PearlS | The Average Pearl

Overfed and Unconcerned

A few times a year, the best kind of mail shows up in my mailbox. There are six kids sprinkled around the globe who send us letters and pictures. Eberson, in Haiti, sends me photos of him standing next to a calf and two fifty pound bags of rice and beans. Nohemi, a beautiful, ruddy-faced little girl in the mountains of Peru, sits next to her daddy with a stack of clothes, a doll, and a new table and chairs. The tie that binds us is one of money, because we support them monthly and send gifts for them to buy the goods we see in pictures. There is an obligation in the photo op, a head nod to our generosity.

This has a way of making me feel undone.

I’m caught so unaware when I open the envelope–ah! There are children who must buy a goat with their birthday money so their family might have milk. I am thrilled we have done something good, something helpful. But there is a truth that sits like a rock in my stomach. I am sickened that my pride is bolstered by their humiliation–they had to take a photo to prove their dire situation.

When I write back, I promise them I love them like my own children, I am concerned for their welfare. I pray for their safety and success. I hope to one day meet them, to hug their parents and grandparents.

But I will confess: the last letters I sent them sat, unmailed on my desk for two months. I kept putting off sending them because I first needed to address them, and the labels were down deep in the first drawer mess of my file cabinet.

Two months they sat there. During that time, Haiti fell apart. The people began to starve. Families began fleeing Venezuela. No rain fell in Kenya. Chinese churches were shut down because the government thought them a threat.

In the same period of time, I ordered four packages from Amazon. I watched an entire season of the British baking show. I ate out a dozen times. I got a puppy. I debated rearranging the living room.
The envelopes, full of encouragement and pictures of my healthy family on Mother’s Day, did not move from their corner on the desk.

My sponsored children write me. They tell me to pray that they might not contract diseases from mosquitoes. Their caregivers ask if we could pray they might be able to provide for their families. They ask how they can possibly pray for us.
I sit on my couch and flip channels, avoiding political news, debating whether to eat a piece of chocolate with my hot tea.

The divide is immense.

Recently I began telling the story of Ezekiel to my own kids. It was mostly for sport–Ezekiel was this guy who acted out the craziest scenes in order to get the attention of his people. He built a diorama of Jerusalem, then shaved his head and burned his hair inside the miniature city. He laid on his left side for a year and a month and didn’t even move. He dug a hole in the wall and climbed through it. He became the joke of the town to get the attention of his people. My little boys love these stories.

When I was reading back through Ezekiel to get my facts straight, I was confronted with the harshness of it, the stuff most Sunday school teachers skip right past. Far too R-rated to read to little boys without some bleeping. Back in his time, Ezekiel was living with some of the Jews who had been deported from their home to Babylon to live as slaves down by the river. There was a slew of false prophets in that day, guys that were promising the people that God wouldn’t destroy them completely, that they’d eventually get to go back home, and that every story had a happy ending. After all, they were God’s people, right?

But God had had enough. And he picked Ezekiel to give the message out, using the most peculiar pantomime. The Lord prepped Ezekiel for this task. He warned him that he’d be talking to knuckleheads who wouldn’t listen to him, but he also told him, “I’ll make your head even harder, harder than flint” (Ez. 3:9)–Ezekiel couldn’t back down.

For several chapters, the most awful things are prophesied, because the nation of Israel has forsaken their holy God. It’s a picture of people burning in the streets and dying by the sword, famine, cannibalism, natural disasters.

Why?! This, the plea of the casual reader. Isn’t God love?

But Israel had gone too far, offering their own children as sacrifices to idols and prostituting themselves to every passing notion. In fact, God compared the nation to Sodom, saying,

your sister Sodom and her daughters never did what you and your daughters have done. This was the sin of your sister, Sodom: She and her daughters were arrogant, overfed and unconcerned; they did not help the poor and needy. (Ez.16:49)

This stopped me in my tracks.
Overfed and unconcerned; they did not help the poor and needy.

It hit a nerve. Overfed and unconcerned. Overfed and unconcerned. It’s chanted in my mind over and over since I read it. Overfed and unconcerned–he is talking about me. This applies to the here and now, yet we set our heads like flint and won’t hear it.

Now, I think we have a problem with the media for sure. The media, who gets to decide what is newsworthy and what falls by the wayside. If we don’t know about the Chinese government and its renewed persecution of the Christian church, it could be because CNN doesn’t think it worth mentioning. If we’ve forgotten about the suffering in Haiti and Venezuela, Africa, the Middle East, and North Korea–it is possible Fox News is holding out. But I think cable news actually feeds us exactly what we want, and we suck it down like greedy babies. Overfed. We’d all rather chew up Trump and Pelosi like bubblegum than stretch out our arm to save the needy. We have these phones in our hands that offer steady amusement, and we won’t look up.
If we don’t know about these atrocities, it’s because we don’t care. We are unconcerned. We are stuffed with the little hors d’oeuvres of the world, our mouths attached to a constant stream of tasty gossip. I want my ears tickled; I don’t want to feel pain or guilt. I want to sleep at night. I want God to love me and not expect too much in return. From what I read in Ezekiel, this isn’t a new thing.

