Author Archives: PearlS

the puppy bed

We stood there in Costco in the pet aisle, and I stared at the dog beds while another shopper tried to sell me on one. 

“I’ve had rottweilers for 20 years and these are the best,” he said. “You really should buy one while they’re in stock–they last forever.”

After about three minutes’ consideration, I loaded it onto my cart. Forty dollars seemed like a fair investment, and the rottweiler guy was pretty convincing. As I drove home, we talked about our spoiled puppy. Seven months old and on her second dog bed (the first too fuzzy to resist gnawing the guts out), we reckoned this homecoming would register as another in the long line of “best days of her life.”

As I pulled into our garage, the other kids burst through the door to the house like they always do after I’ve been gone. 

“We’ve got a surprise for Minnie!” Jubal announced, and they all rushed to see what was in the trunk.

It isn’t lost on me that my dog sleeps on a nicer bed than most of the people in this world. And yet, dragging that pad into the living room and encouraging a dog to sprawl out on it is as much fun as eating a fluffy mountain of cotton candy. I am forever lost in this disparity, the unfairness of what I have in life, what others don’t. I try not to get carried away at the grocery store, the thrift store, the makeup aisle, or Chipotle. Amazon has my mailing address but it doesn’t have my soul. I don’t feel the urge to dress my kids up in nice new clothes or have a shiny car, but I will drop a mean wallop at Costco. I am grateful, most of the time. But I wonder–does my gratitude move me toward indifference? Am I so thankful for my own blessings and Dave Ramsey wisdom that I flat out ignore Rome is burning?

Several years ago my brother drove his family out to visit us for Christmas. As we played cards the Eve before, as kids squealed over Uno and we drank cream soda straight from the brown barrel bottles, I pulled my laptop open and searched for charities that served Syrian refugees. The compulsion to see outside my snowglobe and into a world where it was cold and hopeless drew me in, and I couldn’t help it.

“What are you doing?” they asked, and I shrugged it off. “Just wanted to sneak in an end-of-the-year gift,” I said.

It was that night I learned about the struggle of refugees, though I thought I knew something of it before.

As a foreign exchange student in Rio, I had seen the most awful street beggars. Little children with rods sticking straight out of their legs, wounds inflicted by favela drug lords to induce pity. It worked. I couldn’t bear their pain. On a visit to the city center I saw, for the first time, groups of children huddled around aerosol cans, passing them around to inhale and get high–any respite from their real life as orphans. Once, on the beach, a little fellow marched up to me and ripped my sunglasses right off my face. I was pissed. I grabbed them back and they snapped. We both lost that day. Oh, I’d seen despair. I couldn’t forget its hopeless, glassy gaze. It was hardened and indifferent–poverty and riches have the same outcome.

I still force myself to look it in the eye. It would be so much easier to look away, but especially on those days when I buy a forty dollar puppy pad, I sit down, open my laptop, and stare brazenly into its face. I watch videos from other parts of the world. I fix my eyes on what can’t be real, not possibly–refugees dragging an un-upholstered foam pad no bigger than my puppy’s bed–into a scrubby, worn, scrapped-together tent.
Lord, don’t let me feel immune to their despair. 

Syrian refugees have been displaced in Lebanon and other countries for going on ten years. Folks who fled their homes thinking they’d be back soon have eked out a new life in another country–one that doesn’t want them there. Nearly one in four people residing in Lebanon are Syrian refugees. They are unwelcome, denied work, school, and most basic human rights. I learned this after I donated some money and signed up for quarterly email updates.

Now, there are other people we know around the world in grave need of help, loans for their businesses, food and education for their kids. But none seem as trapped to me as refugees in a camp. Their tents with tarps flapping and worn bedpads host memories of war, cold winter nights, futureless dreams.

Sometimes I don’t like to open my email. Honestly, I don’t want to hear one more sad story. Every media outlet plasters the heaviest woes on their front page, blasting fear and shame without a shred of dignity. We all eat up the news, ride the waves of whatever “journalists” deem their top ten. But CNN tired many years ago of talking about refugees. Those families, split at the border? If there isn’t a heartwarming or shocking story, it is largely forgotten or else misconstrued. News outlets thrive on exploitation, pulling heart strings and invoking anger. They stir pots and then they go home, remove their makeup, and sleep on feather beds.

I met a refugee at our school two weeks ago. He had been in the States for four years, and just ten days prior to meeting him, the rest of his family was finally able to join him. He was a bit nervous for his children to begin elementary school in a new country. But boy, was he thankful and excited. I hugged him–I couldn’t help it. I scribbled my phone number on a scrap of paper and pressed it into his hand.
“Call me,” I said. “Bring your wife and family to our home.”

“Everyone has been so helpful to me,” he said. “It has been wonderful to bring my family to America. How can I thank God for the blessing he has given me by allowing me to bring my family to this country? I will spend the rest of my life trying to thank Him.”

I stood there in the front office of the school, my hand on his shoulder, my heart and eyes leaking secondary joy. Then he said,
“You Americans, you do not understand how blessed you are in this nation. It is the very last frontier for freedom. You must protect it. You cannot let every immigrant into the United States, even though you think you can. The whole world would be here! This would be no life.”

As I walked back to my car, I let his words replay in my mind. I have never heard these words from the lips of a refugee. In fact, I’m pretty sure the news would have me to believe we are all a bunch of selfish brats for neglecting the rest of the world to live in our palaces. That if we don’t start drinking less water from plastic bottles, we will be cooking in our own carbon dioxide. That we might should consider more wind and solar power and stop being so wasteful. Well, I’ve seen piles of trash bigger than St. Louis, where people sort through discarded rubble a mile deep, looking for things to recycle so they can eat that night. I’ve seen shacks built on top of shacks on top of shacks in third world countries, but just down the street from me they’re building brand new subdivisions with solar panels on million dollar homes. Please tell me where wisdom sleeps, in a poor or rich person’s bed? 

Perhaps we do not want to become another Lebanon, where hate is thick and compassion is scant, where refugees are a quarter of the population, unwanted and unhelped. But tell me, what exactly is the difference between refugee life here or there? Wealth that leads to stony platitudes of indifference, the lie that we actually might know how to take the higher road? Or is it true, scrappy poverty where hope is as futile as the high from an aerosol can? Until we toss out our good intentions in the garbage, we can’t even hold the gaze of a person who has seen their family bombed out of house and homeland.

