Been There, Done That: The Seasonal Post on Choosing Curriculum

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This time last year, I sat with several syllabi from a well-planned curriculum (or two). I had enrolled my oldest in a "homeschool school." I was all set to use someone else's plans for everyone in the family. I reasoned that this decision would free me up to devote more time and energy to household tasks and babies. This decision was a holy one. At least I thought it was.

I cracked open my brand new planners and began to plot it all out, pulling from all the various pages and texts in those various syllabi. Then, the tweaking crept in. I substituted a little here, a little there. I recognized that I didn't have certain books, but I did have worthy substitutes. Scratching, switching, tailoring, tinkering...and so it went, until I recognized that it would indeed be simpler to plot out my own plans and then to pull from those as the year progressed instead of forcing a fit.  And "the homeschool school" had no problem with my tinkering. They understood that my son had special needs and that the program they mapped out wouldn't suit him at all. I was free to sustitute as I saw fit--just as long as I recorded everything and submitted it to them. Perfect, I could still do all the work I'd been doing all along, only now I could pay for the privelige of filling out more paperwork.

Did I mention that I was pregnant as I discovered all of this?

I use the word "discovered" loosely. To discover it would mean that it was the first time I happened upon the knowledge that I just don't do well with someone else's plans. The truth is, I'd "learned" this about myself several times. Only this time, I had come at it from a different perspective. I was caught up in the counsel of people I respect and quite taken by the idea that this would indeed give me control over my large family, the relationships that matter most, and my home environment. All that if I would just take school out of a box.

I took a walk and had a long talk with a friend whose house is always perfectly clean and beautifully decorated. She shared the relief she had in knowing that when she chose her curriculum seven years ago, she'd never have to choose again. Every summer, she opened the box with the sun on it and rays of light shone in her house (well, maybe not that, but close). I didn't give too much thought to the fact that she had a third the kids I do and she hadn't been pregnant in ten years. Nope, it was that sunny box that made her house clean and kept her laundry current.  That box put her in control.

But there is no syllabus that cleans one's house, folds one's clothes, or talks to one's husband. It didn't take me too long with those boxes to learn that they were not the right fit for me. For us. It was better in so many ways for me to use the abundant library in my own home, the resources I already had, and the enthusiasm for writing curriculum with which I'd been blessed to create our lists and plans. I knew I'd over-plan (I have managed to learn a few things about myself along the way, not every mistake do I make over and over again). But I also knew that in those extensive booklists, there would be something for everyone and a safety net should life heat up in other areas. (And Whoa, Nelly, did it ever!)

I am not in control and I won't ever be in control.

 The lesson I learned last summer--for the first time--is that homeschoolers can feel very passionately about their curriculum choices. They can give them moral weight and equate them with holiness. And they can see them through absolute lenses. In black and white, with no shades of gray. Many a happy homeschool support group has been rocked to its core by disagreements over curriculum choices.

Homeschoolers tend to be a passionate bunch. That's a good thing. It takes passion to carry us through something that is so set apart from the mainstream that it can be lonely and alienating. Our passion can blind us though. It can make us tend towards sweeping judgements of each other. And it can be misplaced.

There is more than one way to do this home education thing. More than one way to do it successfully. Success itself is measured differently in different families. I didn't go to any conferences this year (to speak or to listen). I haven't read any catalogs. I'm determined not to try to persuade a single soul or to give specific curriculum advice. It's a year of quiet.

So, here's my answer to the swelling number of emails asking me how to choose what to teach: pray about it, research your options, know what's in all those boxes, pray about it,  talk to your husband, pray about it, and then trust God to lead you in the right direction. His yoke is easy and his burden is light. You'll know when the yoke fits. And when it does, don't let anyone tell you that it's an inferior yoke. It's the yoke God himself made for you. Grant grace to your neighbor; trust that she is doing what she  believes in her heart of hearts to be the right thing for her family. Pray for her and bless her for her earnestness. Be her friend-- because homeschooling friends who stick with you over the long haul are rare and treasured blessings.

It's all good.

Or at least it all can be if we let it.