Yesterday, I went into my office and sat down. I have a bad habit of thinking I’ve finished a task when really all I’ve done is thought about it. There are still stamped, unsent Christmas cards from 2018 in the drawer because I never found the address for the recipient. When I started thinking about the problem, I realized it boiled down to my lack of self-control, my lack of caring. I assume I will be the only one affected by my laziness, and I can keep it a suave little secret. It is tricky, isn’t it? Our flesh, our unspiritual selves, have great influence when it comes to convincing us to do or not do what is set before us. It snakes its way into nasty habits and self-serving idolatry. Our lack of discipline evolves into downright neglect, and we can’t see it for what it is.
The apostle Paul understood this battle against the flesh. He said we need to train as if we were Olympic athletes, lest we become overfed and unconcerned.

Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one gets the prize? Run in such a way as to get the prize. Everyone who competes in the games goes into strict training. They do it to get a crown that will not last, but we do it to get a crown that will last forever. Therefore I do not run like someone running aimlessly; I do not fight like a boxer beating the air. No, I strike a blow to my body and make it my slave so that after I have preached to others, I myself will not be disqualified for the prize. (1 Cor. 9:24-27)

I am learning my discipline is tied to worship. Discipline to love my husband well, to set an example for my kids. Discipline to avoid the junk food of the world, pretty stuff with no real value. I need to train these muscles to walk toward the poor and needy, my eyes to see what is eternal. Self-control is a Spirit fruit (Gal. 5:23), and I need it to grow in every area of my life.

There is one boy–a man, actually–we have sponsored for nine years. He will turn 21 in a month. His mother and father are farm laborers and they have 11 children. I have thought what a simple thing it is for me to send this child of theirs an email telling him I believe in him. That if he focuses on a goal, he can accomplish anything. Over the years, I have become more cautious in the things I write. The fact of the matter is this: he is a young man in Haiti with limited education and opportunity. This year I wrote:

I hope this isn’t our final correspondence. I am concerned for you. I think that life must be very hard right now. I am praying for you. We will help in any way we can.

It takes discipline; it is sobering. It is bare bones, no fluff, written with all the love I can honestly offer.

He smiles at me from the picture on my refrigerator.

***I am convinced that supporting children in impoverished areas of the world is one of the most beautiful, tangible acts of love. If you are able and interested, check out Compassion International or World Vision.

Do not despise

Here’s Sulky Sue;

What shall we do?

Turn her face to the wall

Till she comes to.

If that should fail,

A smart touch with the cane,

Will soon make her good,

When she feels the pain.

Jacky Jingle and Sucky Shingle, 1800. (The Oxford Dictionary of Nursery Rhymes, Iona and Pete Opie, 1997)

“See that you do not despise one of these little ones, for I say to you, that their angels in heaven continually behold the face of My Father who is in heaven.”
Matthew 18:10

My third child began showing clear signs of orneriness before he was two years old. He didn’t talk very much, but his capacity for creating disaster trumped every energy reserve I had for toddler mischief. He was obsessed with cooking, the idea of playing with food and mimicking all kitchen activities. It seemed like every time I turned my back he was retrieving a fork from the silverware drawer to poke potatoes or whatever unlucky fruit was in the fruitbowl. Several times I caught him wadding up bits of newspaper and tossing them into my oven. He’d sneak graham crackers into his room to grate them on the screen window. He poured a sippy cup of milk into the oil diffuser and watched it bubble and smoke. More than once he asked me for water to put in his play kitchen. When I declined, I later found him emptying his small potty into the tiny soup pot.

My children are not especially good children. Neither are yours.

I think this comes as a blow to our self-assured nature in the times we are living. It seems as though culture these days won’t suffer intolerance, and yet they won’t suffer children either. And what parent doesn’t know that children are sometimes the most intolerable of creatures? I’ve never been more frustrated than with my own children. On the flip side, I’ve never felt more love for them. I would die for them.

And there is a bonus, an even greater gift, I think. That they should love me back–this is undoubtedly the greatest reward for my trouble.
Yesterday my oldest kid accidentally ripped out an entire refrigerator shelf in a hurry to get milk for his cereal (he neglected to put aside his recent chapter book and his hands were too full). Condiments and glass jars came crashing to the floor. I spent the next half hour mopping up barbecue sauce and broken shards of glass, trying not to mutter nasty things.

This same kid hugged me sporadically throughout the day and told me I had a servant’s heart (possibly super cheesy, but he’s nine. I eat it up). We are in a continual tug-of-war of deserving and undeserving, loving, despising, repenting, forgiving, and starting over. That there is any room at all for affection either given or taken–I cannot comprehend it. It’s too miraculous even amid all the mundane.

I remember when our little strong-willed chef boy was tiny. He was taking a very quiet bath in the tub, and I went to check on him. My suspicions were confirmed. He was silently shredding an entire roll of toilet paper into the water. White chunks floated around him and he swirled his hands through the mess, enchanted. When he heard my footsteps he looked up at me and frowned. I”m sure I shrieked a “What are you doing?!” before I yanked him out of the tub and sent him to his room. I fished the wads of TP out of the tub, drained it, and spanked the little boy’s bare bottom.

A few minutes later he boldly came out of his room and approached me, tears staining his cheeks. “Mom?” he said. “When you spank my bottom, God heals me.”

I felt the need to repent. Do not despise one of these little ones, Jesus said.

Being a parent is changing me into a far better person than I could have ever hoped to be. It’s forcing me to hold still and be more patient, and try not to flinch–sort of like a fierce game of Bloody Knuckles.
Still, sometimes I think we’d rather present our kids to the greater world as some sort of trophy. Something to be proud of, not something that has scarred us in the process of raising them. No one wants to see scars, ugly, though necessary.