You must protect it, the man said. He wasn’t referring to our country’s resources, but to her freedom. He never suggested we spread the wealth, but acknowledge what made us wealthy. He wasn’t pointing fingers at my dog bed, but at me.

And this, I’ve realized, is our duty. We can welcome those who have already entered, and we can better use the resources we have. But perhaps we can best help others by looking inside our own walls, those who have somehow slipped in through the front door, instead of inviting the whole world to our table. Do for one what you wish you could do for all, a wise person has said. Stop pretending you can be a savior. Instead, be a neighbor.

Still, we set a watchful eye on the heartbroken. We practice more of that quick-to-listen, slow-to-speak life. We aren’t building tables instead of walls or whatever nonsense makes us look better than we really are. We can’t rightly understand it, but the Lord didn’t make a mistake when He plopped us down in the land of the free and the home of the brave. So we will do our darndest to remind one another it doesn’t matter if our Chiefs win or lose a Superbowl this Sunday. We will revel in what we have, and we will look not only to our own interests, but also to the interests of others.

We will stare down poverty and wealth till it makes us uncomfortable, till every time I look at that puppy on her bed I’m reminded most people aren’t even half as lucky as us.

Love Wins

There has been an elephant in the room for too long. 

I listen to podcasts and constantly hear savvy Christians beating around the bush, pretending to address concerns without stepping on anyone’s toes in the process. Yesterday it was a conversation between two pastors that had me cringing as they debated outward versus inward-facing churches. I wanted to voice a third option, but it wasn’t offered. What about Jesus-facing churches? We worry an awful lot about people and “being the change we wish to see in the world.” In public, we Christians are typically flighty or abrasive, wavering between ultra sensitive and permissive or boldly speaking truth (to heck with those who disagree!). Jesus confounds us because He balanced love and truth perfectly. The scale was in his hand and it never once tipped to the side. We want to represent Him, but our ever-present human nature hovers just behind the curtain, threatening to thwart our sincerity. I wonder if I remain too silent or if I speak too loud, will be misunderstood? Maybe it’s better to shut up and mind my own business. But then I think about those who have spoken into my own life. I think about those who looked at me and considered me worth enlightening. Nevermind my first reactions to truth. Did I hate what they were saying? Did I ever see their point? Did they wrap their message with love and compassion? Should they have kept quiet?

And I always conclude it was better for them to open their mouth. I was always better for having listened, because it sent me off, clue list in hand, to search the Scriptures for real treasure.

With this in mind, I want to look at people–all people–and continually regard them as my people. Outsiders, insiders, creeping-around-the-edge-’siders. I have many, many friends who do not hold the same beliefs as me, but they know I am relentlessly, unashamedly in pursuit of Jesus. I think God’s word, the Bible, is infallible. It is worth listening to, it is worth proclaiming from the rooftops. As a mother, I feel there is a natural platform, specifically suited for raising children–my own–and speaking into their lives. One might pity such a platform, but I think it is the greatest honor. It is deeper and more enduring than any name I hope to make for myself. God gave me four biological children–living, breathing, eager students that long to be shaped, molded, loved. I wonder about the giants they will face in their lifetime, and I spend a lot of time pondering how to prepare them for the battle. My own parents were a steady do-as-I-say-and-don’t-ask-questions sort of team–I silenced a thousand questions as I grew up. But the giants evolve and loom over every phase of life. Even if my folks slayed them years ago for me, there are new ones popping up on the scene every day. And these of today seem more sinister, trickier. They deserve some explaining, they deserve questions and answers. We cannot be Christians who make our lives a game of Two Truths and A Lie, leaving our children to guess what is real and what is made up. For me, for my kids, for my people who seek truth in today’s world–we must examine the evidence.

Now let’s talk about that elephant.

—————————————————————————————————————–

Imagine if you were about to get married. You found the partner you’ve been praying for and you can’t wait to tie the knot and settle down.

The problem is, you don’t want a big wedding, don’t care for the showy, planned-to-perfection details. You don’t care about your mother’s guest list, professional invitations, a beachy versus mountain setting or flowers. You’d rather not waste your money on a special dress, and you really don’t even like cake.

Would you be wrong in wanting to get married? Would there be something deeply wrong with you for not wanting to throw a massive party, not wanting to invite all your second cousins? 

Imagine another scenario: you are thinking about taking a trip. You’ve heard tales of world wide adventures and you can’t wait to blaze your own trail. But you don’t know much about geography or other cultures. You’ve never learned another language and you’ve never flown before. Matter of fact, you don’t have the funds, no suitcase, no plane tickets, no passport. You simply aren’t prepared to go anywhere.

Would you be a fraud for expressing your interest in travel? Would anyone blame you for putting the dream off for a few years?

It seems unconscionable to force a wedding party on a person who doesn’t want one. It is disconcerting to put the pressure on an unprepared aspiring traveler. Indeed, we would think it damaging to exert our opinions in these particular situations. Who cares? It’s their business, after all. They’ll figure it out someday. No need to rush things. Yet we are placing a burden on a young generation to do what they have never asked, desired, or prepared to handle. I am speaking of an all too familiar social and political agenda that is bent on sexual revolution, seeking to indoctrinate the youngest and most impressionable among us.

We are evolving into a culture that, as a whole, is sending unique, beautiful, naive, immature children and young adults down a path of forced sexuality. Hear me now: we are enslaving ourselves and our children by giving them early, unfiltered access to a topic that is too heavy for them to bear…All in the name of freedom, knowledge, acceptance, love.

