Praying in the Port-A-Potty

Matthew 6

Giving to the Poor and Prayer

¹"Beware of practicing your righteousness before men to be noticed by them; otherwise you have no reward with your Father who is in heaven.

²"So when you give to the poor, do not sound a trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, so that they may be honored by men. Truly I say to you, they have their reward in full.

³"But when you give to the poor, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing,

⁴so that your giving will be in secret; and your Father who sees what is done in secret will reward you.

⁵"When you pray, you are not to be like the hypocrites; for they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and on the street corners so that they may be seen by men. Truly I say to you, they have their reward in full.

⁶"But you, when you pray, go into your inner room, close your door and pray to your Father who is in secret, and your Father who sees what is done in secret will reward you.

⁷"And when you are praying, do not use meaningless repetition as the Gentiles do, for they suppose that they will be heard for their many words.

⁸"So do not be like them; for your Father knows what you need before you ask Him.

⁹"Pray, then, in this way:
'Our Father who is in heaven,
Hallowed be Your name.
¹⁰'Your kingdom come
Your will be done,
On earth as it is in heaven.
¹¹'Give us this day our daily bread.
¹²'And forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors.
¹³'And do not lead us into temptation, but deliver us from evil. [For Yours is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever. Amen.]'

¹⁴"For if you forgive others for their transgressions, your heavenly Father will also forgive you.

¹⁵"But if you do not forgive others, then your Father will not forgive your transgressions.

This was a portion of our Scripture passage for reading and discussion today with the girls. For children, who often take things very literally, it was not the easiest passage to explain.

I usually start out by saying, "If either of you have any questions when I'm reading, please raise your hand or tap me on the arm, and we'll see if we can figure out an answer."

We started out by reading the last portion of Matthew 5 in which Jesus states, "Love your enemies, and pray for those who persecute you..." It didn't take long for Claire's little hand to shoot into the air. I glanced sidelong at her, hoping she might just be fidgety. She looked at me, her eyebrows flexed in doubt. I asked her what her question was, and she said, "That doesn't make any sense." I told her that's exactly why Jesus said it, because everyone else listening to him thought it didn't make sense either." They had never heard of such an absurd idea. Nobody could possibly argue that choosing love and kindness over hate and anger, as difficult as that would be, wouldn't make the world a better place.

With that question pretty much laid to rest, we moved on to Matthew 6:5-6. As you can see above, it's about praying in public. The Bible also tells us to "pray without ceasing" (1 Thes. 5:17). So this was another one that was a little harder to explain. Yes, we should pray all the time, but we shouldn't let it be known or obvious that we are doing so. Basically, we shouldn't pray obnoxiously. We shouldn't pray "at people". Instead, we should pray "for people". In any case, if you're going to pray, do it quietly and respectfully.

Sadie said, "Like maybe we could go into a phone booth to pray for people." This made me smile, as I wondered how on earth they could know what a phone booth even is. (I haven't seen one of those, myself, for probably at least 10-15 years.) I said, "Like Superman?" Claire piped in, "Yeah! Like Superman. Hey, why doesn't Superman just change in the port-a-potty? There's more room, no windows, and a lock on the door... oh, and a potty." Aces, Claire. The child with difficulty focusing can always be counted on to bring a little levity to any conversation. However, I had to admit that, at least Biblically speaking, praying in the port-a-potty would be preferable to praying on the street corner.

This turned my mind to another amusing memory. Probably about a year ago, my husband's parents came to visit our house. They live in Iowa. When they arrived, he, being the good host he tries to be, offered them something to drink. To preface, my husband had a thing for orange and grape pop for awhile. He liked the most generic forms of orange and grape soda, which, frankly, make me want to hurl. Aside, never had he asked me to purchase any form of Coke product for himself, although I usually keep diet/caffeine free for myself. He said to his dad, "We have water, milk, pop...(glancing at me), what - we have Coke, Diet Coke, orange, grape?" I said, "We don't have coke." He said, "We don't have coke?" (As though I had committed the cardinal sin of wifedom.) I said quietly, "No. We've... never... h-had Coke." He promptly replied, "Well... I'd like to see a little more Coke around here!" Outside me said, "Um, okay." Inside me was saying, "Um, exqueeze me, King Henry VIII? Shall I also bear you a son immediately or be banished to the Tower?"

