Disconnect to reconnect?

Yesterday was golden, really. Sarah woke happy and "chatted" with me merrily before we got out of bed. My morning computer check-in time slipped away as I marveled at my baby and told time to stand still.

As more children tumbled out from under covers and down the stairs, it dawned on me that I'd made no grocery trip for Mardi Gras. I was sick at the end of last week and all weekend and the whole thing passed in an inefficient blur. We had a plan because we pretty much always do the same thing, but I had no ingredients.

Mike texted from the airport. His flight was delayed. The morning reunion was moved to noon. At least I would have my act together by then.

I put together a grocery list and pulled on my boots. Karoline wanted to go along. Sigh. Karoline's company would make this trip a good deal lengthier. She was persistent. Her coat. Her boots. Her doll. Her bear. In the car. Off we go.

Karoline tenderly put her doll in the little cart our grocery store provides for wee mommies. She asked me to please strap the bear into my cart. I did. We found the ingredients for king cake, and jambalaya, lots of sparkle sugar in green and yellow and purple. Half a dozen people smiled at us as we went about our business. Sweet girl, spreading sunshine all over the place. Time moved slowly.

We chose hot fudge and whipped cream and then, she remembered. "I really, really need a hot chocolate." I put the ice cream in my cart while I pondered possibilities. Hurry through the checkout, get home, start barking orders and get this day into full production mode? Stop for hot chocolate?

We stopped at the in-store Starbucks. She chose a hot pink balloon and then settled into her chair and chattered happily about next year when she's fifteen and her feet touch the floor. I took a picture of her with my cell phone and sent it to Mike at Newark. He agreed that she should have hot chocolate when she goes on a Mommy date to the store. On the way home, the radio reminded me that all too soon, she will indeed be fifteen and her feet will touch the floor.

The computer was open when I walked inside. Mary Beth had found the king cake recipe and she was ready to bake. Because Mike would have just enough time for lunch before leaving to direct a game locally, we decided to have our Mardi Gras feast a little before noon.

He came home to happy noises about a sparkly cake and all were fed. Three of the boys left to go to work with him. My neighbor took Mary Beth, Stephen, and Katie to sled on a big hill with her kids a few miles from home. I put Sarah down to sleep and planned to finish writing a talk and catch up on some computer work. But as the big kids pulled away, Karoline melted into a puddle of despair.

We spent the next two hours reading every Jan Brett book we own. 

We made gingerbread tea with lots of sugar and heavy cream. Time moved slowly.

Then, we tried out the new floor in the sunroom by twirling pirouettes until we fell into a dizzy, giggling snuggle.

That woke the baby. So, we played "friend moms" with our babies until the floor guys came to finish their job. Karoline helped them with the tape measure.

Mary Chris returned with the other kids and had time for a quick cup of tea before I had to take Mary Beth to ballet. She took everyone but the baby and Mary Beth back to her house so they could have a "curling" competition in the basement. Mary Beth and I hustled out the door. We had time for an errand and dinner on the run. And she needed to have a big talk. We had time for that, too. All good things.

When I got home, there were messages on the phone and messages on the computer. But I didn't get to them. We had dinner and baths and more books and then I got sidetracked by a book that had arrived in the mail earlier in the day. Almost an entire day without much more than a glance or two at the computer...

Around ten o'clock, I started catching up online. And I worried about the yet unfinished talk. And I saw the drastic changes to the basketball schedule. Grace leaked all over the place. I barely slept.

What if. What if instead of reading 300 words here and there all over the internet all day long, I just read one book at a time? One hundred fifty pages or more of complete thoughts and careful writing. Would I stop thinking in those short, snippy, often snarky phrases that mirrored what I'd read online?

What if instead of posting status updates about what's for dinner and how's the weather, I saved up my writing time so that I could write something of substance a couple of times a week? I really think there's room on the internet for longer, beautifully published pieces. I have seen some incredible ones lately--whole pieces that give chronicling life online the beauty and dignity it deserves.

What if I checked the computer after prayer and before the kids got up and then didn't touch it again until time to make sure all afternoon activities were on as scheduled? And then not again? Certainly not right before bed.