Look around at all the access points. We hand our children phones with the internet, where just opening an app exposes us to junk mail and advertisements that we cannot unsee. Books, television commercials, shows, movies all normalize mature sexual promiscuity and morally questionable adult behavior, including the LBGTQ agenda.  Pride parades, counseling, curriculum are all designed to buy a young person’s attention and approval. PBS programming, deemed entirely appropriate for preschool children, is advocating same sex relationships. Instead of helping kids become aware of their intrinsic value as a human being (hello, Mr. Rogers!) as they develop physically and mentally, it is becoming commonplace to encourage bizarre questions relating purely to sexuality. Do you identify as a boy or a girl? (I’ve seen this question on an elementary school worksheet for a nationwide young inventors’ contest). Explore yourself–don’t be limited to XX and XY chromosomes. I’ve seen tampon commercials for men (how am I to explain this to my twelve year old girl, let alone to myself?) and drag queens featured on the covers of magazines as I pay for my groceries. 

Back when we homeschooled, my kids took part in a shared schooling situation with other students. In the kindergarten and first grade room there was a sixth grade “helper” in the room. She was no more than twelve years old, hair chopped to look like a boy, wearing baggy clothing, her head permanently down, eyes fixed on the floor. I longed to wrap my arms around her and love her back to herself, back to the little kid she was before, unaware of the pressures of “finding oneself”. But someone (or no one) left her on her own to doubt, to ponder an open-ended question without ever giving her an answer sheet. They made reservations for the post-wedding banquet, they put her on the airplane with nothing more than a wave of the hand– “You’ll figure it out! Have a great trip!” Meanwhile, my own kindergartner left class bewildered– “Mom, is Daria a boy or a girl?”

We know that, biologically, sex is designed (in every species) for reproduction. Sex makes babies. Somehow our culture has turned this into a very hush-hush, birds-and-bees, embarrassing sort of conversation, as though the facts of life are (of all things) to be put off or loathed. Ignoring the scientific, the very math that determines man plus woman equals offspring, we skip right over age-appropriate introductions in a rush to expose them to variations on sexuality. We are unashamed to point kids in the direction of sex exploration and acceptance. We encourage gender confusion and paint such “progressive thinking” as a mile marker of how far we’ve come. Bruce/Caitlyn Jenner was very publicly awarded an auspicious award for his “bravery” in transitioning from a man to a woman, though his body will never present XX chromosomes–the primary, elemental proof of legitimate womanhood. I am no scientist, but I fail to acknowledge this news as anything but absurd. It seems to me we ought to be questioning many of our revelations.

Nothing will skew our children’s view of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness like the incessant, early message of sex deviation and the general acceptance of promiscuity. In his book, Mere Christianity, C.S. Lewis makes the argument that if a person indulges in food, his appetite will eventually be satiated, and he will stop eating. But the sexual appetite is subject to a thousand perversions that will never satisfy, never be the cause for satisfaction. Take a look at the past thirty years–have we come so far to think we are actually freer, more enlightened? What of the porn industry and sex trafficking? Alarmingly, there is more talk of sex and perversion than there has ever been before. By encouraging people to “come out of the closet” we have opened a floodgate of insatiable, perverted sexual appetite. 

Fine, you say–we are adults! Let us do as we please! But in the evolution of people becoming controlled by sexual craving, the majority of the public has deemed it necessary to bend morality in their favor, to create flexible boundaries. And this is where nature and nurture collide. A child who has naturally developed an inner dialogue which identifies and discriminates between man and woman must be taught to quiet their better judgment. This, of course, is why children must be indoctrinated, silenced, at an early age.

Before I go any further, let me be clear. If you are an unbeliever, if you have approached Jesus and chosen your lifestyle over Him, you are not a slave to God, but a slave to sin. It doesn’t matter what any church doctrinal statement adds or leaves out–your sexual emancipation condemns you before a righteous God, just as I am condemned if I consider myself a better person than you for not pursuing that lifestyle. Without Jesus and his death on the cross, none of us have any hope for redemption or healing. Let me repeat: I am nothing more than a self-righteous idiot if I condemn you and elevate my own opinion. Our sins weigh exactly the same and I have no right to judge you.

It is your choice, as an adult, to live promiscuously or pursue same sex relationships, to perceive yourself a gender-bender, just the same as it is your privilege to choose to vote.
But children have no rights to vote. They are still learning to think, to speak, to take a meaningful thought and express it out loud. They are, without question, in need of grownups to make choices for them. If we are indiscriminate in our distribution of freedoms, consider a child who holds equal value to you as a human being. Consider their right to remain unexposed to sexual rhetoric until they are fully mature. Imagine what this is saying to our children as we rally behind the efforts of a pro-LGBTQ platform. Our rights matter, dear children, our bodies above your minds...To love, to lust, to disturb, to destroy. Your rights, my children, do not matter.

Can you see it? We are pushing the party when we haven’t even been invited to the wedding! We are throwing the unprepared traveler onto a plane and singing bon voyage. We aren’t putting their needs before our own. We aren’t even following a version of the golden rule. We are saddling our kids with ambiguous love-everybody vibes at a point in their lives where they are developmentally still figuring out how to sit still in class. The tools that were once regarded as a sound mind and good judgment–things we used to encourage our kids to exercise–are being tossed into the garbage as questionable and ugly.

Friends, we must look deeper. I’m afraid it is too easy to cite the “love” chapter in the Bible (1 Cor. 13), claiming to err on the side of love, keeping our lips sealed, when the same passage says very clearly, love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth (1 Corinthians 13:6). We all have blindspots, but do we let our one major blindspot run the show? No! We seek wisdom where we have little so we might see more clearly. This tepid water of culture is deceptively dangerous for growing children. It doesn’t threaten to scald, doesn’t threaten to freeze, so we splash around in it thinking no harm will come our way. But friend, a lion is on the prowl seeking to devour (1 Peter 5:8).

Kids must be kids before they can understand more mature material and adult matters. There must be clear expectations and standards when raising kids so their development might not be hindered. Proverbs says, “Discipline your son, for there is hope! Do not be party to his death” (Proverbs 19:18).

In other words, pay attention. Notice the world around you. Look at your kids. Equip them, model appropriate, sober behavior. Point out the inconsistencies, the two truths and a lie. Train them up in the way they should go, that they might not depart (Proverbs 22:6). The world is itching to determine their pronouns and stick on labels. Do not leave your precious child doubting their worth, their humanity, their identity. 

Love wins. If there has ever been a phrase I’m more sure of, I haven’t found it.

