Author Archives: PearlS

Banned books

Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing.
To Kill A Mockingbird, Harper Lee

From one book-loving nerd to the next, happy banned books week! No surprise, there are a few questionable books on the most-challenged books list (by The American Library Association’s Office for Intellectual Freedom).
Skippyjon Jones, for one, a cat that pretends he’s a dog is accused of “misrepresenting” culture. I’m sorry, but we have a cat pretending to be a dog–if anything, this ought to be the foremost qualifier for misrepresentation. When did Skippyjon become the ambassador for politically correct behavior? Holy frijoles!

Of course Dav Pilkey and his Captain Underpants made the list, and like I say–rue the day that man got a publisher! Potty humor obviously has no limits, and Pilkey will take all your seven year old boys’ book order money to the bank. Count on it.

The majority of books are banned for sex–and here I’d just like to say that if you are going to be talking of such things, mightn’t it be better to address an adult crowd? Who puts such a heavy book in the hands of a child? We have labor laws because kids shouldn’t have to bear certain responsibilities…Are children allowed no protection when it comes to adult topics?

I was innocently putting books into my weekly take-home stack and picked up the picture book A Day in the Life of Marlon Bundo. This book was displayed face-out on the shelf and had a cute picture, so it made it home with me. Halfway through reading it on our couch, I realized it wasn’t quite three year old little girl material. Sarcasm, politics, and same-sex relationships just don’t sing the same tune as one-minute Disney bedtime stories.

There were also a couple of books on teen suicide–something I’m pretty sure depressed kids ought not to be studying. Toward the bottom of the list was one called Two Boys Kissing, complete with a photo cover of the very thing–just in case you weren’t sure what the book was about.

This is nothing new; nothing new under the sun. I roll my eyes at the public library vibe because I’ve lived in enough places to know they are all the same. Banned books week is menial, a minute drop in the bucket. One more free speech flag to pump the air of propaganda. When I visited the New York library gift shop in March, the cashier showed me a sold-out postcard of RuPaul, even though there were dozens of other portraits of famous New Yorkers to choose from. Public libraries are the outest and proudest of publicly funded entities. Even if they are on the furthermost fringe of all progressive thinking, they are still the best thing about paying taxes. I love libraries for the books–sharing is my favorite!

Folks, let them normalize whatever bizarre behavior they like–this world is passing away. It will try and get you worked up one way or another. You will fall in line with the crowd that cheers for banned books, or you will feel slightly offended if not hotly in favor of burning them. Either way, it is exactly what the deceiver of the world, the “prince of the power of the air” wants to stir up. He wants you to take your eyes off the prize. He wants to stir animosity–an unnecessary battle between the indecently proud and the too-good, holier-than-thous. Don’t waste your breath–or matches.

If you want to do something so outrageous, completely unheard of–I’ll tell you a secret about a book that is so bad, so banned, that whole governments have deleted it from online retailers. This book is being rewritten and printed to reinforce fascist dependency. In China, a nation of over one billion people, even references to this book are being hunted down and deleted from non-religious textbooks and literature. This book has the power to bind people together, divide thoughts and feelings, withstand persecution and hate. It brings people to their knees and then raises them up with purpose. Censoring it–eliminating it–only increases its power. Smugglers risk their lives to bring it into closed countries. It’s not banned in America, yet hardly anyone cares enough to read it unless it shows up in their Facebook feed, a single scripted-font verse on a stock beach photo background.

I wonder if America ought to ban Bibles, so we might see how precious God’s word is. I wonder if tomorrow, all the Bibles in our homes were gathered up by the government and burned, who would be our Denzel Washington, our Eli, to remind us what this precious book said. Do you survive on this daily bread? Is it a lamp unto your feet? Is it written on your heart? Do you take every opportunity to read it to your children?

I wonder about Josiah the king and his excitement when the scrolls were found in the temple. How he unrolled them and read them to his people and they all tore their clothes in anguish at having strayed so far from God. How they stood up and vowed to take the book seriously.
David wrote a psalm, the longest one in the Bible, every single line declaring the sweetness of God’s word. Ezekiel ate it; it tasted like honey.