We’d like to think our kids are sort of precious (they are!), but we like to let our toe slip over the line sometimes, considering them the most precious thing (they aren’t).

It reminds me of the adage, pearls before swine (Matthew 7:6). I’ve heard this metaphor a dozen times, specifically relating to children. What we usually ignore is the fact we are all far more piggish than we know. The precious pearls aren’t our children, it is our faith, which is worth more than gold (1 Peter 1:7). We are all beastlike and prone to trample pearls–some of us more subdued than the other. Jesus is saying we ought not dangle our faith out in front of folks who are hateful and intent on our destroying us. The waters ought to be tested before we share our hope (this is referring to the Gospel). We begin by tossing tasty morsels to a hungry, feral world. We show up as servants. We are laypersons–not gloating holier-than-thou selves, but showing up as peacemakers. We “live such good lives among the pagans that, though they accuse [us] of doing wrong, they may see [our] good deeds and glorify God on the day he visits us” (1 Peter 2:12). Bit by bit we pave the way to share the whole cookie. We find we haven’t had to knock on any doors and stand awkwardly–we’ve just naturally drawn the curious. We find ourselves in the path of confession–our appeal is less forced: “We implore you on Christ’s behalf: Be reconciled to God.” (2 Corinthians 5:20)

This might seem like the long way around. Actually, I’m sure it is taking the long way. Even writing about it has made me wonder, what’s your point, Pearl? Are you preaching? Well, sort of…yes. To myself.

I sit in church often and wonder as the communion plate is passed over my kids’ heads, if I’ve ever done anything right in raising them. I mean, I trust that we are running a long race here, but it’d sure be nice to have a little confirmation in the meantime–wouldn’t dunking him in the baptismal waters and letting him sip the teensy cup of grape juice give me some confidence? I haven’t forgot when he came home from church camp and earnestly remarked that he decided to “trust Jesus to forgive him.” I’m sure the camp staffers marked him down as saved, tallied his name right up there with the other little campers who made a “decision for Christ”. But what nine year old kid has really ever counted the cost of following Him? Why are we so eager to get his head wet and pass the bread? As much as I want my kids to believe what I believe, I cannot force their hand. I can’t in good conscience offer them a cup that represents blood when they’ve never really considered the cross. But I can keep pointing them at the world to behold its confusion. And I can lead them to the Word which offers hope; a light unto their path.

I’ll have to hold my hand steady and unflinching. These kids require some major attention. I’m older and more battle-worn, but I really don’t care. I adore watching them grow–out of the toilet paper shredding stage and into people just beginning to grasp Truth. I’m hoping they find me curious, magnetic, tolerable.
I find them a delight.

Let endurance have its perfect result, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing. But if any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask of God, who gives to all men generously and without reproach, and it will be given to him.

James 1:4-5

The only thing that counts

A year ago, I made a friend at an evening church program. She was a beautiful, strong mother of five kids, one only a few weeks old. She was witty and warm, undeterred by my pitiful, awkward small talk. We had two hours to burn and so we sat on the sofa in the foyer, sharing space. We were both in the process of looking for a church–she, because her previous church was splitting up, and we were looking because we’d just moved to the area. I made a comment on how hard it is when things change and you have a bunch of kids in the midst.
“I just enrolled my kids in our local public school,” I confessed, “and we homeschooled last year. Who knows how this year will go!”

“I homeschool my kids,” she said. “It’s really hard with the spread in ages. My big girls do great, but getting my ten year old boy to do his work is like pulling teeth. He screams and cries and has major meltdowns. I’m afraid he’s going to hate me.” Then she paused and said, “I wish someone could tell me it would all be okay if I just put him in public school.”

As I drove home that night, I couldn’t get her off my mind. When I homeschooled, I was constantly overwhelmed. Was it the three boys who circled like yapping puppies, never settling down? The baby who didn’t sleep through the night? Was it a lack of spousal support, the threatening feeling of no personal boundaries? My futile attempts at keeping things orderly? I was forever spinning my wheels and making no traction. Burned out emotionally, I was irritated when asked to teach Sunday school, too overstimulated to be gentle with anyone but myself. I was wedged between the most unforgiving rocks–expectation and obligation–and it was crushing me. Trapped. I was desperately trying to survive and secretly considering if I ought to cut my arm off Aron Ralston-style, just so I could escape.

Homeschooling friends would pat me on the back, nod knowingly. But I don’t think they knew. I don’t think they’d felt that way.

And I think my new friend was trying to tell me she was caught between the rocks.
I wish I’d stayed to help dig her out, to listen better as she poured out her worries. I wish I’d had the forethought to encourage her with what God says in his Word.

In Galatians, Paul addresses freedom in Christ under the umbrella of grace. The church there was tacking on extra rules and regulations, being swayed by every whim, and he saw it fit to set them straight. He said to them,
The only thing that counts is faith expressing itself through love.
(Galatians 5:6)
The only thing that counts. Everything else is going to fade away. How can you love your child best and trust Jesus the most? If those two arrows insect at homeschool, then homeschool. If they intersect at public school, then public school!

My family ended up in a Title I school in the city before we hit the sweet spot. All the resources I’d been collecting, the research I’d depended on earlier–it was all garbage in light of what I think the Lord was trying to teach me.

Trust in the Lord with all your heart
And lean not on your own understanding;
In all your ways submit to him,
And he will make your paths straight.
Proverbs 3:5-6

Trust me, he’d been whispering, my plan is so much bigger than what you can see. Follow me and you’ll never wander into the desert.