But when we water down love to hands-off parenting, elevating self-care, mocking traditionally held roles, or a lusty type of sexual preferences–I can no longer get on board with the movement. Love is so much more. Jesus said we must realize our abject poverty when it comes to love–we are essentially devoid of anything resembling love. When we come to terms with our stone cold hearts, that is when He can fill us up with the real stuff. Real love is fascinating to behold. Real love is real freedom.

As Bob Goff writes, “love does”! It doesn’t sit off to the side, a spectator hoping for the best. We are to look at people–children, teens, young adults, single, married, middle-aged and elderly–through the lens of love–seeking their best interest above our own (Phil. 2:3-4). Love is characterized by the setting aside of my agenda for the pursuit of another’s wholeness. For a child, wholeness is discipline, structure, the warmth of home. A mom and a dad–two sides of the same coin that express the love of God in equal portions and perfectly balanced. Parents that listen and tenderly redirect. We set a firm foundation and let them dream and play and learn. We show them God’s word as a light unto their path (Psalm 119:105).

We are slow to speak–but we still open our mouths. We are slow to anger–but we still glean wisdom and discernment from intense life experiences. (James 1:19)

We love…because He first loved us (1 John 4:19).

Would you–being in favor of a love that always wins–open the door to God’s perfect, unchanging love? Would you pave a path so the lost might find their way back home? We must not become stumbling blocks–a one-sided, clanging gong, narrow-minded in our mission to accept progressive thinking while mocking others who don’t land on our side. On the other hand, we cannot be so conservative as to shut the doors to the lonely, the abused, the confused, the sick, the love-impoverished. Just as we all stand before God condemned (Romans 3:23), hope and open heart surgery has been paid for on the cross–one man dying for all men (2 Cor. 5:14). Love Himself bought our peace and secured our identity. The most effeminate of men, the most masculine of women, the unsure, the easily swayed–all can find a solid foundation in Christ who has purchased us with his own blood.

For me, nothing seems more possible, more wide open and thrilling than the future my kids hold in their hands. The weightless potential! The fragility and hope in one life! But their life now must be guarded and filled with truth that they can access when they reach maturity. As a parent, I will defend their right to be a child as long as they are a child. I am determined to set them free one day, equipped with every good thing I’ve had to offer. I want them to taste liberty and pursue happiness even as they stand firm on the truth that God’s excellent plans will far exceed ours every time.

We are tender, we see people as people, our people, not projects or politics. We examine our motives. We tell the truth–no lies, no half truths.

The same power that raised Jesus from the dead is in us. It is light exposing the darkness, setting our feet on a sturdy path. 

It is love, loud and proud. 

Love wins.

Leaving Home to Make a Home

When we had been married three years, we moved as far away from home as we thought we could get away with. We had about $20,000 in school loan debt and high hopes for an exciting life. We might not be great planners, but we are halfway decent adventurers. We wondered why in the world a body would choose to stay in one place for their whole life when our toes curled the precipice of the unknown.

It turns out that free babysitting is the reason a body would stay.

After we’d had a few kids of our own and finally paid off the school debt, we began to wonder if we just liked making things hard on ourselves. Gluttons for punishment. Even the hardiest of adventurers wants to take a shower, a break, eat a real meal, sleep on a real bed once in awhile. I was ready to admit we didn’t have it in us: maybe it was time to head back home or at least within an hour of my mom and her home cooking.
Babies that never, ever sleep and husbands that always, always work are a recipe for tired and cranky moms. I would whine and he would stand there frustrated, saying, “Just tell me what you want me to do!” But I didn’t know. There was nothing he could do. There was nothing I could do. You somehow think being debt free is the pinnacle of life…and then you have kids.

Talk about taking on debt! Time, money, sleep, energy–you pour it into them and fall into bed convinced you are ruining them.

I swear, I nearly went crazy. We thought our oldest boy had Asperger’s and didn’t dare leave him with another adult for more than a few minutes. My dad told me I needed to spank him more, my mother-in-law thought there was absolutely nothing wrong with any of her perfect grandchildren. Advice streamed in from a thousand miles away but no one could help us. It was me and Joe, Joe and Pearl. Stubborn. Clueless. Frustrated with one another. We were overwhelmed with the sheer magnitude of independence, the freedom to make a thousand bad choices and only rely on one another to break our fall.

I’m glad for a hundred reasons that my kids are growing up, that I’ve been able to stay at home, to have the privilege of putting them to bed pretty much every single night of their existence. But boy, do they ever suck it out of you. When Jubal would scrounge around the house at 3 in the morning because he wasn’t tired, when Luke made me rock him and sing “Nothing But the Blood of Jesus” every evening for two hours straight, his sweaty face pressed to my shoulder. When FC had that bad habit of rolling up bits of trash and tossing it into my oven unnoticed (“I cooking!” he’d protest indignantly when we finally caught him in the act) and Gretty had eye goop for an entire year. Hospital and doctor visits, errands, school and grocery store adventures–each time, dragging every single kid with me. The boys have broken an examination table at the doctor’s office, a baby-changing table at Walmart, a seatback at a fast food restaurant. They turned the chore of putting dishes away into a game of throwing them off the back deck to see them roll down the mountain. Instead of racing matchbox cars, I’ve found them smashing them to bits with my set of free weights in the basement. Desperate in the winter to relieve our cabin fever, we played at the park in three feet of snow and 50-mile-an-hour winds. Stitches and broken bones but never a break from the neediness. We only had our little, immediate family supported by one hardworking, undervalued daddy.

It really does feel like I looked up one day and suddenly I had neck wrinkles and coffee-stained teeth, and perhaps the beginning of an ever-so-innocuous chin wart. I can’t so much say I’ve come out this side a victor as I can say every day behind me has been worth its struggle.

There are millions of other folks out there living my same story, I know that. Nobody really ever mentions it, but millions of people are falling into bed each night wondering if they are also ruining their kids lives, or if their kids are perhaps ruining theirs. Is this what our family is supposed to look like, smashing cars in the basement and escaping the house once in awhile so we don’t lose our minds? Is this really how life works? Will I ever understand my husband? Will he ever really understand me?