Would time move more slowly? Would I have time for more storybooks and pirouettes? More big talks (and bigger listens)? Would I feel more connected to important people and less distracted by near strangers? 

I hear there are rules in the world of social networking. What if I re-wrote those rules for me and my house?

I think we'd reconnect in the important places.

Shall We Dance?

When we first come to a relationship in Christ as an adult, whether that's through maturing in faith or through a conversion, we are on fire. There is no lukewarm, mediocre feeling. There is fire. There is an urge to shout for joy, to do His work, to join the choir and sing His praises from the rooftops. And then, we settle in. We commit. We live the Christian life day in and day out. We know joy, but sometimes, we grow weary and the fire grows a little cooler. Life happens. We are asked to take turns we didn't know were there and climb hills that seem steeper than we even knew possible. Calm confidence evades us and though we are joyful deep-down, we're not exactly dancing a happy dance.

Because we are committed to a life in Christ, our hearts are restless. We want to rest in Him. We want to feel joyful. Still, our souls are hungry and our spirits are weary.

I've been there.

The first time I was there, I had four young children and a major case of burnout. As I battled back, I kept notes. I shared those notes in a talk at a conference. While shopping at the conference, a lady who had heard my talk introduced me to a book. More importantly, she introduced me to a mentor. I went home, read Educating the WholeHearted Child and was forever changed. That was the weekend I "met" Sally Clarkson.

Sally Clarkson is a woman of vision. A woman of conviction.

I inhaled everything she'd written or spoken (this was back in the day of "just books" and audio cassette tapes--no blogs or podcasts:-). The following year, I wanted to talk about whole books education at that same conference. I took a chance, sent Sally some things I'd written, and asked her if I could have a WholeHearted table for her when I spoke. Then I forgot all about it.

One February day (exactly 11 years ago), when I was bringing my fifth baby home from the hospital, the phone rang as we walked in the door. Mike juggled the infant seat, I went for the couch, and  Michael headed for the phone. "Just tell whomever it is I'll call her back."

"Mom," he said, his hand over the receiver, "it's Sally Clarkson."

I took that call:-). Sally told me--briefly--about her time in Poland, her fondness for Cardinal Karol Wojtyla, and her vision for ministry.And then she told me to inhale deeply the sweetness of my baby.  Over the years, we have kept in touch sporadically and she has continued to mentor me through her many books. Recently, the blogosphere has blessed us with connection. So, it was with great pleasure that I agreed to read an advance copy of her new book Dancing with my Father.

And once again, her timing was perfect. She found me in a low place and like the best of mentors, lifted me up and challenged me onward. She equipped me with wisdom and example and inspiration-- and just a little bit of a kick in the pants.

This is a book of vision; a book of the joy that comes with loving well. It's a  breath of fresh air for weary travelers on the ministry road. Withcharacteristic grace and wisdom, Sally Clarkson acknowledges that even the most devoted Christian suffers discouragement, disappointment, and disillusionment. She meets us in our crashed idealism and burnout—but she doesn't leave us there. With God at her side, she leads us to the gentle peace and quiet trust of a mature Christian. Dancing with my Father will challenge you to think the thoughts, pray the prayers, and do the work that will bring you to a better understanding of the magnificent dance the Lord of Love has choreographed for you.

Can  you hear the music? He wants to have this dance...

Through her Eyes: Christmas Gift

The days from the Solstice to Christmas Eve were among the darkest and coldest of my life. Tears were shed, apologies said. Hard won peace felt fragile. I stumbled into Christmas Eve morning in a typical melancholy fashion. I set about making the customary magic happen, all while feeling like an utter failure at just about everything that mattered. It was not a pretty place to be.

Our plan was to accompany Mike to Midnight Mass at the Basilica. Karoline had chattered all day about the "big church."  Earlier this season, we had received a letter from our pastor encouraging us, among other things, to attend Mass at noon on Christmas Day in order to make Christ the center of the Christmas celebration. We've opted for Midnight Mass for several years now and one of the great blessings of that is that it brings the reason for the feast into sharp focus. We are Midnight Mass people. Karoline and Katie talked all day about going to the "big church."