When I retold this exchange to my husband later, he laughed incredulously and said, "I didn't really say that. Did I?" I said, "Um, yes you did! Were you just trying to impress the guests?" He honestly still doesn't remember saying it, although it has become quite a joke around here and at his parents's house (as they remember it too) - the "bring me my hasenpfeffer!" joke.

The point is that sometimes, maybe we all like to look a little better than we are... a little more impressive. I'm so glad that God sees the heart... good, bad, prideful, weak, hurting, helpless, raw... and that He's never shied away from our humanity. On the contrary - He has embraced it fully in giving us His Son - who was fully God and fully man - in order to reconcile us with Himself. An encouragement would be to ask God to help us make the choice to be authentic, but to learn, in the process, to authentically love, pray for, and give to others, yes, even our enemies, maybe even especially them. That should make loving everyone else seem like a piece of cake... even if you're just praying for them in the port-a-potty.

Am I Cut Out for This?

Week 3 of Hospice training, and I have only cried 2 out of the 3 weeks. After about a half hour lecture on the virtues of hand washing and flu shots - handouts courtesy of the CDC - talk turned to a more serious topic. Our class of about 15 volunteer trainees consists entirely of women. I know there are many male volunteers for Hospice. Our class just happens to have none. Several of my fellow class members are widows whose husbands received Hospice care prior to passing. Tonight they got a chance to share the stories of the passing of their husbands. One of the ladies was a younger widow, and the two others were older. They told touching stories ranging from the holding of a hand, one last kiss, and a missed opportunity for "proper" goodbyes. One of the ladies in the class told of losing her 3 year old son - who had also received Hospice care. She shared also of a lady she knew who, only two weeks ago, lost a 4 year old daughter.

On my way home, a flurry of thoughts consumed me. For one thing, I momentarily found myself in an odd sort of selfish regret - regret for all of my deep relationships. How odd... to regret forming close bonds with other people. In evaluating my regret, I realized it was caused by one thing: the fear of the inevitable moment when I will lose one of those beloved people. My grandparents are all still, by God's grace, alive and well, and we have always been an extremely close-knit family group. I am not naive to the fact that they will not live forever, but when I'm listening to my favorite radio station or thinking about what I'll have for a bedtime snack or how our school day will go tomorrow, all of us seem immortal.

A second thought that has overwhelmed me is that of how unduly blessed I am. I have never experienced the death of a close loved one. I have never known that kind of intense pain. I don't know how - in 32 years - I have managed to escape that, but I have. The other fear that accompanied that thought was that now, because my grandparents are all aging at the same time, I'll likely lose them in succession that will be even more difficult to bear. Even the thought is overwhelming to me - in an emotional sense.

And then I start to wonder if I am "cut out" for this type of volunteering. After all, I have cried twice, and I've never even seen a single patient. However, if anyone had ever told me in my younger years that I would be divorced, be a single mom, get remarried, move to another state, move back, be a step-mom, and have 5 children - whom I would homeschool, I would probably have lost my mind prematurely (as opposed to gradually, day-by-day, like I am now). I'm no feminist, but I have to say that I have seen myself and hundreds of other women handle life-altering situations - from birth to death and everything in between - with grace and poise and beauty that might even make the angels marvel. In contrast, I have also seen us do some of the most petty, ridiculous, silly, and temporal-minded things on earth. We wrap ourselves up in these tiny, little worlds where trivial things are of the utmost importance. We pressure ourselves and each other to be our own version of perfect. We convince ourselves that somehow these little issues and arguments are "life and death". That becomes less possible to do when you're sitting around a table of widows and moms who have lost children. When you sit with people who have fought cancer... who have lost a child... who have watched a spouse walk out the door... who have held the hand of a dying loved one... perspective isn't just a possibility - it's a guarantee. It slaps you upside your head.

After I came home, I sat on my youngest son's bedroom floor with him. We opted for the washcloth wipe down - which, at our house, is somewhere between the spit bath and the full bath/shower power wash. As I took out a cloth and began to wipe down my son's feet and legs with it, I was magically transported back to his infant massage class. That squirmy, little, baby boy who was so ticklish from head to toe that he had a hard time sitting still for his infant massage... he's now a 3 1/2 year old, rambunctious (still ticklish) guy who now enjoys a few minutes of toddler massage with his mom. He doesn't even crawl away anymore. The sad part is... I don't do it every night - not even close. I don't take the moments nearly as often as I could. I take them for granted. We all do.