I was listening to Dr. McGee (my favorite Bible teacher, you can access his studies here) yesterday morning as he was covering Hebrews 11. It reminded me of the beginning of our own big adventure from thirteen years ago–he was discussing Abraham and the choices the man had to make in leaving his relatives behind in Ur to begin a journey on his own:

“God said to him, ‘Abraham, I’m going to do all these things I promised, and I’m gonna give you a son.’
Abraham and Sarah are gonna have a son. Now, that’s what is gonna make the home. They’re gonna have a son. And, first of all, may I say that you have here the basis of what would be in that day a godly home. The kind of home God wants young people to have, and we call it today a Christian home.  These things are germane and they are basic. Now, God didn’t give them a course or send them to a preacher for counseling. Frankly, we preachers have done too much counseling, telling young people how they ought to do it. The thing is that we have been idealistic. God was very practical. He said, “Abraham, if you’re going to have the kind of home I want you to have, you’re going to have to get away from papa and mama.” 

And that’s what God meant at the very beginning when He said (and of all things!), He said to Adam and Eve, “man will have to leave father and mother.” Adam and Eve didn’t even have a father and a mother!  But He said ‘you’re going to have to leave’. That is a great principle that’s put down. And you know, the easiest thing in the world to do, and I’ve been learning it myself, is, I never thought that I would be a grandfather that would tell the parents how to raise their child–I didn’t do so well myself, but I sure can tell them! Well, they’ll make mistakes, but that’s none of our business. They’re going to have to make their mistakes, too, because we made ours. And papa and mama {are} not to interfere with the home of the children. And God got Abraham about as far away from home as you could go! And none of the relatives are going to be able to interfere. I think that is primary to the building of a godly home. To begin with, for Abraham, it was a godless home that he left! Because it was a home of idolatry.

….the home will never be an ‘ideal’ home…may I say something to you, friends, young person today? If you think you are going to start an ideal home, I think you’re wrong. You’re going to find out you are going to be tested!

…If you think, somehow or another, that putting up a few little rules that you’re going to avoid all of the rough places and the hardships of life, you’re wrong. You’re going to find out that one day you’ll argue with your wife. You’re going to find out one day you’re going to have a problem with that child that you’ve got. You’re not going to have a thing that’s ideal by any means! And how are you going to handle all of these, my friends? By faith. By faith! And when you and I reach the place that we’re willing to put our child on the altar for God, then you and I’ve arrived.

Here is a home that is just about as near to what God wants down here as you and I will be able to attain.”

Thru The Bible, Dr. J. Vernon McGee, Hebrews 11:8-19

It turns out that free babysitting is overrated! The biggest risk, the greatest adventure, the inevitability of little boys making thousands of terrible judgment calls point to one thing: faith forming a happy home. The marital disagreements, the intentional space separating us from our own parents, the ruckus of kids and sleepless nights–it made us grouchy for a few minutes, yes. We didn’t have any help to fall back on, nothing but the faith God supplied us, the encouragement to “not grow weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up” (Galatians 6:9). But now, as the fog continues to clear and we sleep at night again, we can see: the life sown in faith is reaping a life filled with joy. We are reliant on God’s very own strength–not date nights, counseling, or a grandma’s cookie jar (though these might all be wonderful things). We are holding out for God’s best, willing to release what we thought was our adventure for what was really His–bigger, better, grander–all along.

By faith Abraham, when called to go to a place he would later receive as his inheritance, obeyed and went, even though he did not know where he was going. By faith he made his home in the promised land like a stranger in a foreign country; he lived in tents, as did Isaac and Jacob, who were heirs with him of the same promise. For he was looking forward to the city with foundations, whose architect and builder is God. And by faith even Sarah, who was past childbearing age, was enabled to bear children because she considered him faithful who had made the promise. And so from this one man, and he as good as dead, came descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky and as countless as the sand on the seashore.
All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance, admitting that they were foreigners and strangers on earth. People who say such things show that they are looking for a country of their own. If they had been thinking of the country they had left, they would have had opportunity to return. Instead, they were longing for a better country–a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them.

Hebrews 11:8-16

Not so alone

The last time I saw her alive and well–well being the more remarkable descriptor–was the day before Christmas break. We were seventh graders sprawled out on the floor of the language arts teacher’s room, eating popcorn and watching Babes in Toyland, a bunch of kids who had known each other since kindergarten. We were all so excited for Christmas we could barely hear the movie over our chitchat.

I don’t know how I would have felt if I knew what was going to happen. It makes me tear up to think about it, even today, over two decades later. It changed my life.

Angela had the biggest, goofiest personality, a space between her top two teeth that could hold a tic tac, and skin the color of caramel latte. On the bus she would scoot down into the seat, press her knees into the seatback in front, and belt out, “I’m a barbie girl, in a barbie wo-orld.” She was hilarious, a crazy jumble of arms and legs that would break out dancing without warning. Thirteen years old. Our school’s most promising comedienne.

Angela’s family was traveling to Texas for Christmas, driving through the night on a twisty road. It might have been icy–I don’t remember the details. I recall my mom getting a phone call that informed us of the accident. It was a semi that hit them on a blind corner somewhere in Arkansas–they never saw it coming. It killed Angie’s parents and older brother and sister on impact, as they were in the front of the van. Angela and her younger brother were presumably asleep in the back seat, and they were taken to a hospital in critical condition.

It so happened that my family was visiting our grandparents in southern Missouri for the holiday. We were only forty-five minutes from the hospital, so we made quick plans to go visit Angela and her little brother, Jean-Paul, who had been a student in my mom’s third grade class a couple years prior.

On that December day–I think it was the day after Christmas–I put on my new black sweater and climbed into the back of the car, scared. We drove in silence and sadness, full of sorrow for what the future held for my friend. This was years before I even knew to consider brain injury–my twelve year old self mostly wondered if Angie would be back at school. Even if she did get better, how could a seventh grader live after two-thirds of her family was gone?

At the door to ICU my dad gently touched my shoulder and said, “Pearl, I want you to be prepared for how they might look. It’s possible,” he hesitated, “…it’s possible Angela or Jean-Paul could be missing an arm or something. We just don’t know how badly they are hurt. Are you ready?”
I swallowed and nodded. Then he pushed a button on the wall and a nurse led us into the room.