I’ve known people who have avoided public school because they are conservative, and they feel public school too liberal. Many of these people have advised me to depend on God, that those he calls, he equips. I know liberals who have avoided school because they think it too conservative. Most of these people have no other advice than to wing it.
But I’ve met very few people who risk their lives by banking solely on the words of God: I will never leave you or abandon you (Deut.31:8), and, take heart, I have overcome the world (John 16:33). I desperately want to be one of those people who believes it’s true.

Think about this, when your little girl comes home crying because someone made fun of her outfit. When your little boy rode the bus home and heard all that naughty language. When they don’t make it into chamber choir. When there is porn in the locker room.
Is trusting Jesus–just Jesus–enough to handle these situations? How do we actively prepare our kids for this world?

I love the perspective Francis Chan takes on schooling:

Some say it’s unfair to throw a child into public school. They compare it to throwing a kid into a rushing river to teach him or her to swim. It’s unfair and impossible. That assumes the Holy Spirit has limited or no power in their lives. I have chosen to see my children as Olympic swimmers. I tell them they are missionaries in their schools and can trust in the Spirit’s power to overcome challenges and to have an impact on those around them. My hope is this training in Holy Spirit dependence proves helpful in an unreached people group or Fortune 500 company…I am not saying everyone should throw their kids into public school. I am also not saying we should foolishly endanger them. I am just wondering whether our habit of underestimating God’s power in them may be a mind-set we develop in them that continues through middle school, high school, and into adulthood.
(Francis Chan, Letters to the Church)

Public school will not cost you your child, but apathy will.

I’ve done the math. My kids are in school 6.75 hours a day, five days a week. This adds up to 33.75 hours a week, 20% of my week. Even if I subtract sleeping from the equation, I have twice the amount of time at home with my kids as the time they spend in class. Public school is just another hammer in my toolbox.
It is an institution, yes, but it is not just a cold, brown brick building. It is filled with people; mostly the kind that love kids. Now, I’ve met a few weirdos in school to be sure, and there is always going to be someone pushing an agenda. But guess what? We all have an agenda! I have one too, a clear purpose in mind: let them behold a world that needs Jesus. Let them, as a process of maturation, come to their own conclusion.
It’s amazing to me…a tool I could have never designed on my own. My kids return home to me daily pointing out differences:

“Cody watches scary shows, he’s always talking about Freddy or Chucky. I wish he didn’t talk about that.”
“He says the D word all day long and he sits right next to me! I’m so tired of it!”
“I don’t think Ricardo believes in God, he’s always muttering nasty stuff about the teacher.”
“Kyle says his parents beat him.”

Rotten stuff, right? But it is these matter-of-fact observations that show me they are picking up on the idea that this world needs to be put right. The rotten stuff itself opens the door for mercy to flood in. And usually, interspersed with their observations of a broken world, my kids glow with pride:

“Guess what? I got to go down to the kindergarten class and give a presentation on bullying and how to fight it.”
“Mrs. C paired me up with Avi because he doesn’t speak English and she says I’m such a kind helper.”
“I got three pride passes this week!”
“I started a kindness club at recess–we come to the rescue of people who look sad!”

At the kitchen table after school, the lines are open. I’m here to listen and react thoughtfully, carefully. Far be it from me to shut this conversation down. This is as good of learning as any, and I feel so free, so light. I’ve come to the end of myself and found He is right there, leading the way. He’s preparing my kids in ways I never could’ve dreamed up on my own.
It’s the safest and wildest place to play.

Public school didn’t free me from the twin boulders of obligation and expectation–faith expressing itself through love did.

Public Schoolers

A month ago, as I was preparing to send my kids back to school, a homeschool acquaintance and I were visiting. “I’m so excited for them to go back, meet their new teachers and see all their friends,” I remarked. “I really love our public school.”

“Except for all the wrong things you have to teach them to unlearn,” he joked.

My stunned look did not linger–this is par for the course, I’ve come to realize. I’ve homeschooled before, and I’ve made a thousand conclusions of my own. How many splinters have I dug out of others’ eyes, not realizing the planks in mine?

Still, it stings to be a ne-er-do-well, public school lover in the American Christian church these days. Where is our recourse? What does one say? Do I have the right to feel offended–was he suggesting negligence on my part? Because homeschoolers (I believe, from experience) are the touchiest of people when it comes to opinions on raising kids.
What about all things working together for the good of those who love the Lord? Were there exceptions even to this?

I am thirty-five years old. I have a husband, kids, a mortgage. I am an adult, old enough to own responsibility, equipped enough to defend my choices. Perhaps sometimes it would be worth articulating a view so that others might borrow the fortress when in need.

Public schoolers, even those with close friends and family who homeschool, should not be afraid. I should know the risk I take when I write about it… All my brothers and their wives, even my husband and his brothers–homeschool or were homeschooled. There is a lot riding on my opinions–familial peace, to name a big one.

In my circle, the topic of public school versus homeschool is rife with strong opinions. From what I can tell, it’s like walking on glass to bring it up. One person knows the importance of wearing shoes, the other avoids broken glass altogether. Who is right, who is wrong?