I doubt very much that anyone initially feels that he or she is "cut out" to sit by the bedside of a dying person and that person's family, but people sign up to do it every day. Each one of those people has a unique reason for doing it. My reasons are also unique and varied, but the one that I discovered tonight is that I need, not only to grow up, but to grow out. I have to get outside of myself... my e-mails, my phone calls, my daily grind. I have to get out of my selfish, small world - into someone else's small world. The difference is that they actually deserve to have a small world - a narrow focus. It's not only deserved; it's needful for them. I have no right or reason to feel sorry for myself or to pamper or baby myself along.

If you've read my blog much, you may have noticed that our family is day-to-day chaos. Someone is coloring the tile grout with a Sharpie or eating copious amounts of raisins to the point of impending diaper doom or combing their hair with a wet toilet brush, or shaving their eyebrows off (okay, this one hasn't happened yet - fingers crossed) on a semi-daily basis around here. Sometimes, that's enough excuse to feel sorry for myself, but I hope that this training (and the volunteering that follows) changes me into someone who doesn't fall into self-pity as easily as she has in the past. I want a broader perspective.

Maybe that's even partially (subconsciously) my motivation for taking the opportunity to volunteer at Hospice. I need to be made aware - in a very practical sense - that, for the most part, death is as much a gift as life is. It's a transition from one part of eternity to another. I have hope that, for me, it will be a more beautiful life than I'll ever know here.

"Do not fear what they fear; do not be frightened." But in your hearts set apart Christ as Lord. Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have." 1 Peter 3:14b-15a.

Life is Just a Terminal Illness

Tonight I attended my first Hospice training. I am not even sure what prompted me to do it, other than that I generally enjoy caring for people, but I don't especially want to go to nursing school. I've had several people try to talk me out of volunteer work for Hospice - because of the fact that it's "emotionally draining" and "terribly difficult". Not that I doubt either of those things, but I guess that's life - and death - for most of us anyway. Isn't it nice to think that there will be someone there to go through it with me when I am suffering? I've suffered great loss before with no one there to comfort me, and I don't wish that for anyone.

Hospice training apparently offers great perspective on life in general. The lady who was conducting the training this evening said something that stuck out to me. At a certain point she said something to the effect of, "People often feel such heartache for the terminally ill - treating them with great fragility, as though they are dying every moment. But I have news for you: LIFE IS A TERMINAL ILLNESS." The obvious implication is that, for the most part, someone who is terminally ill wants to talk about life in general - maybe punctuated by moments of personal reflection - but we're all dying from the day we are born. So the terminally ill patient doesn't want to talk about his or her impending death anymore than you or I want to talk about ours. I found this to be great perspective.

I was raised to believe in the God of the Bible. I was raised to sing songs that said, "My God is so BIG - so great and so mighty there's nothing my God cannot do." I heard things like, "God loves each of us as if there was only one of us." I believed it. After all, as I grew and learned about how big the universe is and when I looked out my window at the beauty around me, I couldn't help but be drawn to the truth that I am loved. I was part of the "privileged planet" - the one that was singled out to bear life. I am special to One infinitely greater than myself.

Cynical thought of the day puts many Christians in the camp of the idea that maybe God didn't create - or, if He did, He must have taken billions of years to do it. It also puts God as a far-off entity that cares nothing for the daily life of any individual person. However, the God of the Bible tells me something strikingly different:
Jeremiah 29:11-13 (New King James Version)

¹¹ For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the LORD, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope. ¹² Then you will call upon Me and go and pray to Me, and I will listen to you. ¹³ And you will seek Me and find Me, when you search for Me with all your heart.

God tells me (in the only Book He left me, by the way), that He THINKS THOUGHTS TOWARD me... and not only that, but that they are for my benefit.
Jesus Himself said,

John 15:16-17,19 (New King James Version)

¹⁶ You did not choose Me, but I chose you and appointed you that you should go and bear fruit, and that your fruit should remain, that whatever you ask the Father in My name He may give you.¹⁷ These things I command you, that you love one another....¹⁹ If you were of the world, the world would love its own. Yet because you are not of the world, but I chose you out of the world, therefore the world hates you.

Jesus said he chose and appointed us to bear fruit - loving one another.