In China, in 2019, they are locking folks up in prison who “incite subversion” simply by reading–and obeying–the words in this book. For Chinese Christians, there is no bigger boon to their faith than a black market Bible.

Perhaps the librarians will never display it face-out on the shelves. But there’s a good chance you have one getting dusty on your own shelf at home. Break out the banned books, it’s time for a revelation.

Glory Beast

The day before our wedding day amid the hustling preparation, my soon-to-be husband whisked me away to a solitary place. He wanted to give me something, he said. I sat on the steps of the gazebo, two feet from the place we would say our vows in the morning as he pulled a small box from behind his back. I sensed this a precious moment, because in my mind newlyweds ought to have shared memories of closeness, though I didn’t quite know what it should mean to me. After all, we’d had no formal engagement, no diamond ring on my finger. We had hardly planned a wedding or sent out invitations. It seemed sort of frivolous and expensive, a lot of trouble to put on a show for other people we wouldn’t be marrying.

So there I sat on the gazebo step, wondering why on earth we were being so formal and weird and romantic. He carefully presented me with a pearl necklace and fastened it around my neck. I felt like I probably ought to cry or evoke some precious emotion, because that is what one should do in such a moment. Nevertheless, my eyes stayed dry. I was bewildered, my nonfeelings relieved when he shrugged and said, “Yeah…My dad told me I needed to buy you some jewelry. It’s something you’re supposed to do, I guess.”
Perhaps it was then that the disappointment crept in, crawling somewhere into my soul and beginning to warm the bench next to all my newlywed expectations. 

He didn’t know and I didn’t know–we were sorely prepared for making promises. The necklace was a nice gift, but we had gone along with what was expected of us. We were kids. We didn’t have a clue on how married people did things; we were barely old enough to know better than to fight about who did the dishes or took out the trash. We certainly didn’t recognize that marriage itself was a living, breathing thing. That when the two become one, both must maintain vigil to keep the beast alive. We just thought it was a teeter-totter: give-take, give-take. 

It took me a long time for myself to understand, if I’m honest, that love is not marked in columns, but is rather the feeding of a live organism, the mash-up of two souls.

Predating enneagram wisdom and love languages, I could smell trouble. We simply didn’t have a thing in common. The differences between us seemed like infinite hurdles stretching into forever. I live mostly in my head, thinking and rethinking. He, on the other hand, usually had one ear turned off, one on, making split decisions. Brutal years of trying to figure out why he thinks and behaves the way he does caused my reasoning soul a lot of mental anguish. I cannot speak for him, but I’m almost certain this is a well-beaten, two-way path.

There are lovers who write of love and I choke on their sentiments. There are authors who write on life and I wonder where I’ve disembarked from the typical voyage. Who, in fact, makes these mushy Hallmark cards? Why do we read the words and wholly agree it just might purvey our exact sentiments? Who makes a marriage vow–for better or worse, richer or poorer, sickness or health– having any idea how the dice will roll? 
The fact is this: in my spouse I have discovered my truest advocate and nearest adversary. And in some bizarre, upturned way he is the only one for me. For all our frustrations, we still favor each other. Our vows seal the unknowable. Forgiveness paves the way for hope. 

We are buoyed by a covenant faith–a belief that our struggles are holy. That our light and momentary struggles are achieving an eternal glory. (2 Cor. 4:17)

We aim for glory.

At some point we must have begun sailing away from everyone’s expectations. It was an act of self-preservation, we realized–the two must leave and cleave. Still, our feet are very much on the ground, rooted in reality. There is a necessary, reliable boredom on which a sturdy union stands. We intentionally do not seek out bigger and better–we don’t try to balance the future on a teeter-totter of what’s fair and equal. The fact of the matter is this–he is a better businessman than I will ever be, and I am his superior when it comes to haggling children. We stay in our lanes and clap high-fives upon passing.

On a good day—there are more and more of these–we will focus on the things that cause us to cling. We’ve built muscle memory adept at looking past our flaws. The rituals of marriage call for closing the gap, maintaining a pleasant normal–sort of like fluffing a pillow. Intimacy, service, encouragement, food…taking turns with Monday night football and British baking shows. I’ll brush the kids’ teeth and you can put them to bed. These are all treats thrown in the direction of the glory beast, this magnificent creature we have nurtured together.