If you don’t think Satan uses fear to deceive us in such uncertain times, you are fooled. Still, it is spiritually overwhelming to think of all the possibilities and have no firm conclusion on what is right or best. I’ve felt crippled amid all my options–is the whole world a stage and are we the actors? Does the Charlotte Mason of a hundred years ago still apply to my home in the suburbs? If my children are naturally little explorers, why do they prefer to be inside fiddling with legos? Who am I to stop them? If I, the parent, am their best teacher, who can ever play the role of substitute? Why does my soul immediately feel calmer when I’m not doling out homework and supper interchangeably? Why are my children wild little minions? Am I doing something horribly wrong?

It is a miserable, consuming burden to roll these thoughts about in my mind.

Worse, to feel pressured by others to do the thing that is malleable and wholly adaptable to one’s life situation.

This is why I have given my kids over to public school and left my wrestling thoughts at the feet of Jesus. Let other folks think it a conflict of interest–I am finally at peace.

I have arrived at peace not because of blind faith (though there certainly is a lot of it involved), but because I’ve tested the waters. I’m trusting in the One who has overcome the world (1 John 4:4). Ultimately, this is what happened: I became despaired that I couldn’t do it all, couldn’t be a good wife, mom, teacher, friend. I feared we were all walking straight off a cliff, no matter what was at the bottom of the canyon. We would be dead upon arrival. Well-meaning words from the peanut gallery only increased my anxiety. So we left, grabbed a hold of Jesus’ hand and let him lead us down the craggy mountain.

Surprisingly, He didn’t ask us to forfeit our children to the world. As a younger mom, I think I had the idea that God wanted me to go ahead and passively sacrifice my kids to him–here you go, God, your will be done. Either than, or I’d better turn out kids like perfect little Jesus cookie cutters–don’t screw up, child! And I knew from experience how damaging that could be. But you know what? I hadn’t suspected it, but there turns out to be a very happy middle ground. You don’t have to throw your child to the wolves or lock them up away from strangers.

The Gospel is family-centric; it values self-denial which can’t be discovered more aptly than in a parent’s love for a child and a child’s obedience to their parent.

One might point to the verse when Jesus says you must hate your mother, father, sister, brother to be his disciple (Luke 14:26)–but this doesn’t deny the importance of the family unit. In context, it is justified to say that Jesus must be the cornerstone of all we do in faith, including marriage or raising kids. The message of the Gospel–Jesus giving himself up for us–is foundational for any success we might have relationally, because love is born of forgiveness; its core is denial of self. This is indeed a struggle, but a beautiful, joyful one.

Paul remarked to Timothy of the great love of his mom and grandma who trained him in the Scriptures from youth (2 Tim 1:5, 3:14-15). Obviously these women didn’t flee their responsibilities of raising young Timothy in pursuit of their own interests…but they weren’t necessarily homeschoolers, either.

Unfortunately, I think some of the Christian crowd has used the Gospel interchangeably with the term homeschool. We think the only way to train up a child is to keep them at home, under our wing. We think, the Gospel is family-centric, and the closest thing to protecting the institution is homeschool. Perhaps it hasn’t been articulated so, but believe me, we public schoolers hear it loud and clear. God isn’t in school, He is at home with me and my kids.

Last spring there was a school shooting in our metro area. As is protocol, counselors went into classrooms a day later to address the concerns of the students. My son, a precocious nine year old, came home that afternoon and reported it to me.

“Did you know there was a shooting yesterday?” he asked.

“Yeah, Jube, I did,” I said. “I’m so sad that this happens, babe. What a rotten world we live in. Did you guys talk about it at school?”

“A counselor came in, and we all sat and talked about it,” he shrugged. “We didn’t do much. The lady made us all take a deep breath and release it–one for each victim. Then she told us we need to talk kindly to ourselves because our ears are listening.”

I grimaced. This is why people homeschool their kids. “And what did you think about that?” I asked him.

Jubal thought for a moment. “You know, I think that it was nice to take a deep breath to remember the people affected, but did it really help anybody? Does it help to speak kindly to ourselves? Because I don’t think it does. Only God can change our hearts. Only He can save us from ourselves.”

This is the story I told my friend who mentioned my chore in teaching them to unlearn all the wrong things they pick up at public school.

We are not raising kids in a bubble, and they are far more equipped for the world than we give credit. But it has taken me a lot of leaning into Jesus to release my own children into a hostile, hateful world.

I came across a wonderful, out-of-print copy of Heaven Help the Home! By Howard G. Hendricks. Published in 1973, its words on the “prevailing attitude of passivity” ring even truer today:

Many parents somehow hope for the best and plod along under the cliche, “We just trust the Lord”–which can be a pitiful cop-out. There’s one thing you want to tack in the center of your theological thinking: in both the Old and New Testaments faith, belief, trust are never passive.
Faith that is genuine is always active. The Psalmist put it clearly, “Trust in the Lord and do good” (Ps. 37:3, NASB). You see, your behavior either gives the lie to your beliefs or underscores their reality. Are you trusting the Lord for the means as well as the end? He works in both.

Look at the evidence. Noah sweated through years of preaching, of warning about the flood, of building a boat of radical design. There was no stagnation in Noah’s life. He was running a race with a global cloudburst. God said so–and Noah acted.

Abraham put his townhouse up for sale. To settle in the suburbs? Never! He toured the desert like a nomad. He spent a lifetime scouting real estate for his future family. God said, “Move!” Abraham kept moving.

Moses, plucked from the seclusion of the bulrushes, became the favorite of the Egyptian palace. Later, the diving mandate from the burning bush shifted him into high gear. He defied Pharaoh, marched across the Red Sea, wandered through the wilderness, and never stopped until God took him from Mount Nebo. No immobility for Moses.