Romans 8:31-34 (New King James Version)
God’s Everlasting Love

³¹ What then shall we say to these things? If God is for us, who can be against us? ³² He who did not spare His own Son, but delivered Him up for us all, how shall He not with Him also freely give us all things? ³³ Who shall bring a charge against God’s elect? It is God who justifies. ³⁴ Who is he who condemns? It is Christ who died, and furthermore is also risen, who is even at the right hand of God, who also makes intercession for us.
God is for me. He justifies me, and Jesus intercedes on my behalf.

Isaiah 41:10 (New King James Version)

¹⁰ Fear not, for I am with you;
Be not dismayed, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you,
Yes, I will help you,
I will uphold you with My righteous right hand.’

Hebrews 4:16 (New King James Version)

¹⁶ Let us therefore come boldly to the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy and find grace to help in time of need.

God helps me in times of need. He strengthens me and upholds me when I need it. He sees my needs and meets them.


Jesus Himself prayed in The Lord's Prayer: "...give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors... and lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil..."
He knew His Father better than any person knows God. However, He seems to pray as though God sees and meets our daily needs - also seeing our sins, our trials and our temptations - with the intentions of delivering us out of them as we ask.

Romans 14:7-8 (New King James Version)

⁷ For none of us lives to himself, and no one dies to himself. ⁸For if we live, we live to the Lord; and if we die, we die to the Lord. Therefore, whether we live or die, we are the Lord’s.
This verse clearly states that we are the Lord's. We do not belong to ourselves, and we are not autonomous creatures who have no responsibility to a higher power - as much as we would all like that sometimes.

1 Peter 5:6-7 (New King James Version)

⁶ Therefore humble yourselves under the mighty hand of God, that He may exalt you in due time, ⁷ casting all your care upon Him, for He cares for you.
And, last but not least, He cares for me. These are just a few verses that state overwhelmingly that God is a loving and cares about me - yes, even my daily events.


I could get into verses on the fact that He created, but that would take a lot more time than I want to take. However, the Bible states overwhelmingly from Genesis 1:1 - Revelation 4:11 that God created everything, and it only states one way that He possibly could have done it. Yet, we have a way of trying to make God seem more "bite-sized", more "me-like". We try to think like Him or try to imagine in our tiny minds how he could or couldn't have done something or how he did or didn't do something. However, when I look out at the wonder around me, I can truly say that I cannot imagine or even come close to fathoming the thought processes of a Being that could create what I see. In fact, God clearly states that truth:


Isaiah 55:8-10 (New International Version)

⁸ "For my thoughts are not your thoughts,

neither are your ways my ways,"
declares the LORD.
⁹ "As the heavens are higher than the earth,
so are my ways higher than your ways
and my thoughts than your thoughts..."

If I believed in - let's say - Santa Claus... If I believed that he and his reindeer flew around the sky on Christmas Eve delivering presents to all the children of the world, would I put limits on that? Would I say, "Well, maybe he could deliver presents to some of the kids, but not all of them," or "Maybe he only delivers one present to each child," as if adding any of those stipulations make the possibility of this man and his reindeer more plausible. Yet, people do that - to make a lie more settling. We tell our children that Santa has "helpers" who look like him who help visit all the houses. We tell them that he has one special reindeer with a red nose that will help him see in snowstorms. We tell them these things for one reason: to make a lie more believable.


As far as I can tell, that's the only reason to make creation into a billion year event or to make God into one who takes very little stock in our everyday affairs - to make a lie believable. It's so that our minds can process, in light of modern science or popular thought, an utter "impossibility". These same people would berate an apologetics ministry for trying to make sense of how things possibly could have happened, but that's exactly what they're doing: apologizing for the Bible - the way it's written - and making excuses that make it sound less ridiculous. My question has to be - WHY? Why have faith but only to a certain degree?
After all, faith, according to the dictionary is: 2 strong belief in God or in the doctrines of a religion, based on spiritual apprehension rather than proof. What's that again? "rather than proof?" If I believed in Santa Claus, I'd go WHOLE HOG. Santa can do anything, anytime, any place. Why look half stupid? Of course, I'm an "all or nothing" kind of gal. I don't believe in the modern day myth of Santa, because I see convincing evidence that he is a myth. I have never seen any proof that he might actually exist today.