Angela and her brother were in two beds, side by side. They were both in medically-induced comas, white hospital blankets covering them up to their chin. We were their first visitors–it was just us and them, a consuming silence within a hum of life-supporting machines. I felt an immediate, unwelcome grief slap my in my face. No preparation was sufficient, nothing would have readied me to see them in this condition. Mom and Dad approached the bed and quietly, gently, tenderly they spoke to Angela as if she were an infant. “Hey there, Angela,” my mother whispered as she stroked her black hair. There were bits of broken glass still stuck to it, road rash on her face, eyes purple and swollen shut. “We came to visit you,” my dad said, leaning toward her face. He coached our basketball team, had seen her long limbs flying down the court. 

After a few moments, my mom moved over to Jean-Paul’s bed, so I took her place at Angela’s side. 

“You can hold her hand,” the nurse softly encouraged, and I was suddenly aware she hadn’t lost an arm. Words stuck in my throat. I held her hand and tried not to cry, told her we loved her and missed her at school, even though we still had a week and a half before it would be in session. I squeezed her hand, willing it to squeeze back like I’d read about in novels. She didn’t squeeze back. 

After a while, we left. There was nothing we could do, it seemed. It was dark in the room; it felt hopeless. On our drive back, I cried hot, angry tears as I stared out the window.

Three days later, back home in our small town, I worked on an art project at our kitchen table. My mom had sketched out an M.C. Escher, Metamophasis, on a 3 foot by 5 foot poster paper, and I glued bits of torn colored paper to fill in the bird impressions while listening to Christmas music. The phone rang and Mom answered. Angela was dead. It was December 29th. I stood up from my seat at the table, went to my room, and bawled on my bed.

I wondered how I would write about the time we lost them. When Christmas vacation comes, I always wait for the lump in my throat to dissipate, and it never does.
I hesitate a bit writing this, because even though time has passed I know Jean-Paul is out there somewhere, undoubtedly swallowed up in loss every Christmas, mourning what he lost as a ten or eleven year old. His privacy matters to me, his story is his and not mine. His pain is deeper. He was a child when it happened, and II think about the trauma compounded by not understanding why this happened–how God could allow all the people he loved most to die over Christmas vacation. How a child could wake up from a coma to his whole world, a heap of ashes. I never saw him again. His extended family took him in and raised him somewhere in the city, I think.

When a person we love dies, we often remember all the good things they did in life, their wonderful qualities. But sometimes the blow is just too massive and the people left behind are stunned. Listing what’s been lost is unbearable. Sometimes the survivor needs a witness more than they need details.
John Steinbeck once wrote a letter to a friend, Ed Ricketts, who was grieving the death of his mother:

The matter of death is very personal–almost like an idea–and it has to be discovered and accepted over and over again no matter what the age or the condition of the dying. And there is nothing for the outsider to do except to stand by and maybe to indicate that the person involved is not so alone as the death always makes him think he is. And that is why I am writing this letter.

Our small town held a memorial for Angela’s family before school started up in January. The high school gym was packed with red, teary faces. I witnessed the adoration the community had for this family, expressed with a sorrow so heavy it hung in the air like fog. We were too late to tell them we loved them; we were too stunned at the permanence of death.

If it finds Jean-Paul, I hope he knows I remember. I’m counting: it’s been exactly 23 years. I’m still discovering the pain over and over, too, every December 29th, still reliving a tiny fraction of his despair. His family isn’t forgotten. I’ll remember them with words and the grief that rushes in every December. 

I hope it makes him feel not so alone.

Encouragement to Public Schoolers

Frequently I see these types of articles written–books as well–that are all about motivating and encouraging the home schooling mother (and father) to be steadfast in their convictions. I know people are buying these books, because as a Christmas present to myself, I purchased software that tells me the exact number of people, per month, are searching for key words on Google and Amazon.

I’m no creep, just a nerdy wannabe book writer looking for my niche. 

The funny thing is, there are next to zero books encouraging the public schooler to stay the course. Homeschoolers have a great cloud of witnesses–mostly from their co-op and Facebook groups. I say this with respect, as some of the people I love most in life homeschool: Homeschoolers seem to have the added veterans’ benefits. Their service, as any good Christian homeschooling book will tell them, carries significantly more meaning. A holy calling, perhaps.
Public schoolers, the less anointed, are simply hacking their way through the bush.

I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, partly because I want to sell my books on Amazon, but mostly because I think there is some serious puzzlement surrounding the conservative Christian parenting community today. It’s an elephant in the room sort of dispute, one with firm, heart-burning convictions. Stepping on toes is rude, but I am afraid not speaking honestly is infinitely worse. I’ll attempt to drag the beast into the light.

A week ago, per usual, another man from our church congregation approached my husband, motioned to my family, and asked my husband if we homeschooled our children. Per usual, I needed to walk away. I, too, have firm, heart-burning convictions. There is a sense that, if your children are well-mannered or well-behaved in any way, it must be owed to the fact that the man is an excellent father, leading the home in all integrity while the mother is at home patiently working algebra equations with obedient, above-average children. Sometimes I think judgment weighs heaviest in a place where we feel enlightened. Encourage one another! The good book says, and we hold our superiority (false wisdom wearing church clothes) over another’s head, ready to drop it given the chance.

Rarely has anyone in the church assumed in my presence that we are public schoolers, that my husband is a workaholic, that we struggle daily to ask for forgiveness and say kind words to each other.

The sweetest of souls at church (and I encourage you to seek them) are generally happy to see a small boy resting his head on his mother’s lap in the pew beside them, or the tiny girl spinning in her Elsa dress and sparkly reindeer antlers. They pat me on the shoulder and remind me time will fly by and to enjoy every minute of it. Sure, they forget the monotony and wear and tear of minions, but these dear ones never mention the educational path we are treading. They only remark on the loveliness of children, the glory of youth, the fleeting aspect of time. They lean forward and see my babies in the moment, never prescribing methods of enlightenment or discipline. “Keep at it,” they say, and this is the limit of their exhortation.

