m also trying to teach them that our love for Jesus ought to so exceed our love for country to such an extent that love for country looks like hate to the casual observer (see Luke 14:26).

We are disciples of Jesus, not Trump or Biden, the left or the right. Fox or CNN. I want them to see me lapping up the Word at a hundred times the rate they see me checking election results. I want them to see me serving and loving my neighbor a hundred times for every time I bring up politics.
I think, if you, a fellow disciple, are being honest–you want to, too.

Go for a run if you need it–sweat out the disappointment, if your guy didn’t win. Then, wash your face. Make a sandwich.
Get back to the business of loving.

——————————————————————————————

 

Jesus turned to them and said,
“If anyone comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters–yes, even their own life–such a person cannot be my disciple. And whoever does not carry their cross and follow me cannot be my disciple.”

Luke 14:25-27

Breaking Rules and Baconators

It was one of our first forays into the public school scene since we decided to keep our kids home this school year.

I’d been crushed when I realized it would make more sense to homeschool them than send them. It boiled down to screen time, that awful waste of time when technology sucks the souls of little boys. That, and masks. The boys can hardly stand them, and I’m not too fond, either.

I figured we could call it a “gap” year. You know, the age-old, tried-and-true, figure-out-what-you-love-in-life pause button. Who is to say a fifth, third, and first grader couldn’t benefit from such a notion? Ha. These are the lies I tell myself to make it through another day with rowdy kids at home. Homeschool, unschool, gap year, cartoon material.

But on this particular Saturday I drove my first grader to a free testing event held by the district. I don’t want him to fall out of practice on the public school scene; I want to gauge the social temperature. After all, I’m just a stay-at-homer now, waiting for the wave to crash and (hopefully) recede. These kids of mine are growing–I have no intention of preserving their innocence at a great cost to their resilience. I played it up to him–it was going to be a mask challenge! The test was simply a game to see who could outlast everyone else! The winner gets a baconator burger and Frosty from Wendy’s! 

We parked and I handed him the mask. 

He grabbed three sharpened pencils and skipped to the door.

 

I’ve been wondering about the mask mandates. I live in a city full of pot shops. In front of my Costco I regularly see lines wrapped around the black building with a green plus on it. Each person is carefully socially distanced, wearing masks. Ducks in a row, waiting patiently to buy their mind-altering, paranoia-inducing cannabis of choice to be smoked in their own home. How responsible, I muse. 

I think about our dear friend at church who is ninety-one years young and opens her arms wide every Sunday for a big hug from her best friend, my four year old daughter. Both Gretel and Ruby look forward to church all week. They bring each other bags of goodies: envelopes and stationery from Ruby; colored pictures from Gretel. I do not deny either one of them hugs, not ever.

I think about our elderly neighbors who scramble to the door when we take them a meal. 

“Just leave it on their doorstep, boys!” I instruct, trying to keep our distance, but I get a card later in the mail. These precious folks have bothered to stamp and mail a thank you card through the mail service, even though we live twenty yards away.
“Thank you for the food,” it says in cramped, tidy cursive. “But please, PLEASE don’t tell the boys to rush right away. We love talking with them and seeing their sweet faces.”

Another neighbor has stuffed two one-hundred dollar bills in the envelope. “Don’t you dare try to give this back,” she writes, shaky and looping, and I laugh because I can hear her saying it in her bossy-Bonnie voice.

This, to me, is where I roll my eyes at the mask rule, the social distancing, the crappy, ignorant, empty promise to keep us all healthy and safe.
I can’t feed a lie to my kids who deliver meals to neighbors and love Ruby like a grandma. We don’t play games. I’m trying to teach them to sort out what is right in a given situation, and masks are sometimes necessary. But sometimes they are not, so we pray every night for God to give us wisdom how to behave in this weird world. And especially, I add silently, me. God, give me wisdom.