However, if you were chosen (John 14:16, Matthew 22:14, Mark 13:20, Luke 18:7, John 15:19, Romans 8:33, Romans 11:5, Romans 16:13, Ephesians 1:11, Colossians 3:12, 1 Thessalonians 1:4, James 1:18, James 2:5, 1 Peter 1:2, 1 Peter 2:9, 1 Peter 5:13, Revelation 17:14) to have faith, you were chosen to seem ridiculous (John 15:16-19) to the world. If you don't like this and are trying to apologize for it, you're wasting your time. If you don't fully compromise or fully stand, you're not fully accepted by the side with full faith or the side with full disbelief. And you have no place to be trying to convince either side of your point of view, because you don't fully have one.


James 1:16 - 18 (New King James Version)
¹⁶Don't be deceived, my dear brothers. ¹⁷Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows. ¹⁸He chose to give us birth through the word of truth, that we might be a kind of firstfruits of all he created.


Oh, and in case you mistake my zeal for anger, it isn't. Passion is such a lost gem that people often see it as offensive or wrong. It's just what it is - a strong feeling that evokes strong emotions. I have seen God work. I see it every day. Hospice lady said, as we were touring their facility tonight, that a lady had come there to die and that her dying wish was to see a deer. She said that they worked for days and days to get a deer to come to the patio - by putting food out, etc. She said that mere days before she died, a deer showed up on the patio and spent four hours in front of the dying patient's window. She said, "It was as if God was giving her the miracle she hoped for." Hmmm... I guess it could have been just coincidence. I guess I've had to come to the point at which I have to decide that I'm either okay looking foolish for having a full, living, vibrant faith or compromise that to a half-hearted, apologetic, questioning faith - if you can even call it "faith" at that point. I figure, I suppose, that if I'm going to look like an idiot - why not look like a BIG idiot. I'm okay with that, because, if God's Word is any indication, I'm a chosen idiot.

Mild to Moderate Road Rage

Tonight, as we were driving home from - where else - church, a car was approaching us from the other direction. Although in their proper lane, the driver had failed to disengage his or her high beams, momentarily blinding me. Apparently I said, "Turn off your brights, nimrod." I had failed to notice my commentary until it was highlighted by my husband. As I heard him scoff and say, "Nice." I said, "What?" He said, in a nauseatingly female imitation voice, "Turn off your brights, nimrod!" I didn't even realize what I had said until he repeated it. Don't get me wrong, I doubt I'd take it back even now, if I had the chance. After all, I admittedly have what I would call mild to moderate road rage. It rarely comes out in anything more than, "Punch it, Grandpa." or "Where's the turn signal, ya jerk?" with the occasional, "Turn off your signal, Granny... Really, how can you not hear that??" thrown in. I rarely even notice my auto lingo unless it's pointed out by a beloved passenger. You know the bright-flasher? The one who is quick to hop on the brights if you are late to turn yours off? That's me.

It's not something I'm proud of, but it's not really something I make an effort at taming either. I have to admit - it's not pretty. It's just more of a habit - ages in the making. You see, things like road rage are "harmless" ways of expressing inner frustrations, right? Or maybe it's just that I have a standard for the way others should drive. If they're not meeting my standards, I feel free to express my frustrations verbally. They can't hear me anyway, right? But there are usually little ears in my car who can easily hear what I'm saying. I imagine I might feel shocked if Levi calls Violet a "nimrod" one of these days. After all, I'm not entirely sure what "nimrod" even means in the negative sense. I'm not sure why it makes me so mad when people don't drive the way I would have them drive. I mean, there are times when I am distracted to the point of leaving my brights on - not my turn signal, of course, but my brights, maybe... once or twice... hardly ever.

Some things are learned by example. Some things are merely instinct. For example, I watched in amazement this evening as Levi, my three year old, did something I had never seen. While donning his PJ's, he kicked off his CARS underoos. From standing on the floor, he managed somehow to kick them into the air and onto the blade of a ceiling fan. It happened so fast, that it took us a minute or so to even locate the missing underwear. As we located them, however, his eyes turned from a look of confusion to one of enchantment, and he went to try out the fan switch. After the third or fourth full blade rotation, the underwear sailed off the fan blade, across the room, and landed atop his head. I looked over at my husband to see a sparkle in his eyes - pride mixed with a little bit of jealousy. These kind of moves are the stuff a grown man dreams of doing, I imagine. I have seen my husband do a bit of fancy underwear-related footwork. (Shhh...) None of this caliber, but I can say that Levi has never seen this. He didn't take underwear foot-flinging lessons from my husband. He just got it by instinct, apparently.