All these heroes and many more pleased God because of their faith. The storms of unbelief were raging, but these stalwarts of the faith kept on building the fire! There is no excuse for late 20th century parents to close their family shutters and huddle in the darkness, just “trusting the Lord.” We need to move out where the action is and mix it up with the society to whom God has called us to minister.

What an exhortation! I can’t say I’ve heard anyone cheer so encouragingly, so loudly for true faith in action. God, who is able, calls and equips. He is pleased to help us on the long journey of raising kids. He doesn’t abandon us when we choose public school!

Still, I know how scary it can be. The third chapter of 2 Timothy has some severe words to describe terrible times that were ahead for believers. He warns,
People will be lovers of themselves, lovers of money, boastful, proud, abusive, disobedient to their parents, ungrateful, unholy, without love, unforgiving, slanderous, without self-control, brutal, not lovers of the good, treacherous, rash, conceited, lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God–having a form of godliness but denying its power. Have nothing to do with such people.

2 Timothy 3:1-5

I don’t believe Paul is talking only about people outside the church, but all of culture as a whole. Even people who parade around, waving their Christian flag. This, if we’re being honest, is horrific yet prophetic. It’s already obvious in our lifetime. But we cannot let fear defeat faith, and we who follow Jesus have marching orders.
Join with me in suffering, like a good soldier of Christ Jesus. No one serving as a soldier gets entangled in civilian affairs, but rather tries to please his commanding officer. (2 Tim. 2:3-4)

Isn’t there inherent danger in following Jesus, bearing a cross, raising a family?

If we are losing our children it is because we’ve abandoned them to themselves or preached another gospel altogether. We’ve left them under the glossy banner of Jesus when we should’ve been leading them to the cross. We’ve touted unnecessary freedoms in favor of strength training, that they might bear up under oppression and persecution.

When I read Bible stories to my kids, I’m blown away by the foolish, worthless characters God happens to use for his glory. Gideon? Weak, cowardly. David? Seemingly manic-depressive. Jonah? A jerk. Yet God routed their fickle nature and the arrogant culture pervading their times. Can He not use me, too? Can I not depend wholly on His word, which is able to equip me for every good work? (2 Tim. 3:17) Can not my children depend on Him too?
I–a lover of books, art, history, and all things nerdy could set them on a path of memorizing Shakespeare and quaint poems from the 1800s, and they might tire of it in a year’s time. I might organize the nicest little reading nook, take them on every nature walk within twenty miles. Do I think this sort of lifestyle will follow them into adulthood? Isn’t this exactly what King Solomon cried out as meaningless? I could wear myself out preparing a path for my child and not my child for the path. Or I could look at things more reasonably from a kingdom perspective–everything in passing away. We are but a breath, a vapor. Our minds aren’t for reckoning as much as our souls are made for worship. In light of what is going on in the world, shouldn’t I make them aware that people will be lovers of themselves, lovers of money, boastful, proud, abusive, disobedient to their parents, ungrateful, unholy, without love, unforgiving, slanderous, without self-control, brutal, not lovers of the good, treacherous, rash, conceited, lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God?

We are in this world, and yet we are not to look like the people around us. Throughout life we are making choices. I might choose to be a stay at home mother with my children in their early years because it seems beneficial to them to experience a mundane, safe, dependable home life. I might decide to get rid of Netflix, eliminate screen time, feed my kids more veggies, go to bed early. It’s up to me as a grownup–I judge what is necessary, what is wholesome and appropriate for my family. Might we slowly teach them about racism, entitlement, poverty–by bumping shoulders with the world?

If life, then, is a million choices, each one will draw us closer to Jesus or distance ourselves from Him. If the better portion of our life–adulthood–is to be spent “testing the spirits”–how are we preparing our kids for the future? What kind of education will best teach them to ask the right questions?

This is where we have settled, in that hazy mundane of kids beginning to ask hard questions and Jesus-take-the-wheel kind of answers. Public schoolers with our eyes on the horizon, feet in the fire.

It will be said that a rational person accepts the world as mixed of good and evil with a decent satisfaction and a decent endurance. But this is exactly the attitude which I maintain to be defective… We do not want joy and anger to neutralise each other and produce a surly contentment; we want a fiercer delight and a fiercer discontent. We have to feel the universe at once as an ogre’s castle, to be stormed, and yet as our own cottage, to which we can return at evening.
No one doubts that an ordinary man can get on with this world; but we demand not strength enough to get on with it, but strength enough to get on. Can he hate it enough to change it, and yet love it enough to think it worth changing?
Chesterton, Orthodoxy

Those who see

Rich Man Dilemma
Essay 3

Jubal and I visited the Leonardo da Vinci exhibit at the museum in the spring. We are two unapologetic history nerds, our pockets already full of vitruvian man and flying machine facts. Psychology and science have always fascinated me…I might’ve majored in psychology if it hadn’t been for my dad poking fun at it. Not that he paid for my college–he certainly didn’t–but I feared his opinion more than my desire because he was the wisest person I knew. The metaphysical and any obscure philosophy was irrelevant to him, and I was obviously wasting time and energy if I cared to know anything of ids or egos.

The obedient daughter acquiesced.