And so I have been keeping at it, and outside of church I do not offer anything more as far as advice goes. What is one supposed to say to the man (who hasn’t asked me, but rather my peacemaking husband) who queries if we homeschool? It is trite to say, “We’re trying to be in the world but not of it”–my husband’s go-to, church-acceptable answer. It gets us out of the sanctuary and home to lunch on time, so it will suffice.  But let me explain why it is trite: 

It barely scratches the surface of conviction. 

Our intent, actually, is to be incredibly peculiar, even more so than your demure, denim skirt clad homeschooler with braids. We want the world to see Jesus, only Jesus, and marvel at a love that never gives up and never walks away. A love that sees and understands where the need is and wants better for children–all children. An honesty that demands integrity, but also compassion. We want community that stirs other parents to understand the value of their child. We want families who are hurting to behold a God who made them for a purpose, no matter their circumstances. A God who is very near to the brokenhearted in a broken world. A God who is near to us is God who can be near to them.

It has been a year and a half since we came back to public school. I knew I was again a legit public schooler when I dropped Jubal off and tossed out last minute warnings, “Don’t forget your snow boots! And don’t let the chicken leg fall out of the door when you shut it!” I am back to chauffeuring and kids eating grocery store deli meals in the car before cello lessons. It is its own kind of wild and free.

 A year and a half–this is enough time for the fire in my belly to have died down to embers. It’s no good to cook immediately over an open flame; the temperature is too erratic–scorching, at best. I’ve had more time to roll it around in my mind, and now it makes better sense. I can write about it without feeling too touchy, without risking scorching others. I admit, I was hurt by the insinuations of homeschoolers and the continual belief that they had a holy calling, a higher purpose. The lowly public schooler was on her own, at the mercy of liberal leftists and mandated curriculum.

I’m relieved we gave it another go. Over this past year and a half we have built an excellent relationship with school. Surely it is maturity on my part, coupled with the freedom that children sleeping through the night offers. There are some things we are working on, things we will forever be working on. But I have not handed my parenting over to the school. In fact, our school, a Title I school, encourages as much parental participation as possible. Recognizing that kids need strong home support to succeed, our local elementary flings their doors open.

Because of this I have been able to volunteer in a number of capacities. I’ve been made privy to the needs of families, and fortunate enough to lend a hand. I’ve been invited to teach English to non-English speaking families. I helped to hire a wonderful new principal. I even built gingerbread houses with the front office team the week before Christmas! To me, this is infinitely better than trudging to the Christmas finish line as a homeschooler. I am energetic and fresh-faced, happy to collaborate on finding pieces of missing homework or researching fossils. I love being a part of an advisory committee, and I’m the first to bring pies in to the teachers. Because of our presence in school, our church has been able to fund and distribute school supplies and engage with the surrounding community. Best of all, I can have a meaningful, equal conversation with the 95% of the American population who doesn’t homeschool. I’ve made friends, by George! Maybe it’s a weird character flaw, but with someone else handling the majority of schooling, I can relate to them, invite them over without feeling like they are trespassing on my head space.

My experience in public school isn’t equal to a life calling, nor do I treat it as such. It’s simpler now, I can be myself and not worry what I’m missing on a checklist. I can once again be all things to all people. Mom, wife, friend. I can wear my sweatpants to Walmart (heck, anywhere!), walk the kids to school with my unbrushed hair. I can commiserate with flag football parents, loathe Pokemon and video games, wonder aloud if I will ever have a paying job again (my stay-at-home years are underwhelming on a resume). My kids are seeing me write, walk the dog, and clean the car (for the record, I don’t usually find chicken legs in the car door pockets).

It is a real gift that our taxes actually pay for something valuable. I think this was the goal of public education as it was born of Christian mercy–to notice the least of these (children), and to pool resources into the tool most instrumental in affecting their future (education). Of course if we walk away, it will crumble. Of course if the foundation is leveled it will be rebuilt on nothing more than good intentions. This is why I am here. This is why, as long as my children are thriving, we are staying.

Homeschool isn’t for everyone. I’ve heard that a million times, but when said it has certainly been carried by an aloof tone. I can tell you this: public school is for everyone. It is incredible the level of help I have gotten with my older kids. They are tested and re-tested. I receive phone calls and emails. Concerns are voiced. We can’t meet his needs here, one teacher told me. They pulled strings and transferred him within the district in a matter of days–the call was mine. You see, teachers are interested in parents who care! For the most part, you doing your job (being a parent) makes their life as a teacher easier. There is sometimes headache, sometimes frustration, but talk to any homeschooler and see if she doesn’t have the same issues. The point is, I have way more people on my side.

But aren’t you worried about the other kids at school? The bad influences, the worldly exposure? In life, there is no sliding scale of morality. One cannot be more moral or less moral. One can either be moral or immoral. The confusion stems from regarding one schooling option–homeschool–as moral, and public school as immoral. Indeed, this is wrong. Public school is amoral for the time being.  Amoral, meaning with no promotion of moral values whatsoever. Sure, there is a push to be kind, eliminate bullying, prevent violence–but there is no why explained. Until this point, I haven’t encountered any specific, offensive perversions. I agree, these are strange waters. Why wouldn’t I rather have them home, under my thumb and tutelage, promoting my own agenda? It’s a valid question.

Indeed, public school has potential for immorality–subjected to more local laws, and possibly headed down a sticky path, but homeschool could as easily fall off the tracks for self-righteousness factors.
Here’s what I want my kids to ultimately gain from public education: a bigger view of the world, and a bigger view of God. The world is hopeless without Jesus. Go ahead and let them see for themselves.