So I won't blame things like my road rage on a poor upbringing. I'll blame it on a pattern of my flesh. It wants others to be more like me. After all, I am special. I am right. It's kind of funny, because I have met some people who like to blame people like me for the ills of society. As though, if I would stop thinking that people should be more like me and just let them be them, then the world would be a better place. I agree with this to a point, but I also see it as utter hypocrisy. It's a hypocrisy that says, "If you would be more like me - letting others be more like themselves - then the world would be a better place." It's the same flesh pattern - just a stage more complicated. I recognize that road rage is silly. In fact, I think that's part of where mine originates - in the ridiculous. After all, I know logically that no amount of muttering from my car with my windows up is going to shame someone else into more responsible use of a turn signal. I just enjoy the creativity that comes with the private mock superiority. It's funny to me.

The truth is that it is people like me who are to blame for the ills of society... and people like you. Whether we like to admit it or not, there are ugly parts of us all that need to be changed... dead parts that need revived... dim parts that need brightened... and dull parts that need shined. The key is that it doesn't start with that "moron" who left his signal on for the last 5 miles on the interstate. It starts with me. Oh, yeah, and that's where it ends too. No amount of changing that anyone else could do would make me content if I am, myself, unchanged. I am glad I don't have to try to change on my own strength.

¹⁹ For I through the law died to the law that I might live to God.²⁰ I have been crucified with Christ; it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me; and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself for me. ²¹ I do not set aside the grace of God; for if righteousnesscomes through the law, then Christ died in vain.”

Miss Information

As you probably know, I have the opportunity to homeschool our children. This is rarely an easy task, but, as I watch the children grow and learn, it is becoming more and more rewarding. Claire is a particular joy for me to school. She rarely (if ever) complains about anything I ask her to do. I have begun to wonder if the meaning of a child's name has much to do with the type of child he or she turns out to be. At least it has worked out that way in our family. Claire's name means "bright" or "clear". That's not why we named her Claire. We just liked the name. However, she is definitely bright in so many ways.

Each of my children are a special type of gift to me, of course, but this note is about Claire. She has always been unique. She is a "love bug". She loves critters of all types and has recently determined to be the world's first cat trainer. It's always been a joy to watch her with her pets. She has inspired more than one note (see Pets or Playthings)

The part I love about homeschooling Claire is that she never ceases to surprise me. She looks off into space as though she's paying me no attention whatsoever, and, yet, when I ask her a question, she goes above and beyond with the answer. She has answers that are simple and profound. Sometimes it's obvious she was paying me no attention, but she doesn't try to fake it. She simply says, "Mom, I really just wasn't paying attention to what you just read. I was thinking about Scrooge McDuck and the Beagle Boys. You know, the Beagle Boys's mom has LOTS of kids." I can't help but admire that kind of flat-out honesty.

Yesterday, I was reading to the girls about some animals that are native to North America. One of these animals was the porcupine. Both girls seemed absorbed in what I was saying. I read a phrase that stood out to me. It said that the porcupine's quills are made of hairs that have grown together. I had no idea about this. So I reread this phrase aloud - to make sure that I had understood it. We talked about it briefly - saying how interesting it was. Then we moved on to the rest of the page. At the end of the page, I asked the list of suggested questions. It included the question, "The porcupine's quills are made of ___?" Claire looked at me with a question mark and said, "Pine." These are the moments when I'm not sure what just happened. Had we not just talked at length about this very question?

Last week we spent a series of lessons discussing the word "nocturnal" - as well as different types of nocturnal animals. When I later asked for examples of nocturnal animals, a very confident Claire responded, "Grown-ups."

When discussing the pre-fix "tri" last year, we noted that "tri" means "three", and used examples of tripods and triangles. When I asked her about triplets though, I said, "When a woman has three babies at one time, we call them triplets which starts with 'tri-...'." She said, "Try... to take care of them all?"