I was exhausted. Sarah Annie has some wicked virus that sounds suspiciously like bronchitis. We're sharing it. My throat is sore. I've slept and eaten very little since that dark settled at the week's beginning. We hosted brunch for 18 people Thursday morning. I caught a quick nap putting Sarah to sleep. At dinner, just an hour before the pilgrimage was to begin, Mike said again that he could just take a few children with him (they'd be just fine while he worked) and I could stay home with the little ones.  Michael, looking green around the gills, contemplated staying home as well. Maybe this just wasn't the year to do this big midnight thing.

I waffled. Katie cried. She wanted to go and she wanted me with her. Karoline announced she was going. We went. It is an hour's drive to the church. Mike needed to be there 2 1/2 hours early. Mass was two hours. Then it's an hour home in the wee hours of Christmas morning. This trek is a huge commitment. On the way there, I discussed strategy with Christian. We decided that I'd take the little girls and visit all the small chapels before Mass began, then I'd duck out with Sarah Anne and not even attempt to sit through Mass. He'd keep Karoline under his watchful care. Michael would take care of Katie. Paddy would be in charge of the little boys. I would spend Mass sitting quietly with my baby in the lower church. They would be together upstairs in the pew.

From the minute we arrived, Karoline was stuck to me like tenacious tinsel on tree. We went to the large nativity, where just an hour earlier, her Daddy had climbed inside and tenderly moved Joseph (to get  a better shot--but still it touched me somehow that he was worried about Joseph). Been a rough week--doesn't take much to make me cry. At the sight of baby Jesus, Karoline's eyes grew wide. She dropped to her knees.

"Hi, Baby Jesus! It's me. Thank you for all the children in our family. Thank you for making Sarah Annie my little sister. I love you!"

And she was up, leaving the strangers who witnessed the moment with me to wipe their eyes.

It's Christmas.

I decided to try to stay in the upper church for Mass. Karoline wanted to be with me and I wanted her to see the beauty that is Christmas Eve with the Papal Nuncio. She was awed and both little ones were hushed for the candlelit procession. She knew the hymns and sang along. Paddy made sure she didn't catch her hair on fire with the candles. It was a bit stressful. Then the lights came up. And she and Sarah Annie chattered away while they took all the donation envelopes for the rack on the pew and "organized" them. We made it to the Kyrie. And then we walked that very long aisle from our reserved seats in front  to the back of the church. Karoline wasn't leaving me for anything. Now I had them both.

We made our way to the crypt church. I knew I'd hear the music and know when to go back upstairs for communion. Slowly, I walked Karoline around the church, stopping at each mosaic to tell her about the saint depicted there. She spent a long time at the nativity, patting the nearby sheep and begging to touch baby Jesus. We saw St. Elizabeth. And St. Anne holding the Blessed Mother with a book to read. We stopped to say a prayer with St. Joseph. Then, we were at the center of the back of the church. "Jesus is here too, Karoline," I whispered, "really here in the Tabernacle."

"In the gold box?" she asked.

I nodded.

She dropped to her knees. I stood in awed amazement.

Thank you Jesus, for Sarah Annie. And especially thank you for giving me to my mommy. I love you, Jesus! Bye bye.

She was off to look at the next mosaic. I was rooted to the spot right there in front of that Tabernacle where the Baby and the King had just touched the tenderest part of my heart and healed the wounds He knew were there.

Yes, thank you Jesus. I love you, too

Surrender: Find God

As I mentioned in my Daybook this week, I've scrapped the idea to write about depression. Ever since I mentioned burnout last summer, I've been struck by the emails I've received from mothers who were suffering burnout and even depression. They are not the same thing, but writing about burnout often prompts readers to tell me about depression.I've experienced both.

What was curious about my mail this summer, though, was that much of it -- most of it -- was from experienced, veteran homeschool moms who were looking at a new school year and struggling to find the joy and inspiration they'd always had for this way of life.It was as if some great plague was sweeping through the homes of established home educators and putting out all the lights. Dark and foreboding, this plague threatened to extinguish a great good in our society. 