Public schoolers, I say this to encourage you: Despite what you might be hearing via social media, your favorite Christian writers who happen to blissfully homeschool are a teensy, tiny minority. Nowhere in the Bible does it say that the straight and narrow path is lined with Charlotte Mason ideology. You aren’t going to hell for putting your kids on the big yellow bus, even though there’s a book out there that claims you will. They are less than 5 percent of people who can financially, practically do it, typically with immense spousal support. Do not stress yourself out over this decision–God’s got your back! When we first began school with our oldest, I felt like I was facing an identity crisis. I will either set them up for success or failure. This is it, it’s up to me. Well-meaning voices in my circle confirmed this notion, and it scared the pants off of me. Let me toss in another well-meaning voice, mine:

You are not immoral for schooling your kids the way you see fit. You are not amoral. You are every bit as responsible as the next parent who loves her kids. You have a huge, massive, unprecedented opportunity to rock this world through public education. You have the outrageous privilege of standing up and being brave in a time where your kids will witness what it means to take a stand for Jesus. You are capable of making your children behave. You are not facing a losing battle. Your words matter, your presence matters. Stick your foot in the door and win over the office ladies. None of this signing up to bring the napkins to the school party and then backing out business. Show up! Listen. Speak. Be heard. Notice those kids who hang out with yours. Sneak a teacher their favorite candy bar. Buy them a gift card to a fancy restaurant. Send thank you notes incessantly. Do it again and again and again until it is second nature, till the love of the Father is fragrant to them, till they are asking, why in the world does this lady care so stinking much?

Love others big. I promise–your kids won’t just notice–they’ll never forget. And that’s an education worth giving them.

Bad King Good

Today my five year old listened to the story of King Herod (the man who killed baby boys in the time of Jesus because he felt threatened) and asked me if he ever turned into a good guy. Previously we’d studied the book of Daniel, so I’m sure he was thinking about how King Nebuchadnezzar had a come-to-Jehovah moment. A bad king turned good…Did Herod also bow down with the wisemen at the feet of the King?

Since no one sprinkles blood around their nativity scene or depicts the slaughter of infants ordered by Herod (he didn’t want to risk any baby boy growing up to take his place), I realized this was a fair question. Jesus and his persecuted family had to run and hide from an evil man. We don’t usually display these facts as we celebrate hope, joy, love, and peace.

No, I told him. Herod didn’t bow. Jesus and his parents lived hidden lives, hoping for anonymity and waiting for the king to die.

Then Foy, my budding kindergarten theologian, popped another chicken nugget in his mouth and said, “Even kings have to know God.” What he meant, in so many words, was that even kings and rulers, no matter how important, are subject to Someone higher up the ladder.

We sure expect a lot from world rulers, even though I’m afraid we know how corrupt they are. It goes without saying that absolute power corrupts absolutely. Why, if your success balloons into god-level stratosphere, you are bound to believe you have created it yourself. You have hitched your wagon to your own neck, and the blood and sweat and muscles and gold towers alone surely prove you are worthy.

I have been thinking about impeachment matters. This is something I haven’t thought much about since ninth grade government class. But I have been listening to the Hamilton soundtrack on repeat to break up the Christmas music monotony, and I don’t believe our forefathers had prophetic foresight when they drafted the Constitution. They simply knew evil was at the heart of man, so the more direct their corporate vision, the more checks and balances in place, the better chance it had for serving people long term. One person in charge=no bueno.

It isn’t blind luck that we’ve had any virtuous man historically in office. We might act surprised by the actions of men, but God is never surprised. There is a proverb that says, 

A king’s heart is like streams of water in the hand of God;

He directs it wherever He pleases.

Proverbs 21:1

It is odd to me that we expect a corrupt man to show virtue, and yet every time we elect a new official, they come with a rap sheet. I cannot name one man or woman who hasn’t fouled up their record with their mouth at one time or another. Trump might be outrageous, a liar, idiotic–whatever one may scream, but cannot even an idiot, tempered by other idiots, be willing to preserve my right to think, speak, work, live as I see morally fit? Why aren’t we reveling in the fact that our president doesn’t have the power to take our babies and slaughter them outright, as China did for thirty-five years? I am treading lightly, but why is it that we look at issues such as abortion or gay rights and let them stir us up to boiling point–when freedom, though born of good will, ultimately gives people the license to choose as they see fit?

I admit it is fragile. I want to live uprightly; I want to speak on behalf of the innocent and spend my life showing mercy. But I cannot direct another person’s heart like streams of water in my hand. Only God can do that.

A president will always raise hackles. What is intolerable is dismissing virtue as nothing more than an asinine opinion, hate at best. We must not look for a relevant creature, but a warm blooded one. One that can listen, slightly wiser than a fool. I’m waiting for them to queue up, but these type seem to stay out of the spotlight. 

I do not think any public servant has ever cared or thought about me. I don’t even believe they are public servants. I only hear from them every so often, like a stray dog being called to eat when they want my vote. I see them on TV when the news anchors apologize for them, for everyone, for overspending the budget. By the time they are elected, they no longer are looking out for my best interests. They are too busy slapping the biting mosquitoes at their neck.

 We are compelled to look elsewhere if we are in need of a savior. 

Good news–he came, born in Bethlehem.

He, Jesus, is the one who provides the heart surgery we need. He emphasized our humanity in the face of God. He showed us what true freedom is–the choice we make when we ask him to release us from our chains. He offers peace and turns our eye away from public mayhem and inwardly to the corners of our heart. Let me tidy up this place, he whispers. I’ll give you my perspective.

God came low. He is infinitely more interested in the man or woman who is serving our country in the unseen places, the folks who do not need Twitter or any platform to blow off steam. The grassroots folk who are still trying to figure out how to love a neighbor, wrapping their mind around what it meant “we hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are created equal.” (Thank you, Lin-Manuel, for putting it into song.)

We had another conversation, my kids and I. “What’s freedom?” the five year old had asked. It was too hard to explain unless I tried to frame it as what freedom isn’t. “There are countries,” I explained, bluffing as I went and hoping it made five year old sense, “where you are not allowed to have more than one child. You must work at the job someone else chooses for you. They don’t want you to have a religion, follow God, or go to church because they want you to treat your country as a god.”

“Oh,” he nodded, solemn. “I’m glad we have freedom.”

I am, too. Freedom is a gift from God. It’s garden of eden level good. Freedom is having the choice to walk in the light or eat from the tree of knowledge of good and evil–and reveling in it.

We taste a glimpse of freedom just living in a country where we can impeach a ruler and disagree with one another at the water cooler tomorrow. Where we can write articles and publish them, not fearing recourse or imprisonment. Freedom, like it or not, is the ability to stir up hate or love, to sway others to your way of thinking, to try and persuade a man he is a sinner in need of a savior.


Freedom is praying–and optimistically hoping–for bad kings to turn good.