The hilarity of these moments does not escape me. I don't want to laugh right at her, but I love to laugh with her. However, I work so hard to get a point across - sometimes too hard - and then, when it's obvious that I haven't gotten it across, I wonder what I've done wrong. These are the moments when I wish I didn't have to be teacher and wish I could be only "mom". As a teacher, my life is a series of checklists. As a mom, it's much more relaxed and fun. I would like little more than to always be able to be fun, but the role of teacher is also one that I take seriously. The constant fear that hangs over this homeschooling mom's head is - losing the opportunity to school my children at home. People are watching my kids to see if they are "normal" socially or if they are "on schedule" with the other children their age academically. I believe my children are more closely critiqued because they are home schoolers. I love my children, and that makes me work hard to give them the education they deserve. People don't necessarily understand this, but I am not trying to be "overprotective" or smothering with the choice to homeschool. I didn't just lose a husband in my divorce. I lost half of my daughters as well. Half of their weekends, birthdays, holidays, and one night a week are spent elsewhere. That, for me, is primarily why I chose to school my children at home. After Sadie and Austin's first year at school, I missed them terribly - feeling as though their teachers and friends knew them better and had more quality time with them than I did. It was a difficult choice to give up "free time" to do housework and other things during the day. But I wanted to put effort into the relationship that I have with them. If we were a "normal" family, I may not have chosen to school at home.

Last year we started to work with Greek and Latin a little bit in a book called "English from the Roots Up". It teaches them words like "photos" and "tropos" and "graphia" in efforts to get them to be able to comprehend English vocabulary words more easily. I have not put heavy emphasis on this, because I don't consider it on par with reading, writing, and arithmetic. It's kind of a linguistic hobby of mine (yes, I speak fluent geek) that I mix in with our regular school. However, yesterday, when I was dictating sentences for Claire to write from her spelling book, I noticed that she was substituting letters on her white board with letters of the Greek alphabet. She was writing the Greek Alpha instead of "A" and Theta instead of "Th". This was done with no prompting from me. I think she just thought it was funny.

These are the things that others will not see when they look at my children. I even sometimes fall into the temptation to critique the education they are getting - but I know that it is out of trying to make sure that I am doing my job right.

Claire has a late, mid-August birthday. She showed no interest whatsoever in learning her letters or numbers or in trying to read even a word until she was 6. (She was also a late bloomer in the potty training area.) This all made me nervous, because we didn't even try to school her (aside from reading books with her) until last fall. However, a year later, she is reading well, writing full sentences with ease, and adding two-digit numbers in her head, often faster than I can. The temptation to compare one child with another is something that all parents face - within their own families and with outside families.

My personal struggle with perfectionism comes out in my teaching style also. I pushed myself in school. I rarely ever got a B, from the time I knew it was possible to receive letter grades at all until the day I graduated. Was I exceptionally bright? I doubt it. I think I was just competitive and perfectionistic. I remain so today. I was valedictorian of my 8th grade class and my 12th grade class. I was set to graduate my Junior year, but my principal told me that he wanted me to mature another year and encouraged me and my parents to keep me in one more year. My senior year I played sports, attended two schools, and worked two jobs at once. I moved out of my parents's house the summer after I graduated and bought my own home. I pushed myself to the point of exhaustion, and I was miserable much of the time. As much as I want my children to strive for personal best, I don't ever want them to dislike school like I did.

It's sometimes hard for me to remember that I was different from most of the kids in my class. An A minus was a personal disappointment for me. Giving my kids the freedom to be average students and just to learn without pressure of perfection has been a difficult adjustment for me. After all, I had no idea what porcupine quills were made of before I read that phrase this week anyway. I was always just glad I wasn't a mother porcupine, because "OUCH"! And until this week, I never wrote a word in Greek. As hard as it is for some people to accept these days, there still are right and wrong answers. 2 + 2 is not whatever I think it might be. However, a wrong answer does not, in any way, change my heart toward my children. I still love them more every day - no matter what. Right academic answers are going to help them as they grow up, and I do want what's best for them, but my personal feelings for my children are unaffected by their academic achievement.

Like most things, this makes my mind turn to my relationship with God. I somehow got the impression growing up that I had to work to please God. That always left me somehow falling short... usually in a lot of ways. I read a book once called A Woman's Strength. It was about an independent, perfectionistic, professional woman who had borne several handicapped sons. One of her sons had more difficulty than the others though. He was unable to communicate or eat and had to be cared for in a full-time care facility. She said that they had brought him home for a holiday, as was their custom, and that he was sitting behind her in his wheelchair as she was washing dishes, stalling before it was time to take him back to the home. As she was washing dishes, she was suddenly overwhelmed with a need to communicate her love for him. She said that she turned to him, knelt by his side, and told him how very much she loved him. She said he responded with nothing. He looked past her, completely incapable of any display of emotion or even acknowledgement that he understood her feelings for him. She said this happened several times in a row until she broke down in tears as she was hoping for some kind of response from her son. At once she was consumed with one thought that she believed was directly from God... that she (or "us" - humanity) was the equivalent of her handicapped child, and that God was the equivalent of her heart for her son. She knew at once that we, like her son - marred by sin and completely changed from the beautiful, relative perfection we were originally created for, are completely incapable of understanding the height, width, depth - the magnitude of his incomprehensible love for us. And, maybe more importantly, that His love for us does not depend on our ability to return it or even to understand it. It depends on nothing more than the fact that we are His. We are His purchase... His choice, and we were - despite the fact that He knew we would be wrong. We would break His heart. We don't have to be smart or right. We don't have to be funny or whitty or lovable. We are just loved by virtue of being His. He never expected us to be anything else. What a sweet truth to "take to the bank". It gives me the freedom I need to enjoy a relationship with my Creator so much more freely.