I believe in spiritual warfare. I believe that the good guys and the bad guys are duking it out up there ( out there?) and that evil prowls the world for the ruin of our souls. And that evil has a vested interest in our children and their future. Where better to fight the fight than at our kitchen tables and home libraries, on our field trips and nature walks? And how better to wage war than to zap the energy and enthusiasm of the mother who is laying down her life for this grand adventure in holy, alternative education?

Indeed. The Commander of Evil had a battle plan: Put doubt and discouragement in the hearts of the experienced mothers, the mentors, the teachers. Rob them of their joy; dry up the wellspring of their gratitude.

Instinctively, we turned to prayer. How, God, did we arrive in this barren place? Show us how.Give drink to thirsty souls who, despite the discouragement of our days, do long to joyfully do your will in our homes with the children you have entrusted to us.

We saw that discouragement and burnout creeps in little by little, one sleepless night at time. We have more children now and find that big kids rob us of sleep in an altogether different but no less exhausting way as small ones. And if we are blessed to have both big and small, sleep is a stranger indeed. Sometimes, we are so tired that we don't even recognize that it is tiredness we feel. It's a blurred line between fatigue and despondency. We are so weary we can't even remember why we thought that this lifestyle was a good idea in the first place.

Burnout begins to erode the rhythm of our days when our guard is down and poor habits take root. The bright,  fresh resolve  we had as new homeschoolers frankly gets a little tarnished around the edges. We get a little lazy. We are still working hard, but yes, if we are honest, we see sloth in the corners and crevices. It's time to fine tune the habit training for everyone in the household, time to commit again to the principles we know to be true.

Discouragement is allowed to fill the rooms of our heart when emptiness leaves space for it. A curious thing seems to happen in the middle years of home education. Loneliness. Co-ops become much trickier to navigate because they don't fill the needs of varied ages. Mom's Night Out is given over to carpooling teenagers. Time alone with our husbands becomes such a precious commodity that we guard it with our lives and rarely sacrifice it for time for female fellowship. Inevitable differences in philosophies of education further separate us from each other. And so very many of our comrades choose school in the middle years. The ranks dwindle. We are increasingly alone.

What to do?

Pray.

That's all. Find God. In the beginning, we can be carried through the challenges of this lifestyle on the shoulders of great ideas and good friends. But that's not enough for the long haul.

Because God knows that this is our vocation and that vocation is all about becoming more like Him. He must increase. I must decrease. I must let go of my notions of magazine-cover homeschooling success. I must let go of my dreams of children growing up in a community of completely like-minded families, never to be challenged by the world or left alone by a bosom buddy. I must let go of my idea of what this is all supposed to look like. Less of me. More of Him. Until it's all Him. We're climbing Calvary here and it's getting steep all of a sudden.

My prayer must be the listening kind. Not the wish list kind. What is it, God? What are you telling me?

+Let go of the failures. You see that child who did something you never thought a child of yours would do? You see that test score that is so not what you imagined? You see that house that doesn't look at all like the one you envisioned? You see failure? I see grace. My grace is sufficient. My plan is perfect. I will take those apparent failures and in the broken emptiness, I will pour abundant grace. I will grow there. Not you.

+Don't listen to the sideline conversation about the excellent education at the topnotch private schools, the promises of intellectual rigor and growth in virtue. Don't hear the women talking about all the good they are doing in the world outside their homes. Don't even incline your ear towards the glowing reports of homeschooling success. Quit comparing. Take joy-genuine joy--in knowing that others are doing God's good work. But don't compete. And don't compare. I want to see you improve and you will only improve if you fix your focus on me, not them.

+Be prepared to set aside your plans. Oh, dear, I know you love those plans! They give you great pleasure, crafting them and sharing them and envisioning how they will come to life and bless your children. But be prepared-- because life will happen. And your plans will be cast aside. I will force you to bend until you break. And into your brokenness, I will pour my grace. First though, you will have to be emptied and laid bare, without the crutch of your own design. My plans are bigger, better. My plans are for salvation.