Of course psychology is, ultimately, man’s finite grasp on human motivation. We could fill up all the tabulas rasas in the world and still be scratching out new notions. Still, I was curious. I am curious. When a baby’s mother walks out of the room, does he really cry because he thinks she has gone forever? Why do my children, upon entering the car and barely pulling out of the garage, insist they are starving and in need of a snack? Is this Pavlovian pull a result of me not feeding them enough, or are they triggered by smell old left-behind Doritos and the motion of a car in reverse?

On the wall at the da Vinci exhibit was a quote of his:

There are three classes of people: those who see, those who see when they are shown, those who do not see.

I would bet that everyone walking around the exhibit read that quote and thought, ah, I am a person who sees! Da Vinci, in his genius, surely made this observation with himself at the helm of his vessel. He was ignorant to his own cocky nature. Isn’t it the truth? Our pride indicates our very need to be humbled.

I get caught up in this spin cycle on a daily basis. I love (love!) researching things, collecting an infinite wading pool of information. This buoys my power to reason and feel acceptably knowledgeable in a world of confusion. I like feeling as if I’ve got things figured out–only then can I articulate a sense of belonging or security. When I am unsure, I reason that I am only ignorant and must dig for more information. Once I’ve done some research, certainly again rules the throne and I go only my merry way until I hit the next fork in the road.

The evidence of this habit in my life are stacks and stacks of books that are marked and underlined. A hundred tabs on my computer, audiobooks on my phone. In the last two weeks alone I have read and listened to hours of Enneagram books and podcasts. I’ve read about school policies and puppy training, Abraham Lincoln and clownfish (did you know the male turns into a female?), the Khmer Regime, Emily Dickinson. I’ve read about rigid-minded versus high-performing children. I’ve read Francis Chan’s latest book on church and The Denver Post. I watched an entire Netflix series on tacos just so I could practice my Spanish comprehension.

The key thing to note is the time I’m afforded to peruse my interests. The phone in my pocket, the computer on my desk. The car that can get me to a library. The Netflix account. The one-click Amazon life.
I am blind to my entitlement and the power that money affords. Education. Literacy. Freedom to ask questions.

I think I am a person who sees. I think I am a person who knows.

I think I am a person who has scaled the sacred pyramid of Maslow. I’ve surpassed the need levels of physiology, safety, love, esteem; eventually steam rolling on to self-actualization. I check the boxes like it’s my grocery list: well-fed, check. Safe neighborhood, security system, check. Husband and kids, check. Respectable job, meaningful work, check check.

Who can fault me for wanting meaningful conversations, a four bedroom house, and weekend museum visits with my exceptional, talented children? I can stand unashamed because I’ve worked hard to get here. All the arrows point up to hand-painted rainbow framing my American dream-land. Isn’t it my right and reward?

James 1:9-10 says,

Believers in humble circumstances ought to take pride in their high position. But the rich should take pride in their humiliation–since they will pass away like a wildflower.

The truth is, most of us will never see, even when we are shown. I think I am pursuing excellence when all I’m doing is building pride of life–a fragile little wisp, a wilting wildflower. I’m living in the neighborhood of make-believe with the other puppets. Any time I Super Mario-ed my way up to the next level, I wasn’t gaining favor with anyone but me–it was always a game to distract myself from what was real. Ultimately–shamefully–it’s been all about me. All I can take pride in is my own humiliation: I’ve been cultivating contempt for the One who made me.

Perhaps Maslow’s pyramid is shaped a lot like the Tower of Babel. Could it be we weren’t ever meant to summit the slippery slope to the peak?

Maybe our humanistic approach is so self-serving, so prideful that God must come level the construction. He must confound us back down to the ground.
I say this because no amount of thinking it over and reasoning it out has led me to peace or even a truer, more holistic and balanced life. What happened in my own life looked more like striving for perfection followed by a slow-motion crash and burn. This was evidenced by deep depression and hopelessness. And that was actually when the light broke through, when I understood what it meant to be forgiven for trying to blaze my own miserable path. You see, reasoning never gave me a green light on trusting God. Desperation and confusion did. Poverty of the soul.

I wonder if the rich young ruler wasn’t but an eighteen year old kid when he met Jesus. Was he a philosophical man? Perhaps he grew up and had a life-altering experience that brought his knees to the ground. Maybe he changed– “What is impossible with man is possible with God.” (Luke 18)

Or maybe he just kept clawing his way to the top, forever unsatisfied. Blind, yet convinced he could see.

Whoever loves money never has enough;
Whoever loves wealth is never satisfied with their income.
This too is meaningless.
Ecclesiastes 5:10

Jesus and

Rich Man Dilemma
Essay 2

“No one can serve two masters. Either you will hate the one and love the other, or you will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and money.”

The Pharisees, who loved money, heard all this and were sneering at Jesus. He said to them, “You are the ones who justify yourselves in the eyes of others, but God knows your hearts. What people value highly is detestable in God’s sight.”

Luke 16:13-15

It wasn’t only my phone that alerted me to my jealous, self-serving ways. It was how easily it slid in and out of my pocket at a moment’s notice. It was how everyone else had the same lust for theirs. How we all could carry a conversation without meeting one another’s eye. How we could all holler at our children when they threatened to touch it, yet cradle it for hours in our own greedy paws. It isn’t an addiction, we told ourselves. I need it for work. What if my husband tries to call me?

The rich young ruler was, in every sense, addicted to his lifestyle. He was far too content to leave it behind, even when the master of the universe beckoned. It was the ease he didn’t care to abandon; he actually didn’t have an inkling there was anything wrong with it. Jesus and tacos, Jesus and coffee, Jesus, a king sized bed, air-conditioning, puppies and pedicures. Jesus plus the world! The rich man was astonished that Jesus might ask him to leave it behind.