This spring I scattered a wildflower mix in the front garden. I’ve done this before at previous houses and had terrific luck. Hot orange and red poppies, bleeding hearts, deep purple lupines…I am always trying to recreate the time I had yards and yards of blooming beauties.

This year, the mix was different. All sorts of odd leaves began sprouting. I dug the discarded pouch out of the garbage to read the ingredients on the back. Less than 1% weed, it said. I wondered why they put weed in the package at all. Maybe it was a mistake? Maybe all flower mixes are fundamentally impure?

With this thought in my mind, I spent the next few weeks hovering above my little garden, coffee in hand, willing them to be flowers and not tares. Each morning, they grew taller. One plant was particularly quick to unfold. His foliage wasn’t round or symmetrical, but spiky and suspicious. I wrinkled my nose and hoped it was just a marigold? Mum? Not my favorite, but acceptable. I had my doubts, though, and the next morning I yanked him mercilessly from his bed and tossed him aside on the walk. I do not deny a wait-and-see approach to living, but weeds (or flowers pretending to be) have no place in my garden. (I like to think I’m an urban Emily Dickinson, accosting all species, friend or foe.)

For a week or so I felt badly about this. That poor, poor flower-weed…How would I ever know if it was not just a lovely thistle, an innocent, unidentified perennial? Fortunately, another plant of this kind began growing quickly in the garden. I resolved to let this one mature until I could detect flower or weed.

My husband is an easy-going, wonderful man. Still–he can never be sure of what I am thinking at any moment, and he leaves me just as puzzled. Despite our faith in the other, we regularly frustrate one another with our assumptions. In our well-meaning, we are still always swimming in different depths of the same pool. I am a bottom feeder who rarely comes up for air while he skims like a pleasant little bug on the surface. I can walk through my kitchen and see a thousand things that need to be put away or wiped down. I’ll wonder why one kid thinks it’s okay to leave tap shoes on the table. I’ll think maybe I should make a peach pie with the fruit that is going bad. I’ll make plans to direct the kids to throw empty pretzel bags away instead of leaving them on the counter. I’ll grab the broom to sweep up spilled dry cereal.

He will waltz through the same kitchen, look right past the coffee-stained counter and fruit flies and see the mason jar with two-day old zinnias wilting in dirty water. “Wow!” he’ll say. “Beautiful. Did you cut those out of our garden? Wow!”

We pull into the driveway from running an errand. I get out of the car and walk over to the flowers to see if there are any green beetles on my yellow roses. I am regularly engaged in a battle that ends with me smashing them mercilessly on the concrete, even though all my gardening friends tell me I should use soapy water instead to drown them. He follows me and pauses to watch. Then something catches his eye. Before I can stop him, he’s spotted the curious flower-weed only steps away. 

“What’s this?” he muses, wandering over.

“Stop!” I call as he bends over to grab it. “IwasgoingtoletthatgrowtillIcouldtellwhat–” I rush to explain.

He yanks it out of the ground. “Too late!” he announces. “That’s a weed. No way is it a flower.” He sees my wide-eyed expression and laughs. “It’s a weed! A weed, Pearl!”

I look at the little plant, its roots dangling despondent in his hand. He chucks it away from the garden into the grass, the matter over and done. 

The hope uprooted, I feel a glimmer of disappointment–but it is only a hint. Nothing like the unwelcome visitor from my hours-old marriage. Those soft reflexes only indicated my ignorance, and now I know better. I don’t count offenses, don’t go looking for silly ways to feel hurt.
Less than one percent weed, I think. I look over our beautiful wildflowers, the burgeoning promise of bees, butterflies, petals and blossoms and seeds to come. Joy tickles inside of me.

While keeping an eye on the weeds, a garden had grown. We’ve both tended to it, watering and admiring the blooms. One weed or non-weed, pulled or left in the ground–a fickle, harmless feeling–couldn’t hamper what we have right now.
Sentimentality aside, we sowed crazy hope.

We were fools, young and inept, yet planted whole gardens. We have fed and grown a whole other precious being–a lovely, lively beast–a marriage.

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