Grateful for Hazy Clarity

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The reason that we are not fully at ease in heart and soul is because we seek rest in these things that are so little and have no rest within them, and pay no attention to our God, who is Almighty, All-wise, All-good, and the only real rest. ~Blessed Julian of Norwich

I sit this morning in the unexpected quiet and wonder when it was that I last fully felt at rest. In my mind, I replay my adult life. Was it early in my marriage? No, a difficult job and a first pregnancy troubled me that whole first year. Was it the first year I was a mother? No, I spent that year frantically trying to figure out motherhood, flitting to and fro, book to book, having endless conversation with friends who were also new mothers. And so it has gone, year after year, always something to learn, always someone to consult as I seek to figure it all out.

The explosion of the internet fed the noise in my brain. As I found more and more information, more and more communication, I lost more and more rest. Literally. How many times have I sat here in front of this screen, when really I would have been better off praying myself to sleep?

There's just so much to know! There are just so many people from which to learn! It's such a big, big world. And now it's all right here at my fingertips. Conversation. Discussion. Debate. It's all so interesting.

The closest I have ever come to being fully at ease was the last few weeks of bedrest. Though I was anxious regarding birth, I was not anxious about the other aspects of my life. In order to preserve and pursue my peace, I had winnowed my contact with the world to a very tight circle of friends whom I knew would keep directing me towards Him. Of course, I had none of the "outside world" with which to contend because I never left home. But even at home, I was careful to preserve peace and to preserve interior stillness often enough to hear the Lord.

Even now, I relive the day Sarah was born. Sometimes, I am fully awake. More often, I am half asleep. I remember the ride to the hospital. I remember I tried to make one phone call to one friend. She didn't hear the ringing. She never picked up. And then, it was just Mike and God. There was silence around us as we drove through the countryside in the dark of that autumn night. The midwife on call called about halfway there. She was frantic. No peace there. Just Mike and God. All that blood. Life and death. And absolutely nothing left to say.  Peace settled as night turned to day. Grace was palpable. I couldn't have asked for more.

I settled into a room and continued to wait to see how God would write this chapter. The thing is, I can't remember the phone calls. I know I talked to people that day and I know I asked for prayers but I absolutely cannot remember the conversations. I remember Michael coming in with a dozen roses and I remember thinking how Kimberlee and Molly would so approve of his choice of flowers. I know he stayed a long time; he missed classes and training. But I don't remember a word he said.

I can't remember the conversations. I can only remember the grace.

I do remember the doctor. In my memory, she shone. Very strange. I was sure she was one of God's great gifts. But I'd never met her before that day. Never had a conversation. And really, she talked and I listened. Not much conversation there. And the midwife with whom I'd had all those careful conversations, nurtured that precious friendship over all those years and all those babies? She was out of town. Never did she suspect I'd deliver so early and she'd miss it. No. It wasn't in the conversations of the day that I found rest. Not at all. It was in the willingness to relinquish my will in order to know His. I stopped seeking. Stopped asking. Stopped looking to other women to shed light on this matter or that. For that space of time, I saw the things that were little and I was embraced by something much bigger.

Have mentioned yet how grateful I am for the hazy clarity of the memory of Sarah's birth?

That's #20 on the gratitude list.

The Best Day with You Today

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It's been an old-fashioned week here this week. I blogged Monday morning and set several posts to auto-post. Then, I mostly backed away from the computer, save a couple of quick two-line posts. I've read two novels while nursing and "marked as read" several hundred posts from Google Reader without reading them. This was not a plan, but rather a serendipitous constellation of events--both happy and distressing. The distressing events all centered on my dear, sweet husband who has badly injured his back and has needed me to help him do the most basic of tasks.

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It's been a strange bedrest role reversal.I am rarely at the computer when he is home and he's been home all the time. I wrote a column and sent it to the Herald and it felt like old times, when that was all I published regularly. Then, I gathered my precious children and headed outside. I now understand those pangs of guilt Mike felt when he left me alone in our room on beautiful days last fall to take our children on grand adventures.

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I have spent the week adventuring on the banks of Bull Run and Cub Run, in old familiar places and sunny new spaces.I've heralded a new baseball season and a new soccer season. I am sunburned and tired to the bone--in a very good way. 

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I sat in dappled sunlight with three good friends today. We watched our children play together and remembered seasons past when the big kids were little enough to skinny dip and the little kids were just-hoped-for whispers of fervent prayers.I smiled and smiled and smiled. In all honesty, the days defy words. I'm so glad, though, that for part of the time, Lori Fowlkes joined us with her camera (do click--it's a sweet shot). Oh, what pictures we will share in the next few weeks! For now, Mary Beth has some pictures from our family camera, set to music she thinks captures the day just right.