A year and a half ago, my husband and I were raising four beautiful wild children in southwest Colorado, the crown of the mountains. After nine years our souls suddenly felt burdened and we didn’t know why. We finally were making enough money to pay our mortgage and then some. I homeschooled the kids (this adventure in another book) and felt fairly righteous about performing this “ultimate sacrifice” of love for their well-being. We lived among weekend warriors who valued the thrill of adventure–hiking, ultrarunning, mountain biking, skiing, snowboarding. The people around us were beautiful, healthy, successful.
But the have-it-all lifestyle told another story. An obvious disdain for the disadvantaged and underperforming hung thick in the mountain air. A rich man doesn’t want to look around and see his world out of order. He doesn’t want to see anyone struggling, so he will pretend no one is struggling. Most casual conversations barely scraped the surface because no one was admitting to themselves or anyone else that life could be more what pleasures afforded us.

For several years this didn’t bother us. It’s the culture, we reasoned. We became weekend warriors like the rest, paying homage to our youthful bodies by covering miles of mountain trails. But as time went on, it felt like a hamster wheel. Nothing varied. Everyone was always fine, even happy! Not one person needed us, not really, and we felt a little pressure to reciprocate this attitude. Maybe, we thought, maybe we shouldn’t need anybody, either.

Thankfully, this little inkling didn’t grow too big before we shook it off for the lie it was.

We couldn’t ignore the suicide statistics in our county, somewhere triple the national average. We could no longer turn a blind eye to the acquaintances whose marriages were crumbling despite their allegiance to whole foods, recycling, sunrise hikes.

We were affected; we were distraught. We sat on our sofa at night and puzzled what it could mean. What would the future look like if we stayed in our mountain paradise and gave our young family all the benefits of a successful, money-fueled lifestyle? What of homeschool, a season pass to the ski resort, local breweries filled with IPA beers and flat brimmed hats spelled disaster? We could still curb the outside influences, shield our kids from bad news. We could teach AWANA on Wednesday nights after we came home from ski school. It made for a good Instagram account, but the account we were worried about was the one we’d have to give to the Lord some day.

That’s when we realized Jesus was nowhere to be found on our mountain. He wasn’t hanging around behind the curtains, waiting for a spotlight. He wasn’t even the spotlight, shining down his blessing on our stylish Colorado adventure-life. If we wanted Jesus to be a part of it, to reign as king, we’d have to let our lifestyle die. We had to stop caring about fitting it, independence, about what other people thought of us; we’d even have to drop the homeschool facade. Our hippy, privileged laissez-faire, you-do-you attitude actually reeked of superiority and we were beginning to smell of it. Jesus said to the rich man: give it all up and follow me.

He wanted our radical dependence on him, not some fake self-glorified version of piety. God or Money, the good Teacher said. “You are the ones who justify yourselves in the eyes of others, but God knows your hearts.”

This is hard to let past our stubborn ears. I’ve often comforted myself with the old sermon on how it isn’t money that is the root of all evil, but the love of it. It’s actually pretty easy to convince myself I don’t love money, and then I can go right on spending it. I can go on worshipping the lifestyle it can buy me. My kids can still be outstanding musicians as long as I can afford private lessons. I can live on the mountain, have a manicured yard, hire babysitters and housekeepers, go on dream vacations, buy all my groceries from Whole Foods. It all has God’s stamp of approval, because I’ve convinced myself I don’t love money. I just kind of love what it affords.
See, money can become a snare. It looks so pretty. So attainable. So worth getting caught up in. But it is still a trap. It becomes the master of me, and Jesus said there can only be one master, God or Money.

Jesus asked the rich young ruler to do less, to be less. To take up less space on this green earth biding time on his own terms. Jesus asked the guy to risk it all, to ditch his rich-man lifestyle. He was asking him to take a chance that there was more, bigger, better, holier in store for him.

This is precisely why the man went away sad–the Savior told him to pick a Master. Yet the man spoke with Jesus in the flesh! How could he have not followed! Every good little girl or boy in Sunday school has wondered. We root for him, pick Jesus! As if the matter is as simple as honey or jelly on toast. But it is no tidy matter, this I can tell you. It turns out money can buy happiness, at least for a while. You just have to keep acquiring it and spending it to keep up the momentum. The rich man–he “became very sad, because he was very wealthy.” (Lk. 18:23) He could see his whole, promising future with a little price sticker at the bottom, and he could afford it, the lakehouse, the boat, the whole shebang. He was heartsick because he already had a master, and it wasn’t God.

Every day I face the rich man’s dilemma.
I admit, It is a heck of a lot harder to look Jesus in the eye when I have two cars parked in my garage and nice clothes on my back.
But I’m changing. In the last year alone, I’ve learned more about who Jesus is, and it’s made me aware of my former fickleness. It’s made me despise my old Master and how easily I used to agree with the world. The scratched-up, thirteen-year-old, paid-for car no longer beckons me to trade it in for a slick minivan. My kids are public schoolers, and I don’t even try to justify this fact in the eyes of others. We have left some things to follow Jesus, even recently. Everytime we say no to the world, to the expectations of culture and even well-meaning friends, we say another yes to Jesus. We tilt our heads to listen to what the world is saying, then we crack open the Bible to see what His Word is saying.
And we choose Jesus–only Jesus–to be our Master.