+Finally, know that you will be be scorned. When you receive only reproaches and blame, when the world looks aghast at the work of your hands, if you can know that you have done my will, you will know peace. And you will know joy. Real joy. The kind that sustains you and lifts you and lights the darkness and warms the cold, tired emptiness. Do my will. Live for me. Do you trust me? Can you surrender?

Here Comes the Sun

It started September 23rd. That was the first day of bedrest. For six weeks, I was confined to my house, my room, my bed. And then, there was a baby. And I was confined to the hospital, to the well-worn path to the NICU. We brought that sweet baby home. And the doctor said solemnly, "Keep her inside, away from crowds, and out of public places until the end of flu season. Probably late March." I tried not to cry. I reminded myself that I am an introvert, a homebody. I got to know the extraordinary ministers of the Eucharist. I counted my blessings and there were many.

But, slowly, I started to feel it creep in. The cold. The loneliness. My walls grew closer around me. The baby fussed. The big kids acted needier than the baby. I resolutely told myself a hundred times a day that this was not postpartum depression. We hit rock bottom.

A Package arrived in the mail. A lovely Package. A Package that made me smile to see the name in the sender's corner and brought tears to my eyes when I saw what it contained. It was a hat and booties--a darling hat that fit just perfectly. A hat with sweet hearts over baby's ears. Ah, but I sighed. We never go anywhere. And an urgent need made itself known. I had to get out of this house with the baby. I had to go somewhere worthy of The Hat.

Yesterday was one of my top five worst homeschooling days ever. And I can't even think of what the other four are. As I went to sleep last night, I remembered The Hat. I told Mike that I was taking the children to Bull Run. Bull Run--Home of the Bluebells--is the place where we go every year to herald the spring. It's the place where I am happy and relaxed and content just to be. It's our springtime. Gently, the love of my life reminded me that it is still February. Doesn't matter. I have The Hat. I had to be at Bull Run.

The day dawned a bit gray and windy, but not all that cold. The forecast was for rain by noon. No bother. I was up early. I had The Hat. I told the children the plan. Nicholas balked. He doesn't like rain. It's not a typical "not like," --it's sort  of a "thing" with him. It's a really big deal "not like."  I wasn't going to fight it. I told him he could stay home with Patrick. Christian had to go to art.No matter. This wasn't about them. It was about me. And my baby. And my place. And the Hat.

We took the familiar road and parked at a familiar place. We hiked in to "our spot," all the while noting how gray it all seemed. The landscape had changed. The log I posed the children on every year had  decayed to a point where no one could sit there. Right next to it, however, a new tree had fallen--bigger and sturdier and longer. "Just perfect," Katie declared. "There are too many of us now for the old log anyway."

Several trees had fallen. The top of their favorite climbing tree was now laying across the river. I thought of those windstorms last month, the tree that fell and claimed the life of a beloved pastor. I heard trees creaking around me and branches snapping in the not too distant distance. Good thing Nicholas stayed home, after all; he would not have enjoyed this time at all. We tried mightily to find signs of spring. There were a few small buds and some tiny shoots, no signs of the bluebells yet, though.

I snuggled my sleeping baby (she sleeps?) and breathed deeply of the fresh air. Oh! how this place speaks to me, even in its grayness. I thought of how much I missed it last fall, when the leaves were changing color, and my only glimpse of fall came in my inbox through the kindness of a friend's photos. I remembered my long talks with God and how begged him to grant me many springtimes to hang out with my children in the woods. I thought about how much I wanted to walk that trail with this baby. I breathed gratitude. And hope.

I just sat there, nibbled on pistachios, and watched the delight of my two-year-old as she saw this place anew.   Marveling at the familiarity and the changes, I understood that this place is ever old and ever new. My children looked different to me in the natural light. They were sweet and innocent and silly and fun. The baby slept soundly on my chest, warm and loved beneath The Hat. My head cleared. My shoulders relaxed. I had faith that I could get safely to the end of winter and reach confidently for the holiness of spring. Recalling that God has written two books, Scripture and nature, I resolved to read them both this Lent as my soul stretches and my face turns towards the Son.