Only months ago I read an article on “giving consent”–another made-up rule, a catchphrase as loaded as “safer at home”. It’s taught to teenagers regarding sex; a loophole in chastity, I guess, since chastity never was cool. If he asks, if she says it’s o.k…. Well, if consent is the magic word, I’m claiming it for my own.
Our old people, our friends–they do not want to be distanced from us, nor we from them. Bam–a greater Rule is in place. Love.

There was a rule back in the day (one of the ten commandments, no less) that enforced a strict Sabbath. No work was to be done, nothing that would promote selfish gain or distract from pure, holy, reverent behavior. Remember the Sabbath day–the words were engraved in stone. Keep it holy–it wasn’t to be meddled with, as we humans are naturally inclined to do.
Jesus broke it.

Jesus, who knew no sin, broke the Sabbath.

Did He?

Here was the situation: a man had a withered, useless arm, and in the synagogue in the middle of the church service, Jesus healed him. He asked the man to stretch it out, and it was miraculously, immediately restored. No doubt was quite a scene, since the guy probably had it hidden because a disability was seen as a curse.

Right then, Jesus declared His authority over Law. He went one step further: He made Love the law. In one motion, a self-conscious man who could only dream of two healthy arms–he stretched out the mangled one and proved Jesus cared more about people becoming whole than any flavor of virtue, particularly the rule-following denomination.

There comes a point when following the rules fails. It fails at the point it only serves to ingratiate ourselves to the rule makers. When we do it just so we don’t stick out. It fails when there is no Love. 

Here is a checkpoint: Do we look like the rest of the world, mindlessly following rules set before us? Do we even want to? Are we even thinking rationally? We do things out of routine, thinking we are crossing t’s and dotting i’s, when actually, as believers, our eyes have been opened to a greater Truth, a more consequential Law, and the beckoning of our Savior to love. 

Love is the Law.

The Pharisees tried to trap Jesus, and this is what people who hate Jesus do. Those who love walking in darkness (1 John) will try to do to us if we follow in his footsteps.

They’ll first blurt out a silly, secondary point, like a kindergartner tattle-telling: “She’s not following the rules!”

The accusation will not fit the transgression. It will fall woefully short of its target. Even though the rest of the playground children will murmur, look who is breaking the rules!–the child of God with a renewed mind holds to a higher Law, love. They recognize a superior Law when they see one, because they recognize Jesus.

Jesus was not not following the rules when he healed a man on the Sabbath. He was, in fact, elevating the Sabbath in its holiness, because He who was with God in the beginning created Sabbath. He was saying, watch this. I AM is Lord of Sabbath, not you flimsy, tassled, arrogant Pharisees. 

 

I guarantee it, the man with the bad arm rejoiced to see it restored before his eyes. He rejoiced in the breaking of the Sabbath, if it meant he was made whole. It caused him to worship, maybe even to an extent he had never been able to worship before.

And isn’t it what the Lord wants from us, to see beyond the rules and religiosity and respect? Doesn’t He want us to love Him and love people first? Isn’t it worship, better and higher?

Don’t I think Ruby and Bonnie and all my other elderly friends and my children praise Jesus when the loneliness dissipates because we follow a higher Law? Of course I do. I praise Him, too.

 

Two and a half hours passed on a cold Saturday morning. I did some grocery shopping; I perused the book shelf at the thrift store. I drove back to the school. I took off my mask and I jogged around the baseball field until my little boy was due to bust out the front door and claim his baconator and Frosty.

The air was fresh and I did not wear a mask. I maintained a responsible distance and smiled politely at the other parents. I got the feeling some of them cursed me under their breath.
But I’m training to be like Jesus, not like them.
I want my boy to see my face, not my fear.

I finally spot him, and he runs to me.

“That was the best game ever. How do teachers get to be so nice?”
and then,
“Did I win? Do I get a baconator?”

 

He that has light within his own clear breast
May sit in the center and enjoy bright day,
But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts benighted
Walks under the midday sun
Himself is his own dungeon.

John Milton