Tossed Salad

This year, we're learning about Countries and Cultures for the girls's school time. I say "we", because I'm either learning or relearning things that I either never knew or have long since forgotten.

The first country/culture we're studying this year is our own - that of North America, specifically the USA. Today, while reading one of our school books, I read a phrase that said, "The United States is often referred to as a 'melting pot', because so many cultures make their homes here. However, it would be more accurately called a 'tossed salad', because cultures in the U.S. are encouraged to maintain their individuality and not just blend in with our culture." They looked at me with a blank stare. I looked at them with the same blank stare as I was trying to process the author intent. Then I was wondering, "Who in the world expects a child to understand this metaphor? I barely understand it." "Melting pot" - I pretty much understand that, but more on a cliche level than actual understanding, but "tossed salad"? I think my stomach is starting to growl.

Anyway, I asked the girls, "So, did you understand that last part?" This was met with a corporate "No," from them. I said, "Well, it's kind of like this for example: Pinatas..." (insert anticipatory smiles from girls - as though I might have one hidden behind my back) "Pinatas are a game for celebrating birthdays in Mexico, but when Mexicans came to America, we didn't say to them, 'No. We don't do pinatas in America. Here's a baseball glove and some cake and ice cream. Happy Birthday.' We said, 'Hey, that looks like fun. Let me take a whack at that thing.' So I guess that makes us a tossed salad." Claire said, "Makes me want to hit one right now." "Well," I said, "part of being a tossed salad means that we could walk into Walmart right now and buy a pinata off the shelf." I probably lost them somewhere in the vegetable metaphor there, but we all agreed on one thing: life with pinatas is far superior to life without pinatas. This led to some great conversations about how Mexicans also have fun hats and take naps in the afternoon. The nap thing actually got me pretty much totally sold on moving further south. I don't play much baseball anyway. Naps are more my speed.

Another story that we enjoyed was about how the Navajo nation have a custom in which the first time a baby laughs out loud they have a huge celebration. Here's the kicker: The person who made the baby laugh is the one who has to pay for the party. As much as I adore laughter, I think this custom reveals the Navajo to be a people group who deeply value our God-given sense of humor in a very tangible way.

So - I guess I think that, despite all the cultural differences we have in the United States, we have no excuse not to feel richer and more deeply blessed than any nation on earth because of the wealth of opportunity to experience a wide range of cultures. Despite the fact that we don't all look the same or have the same customs or belief systems, we have the opportunity to enjoy the best of what so many cultures have to offer. It seems to me that other cultures bring their best with them when they come to the U.S.A. - food, games, traditions, and art - just to name a few. I guess I'm glad to be part of this "tossed salad" - even if just a nut.

Cheating on the Eye Exam

I know I'm supposed to go to the eye doctor once a year, but the truth is that I avoid it until I have no more contacts and they force me to come back to get more. Then I have to go through the same eye exam that I have endured for many years now. My optometrist has been my optometrist (with the exception of the few years post high school when I had no insurance) since I was a child. What strikes me about optometrists is that they must have that very unique personality trait that necessitates a daily routine - to the max. They don't mind having a job that is essentially the same, day in, day out, month after month, year after year, every working day of their lives. Just writing it makes me bored. I am not, as you can tell, wired to be one of these types of people. I'm lucky if I make the same recipe twice - ever in my life. My family routinely asks me to make something I made a few months back, because it was a favorite, and I'm lucky if I can remember what it even was or where the recipe originated. I like surprises. They make me feel alive. This makes motherhood my ideal career, I guess. No two days alike...

I think my eye doctor is great. He fascinates me. First of all, I have infinite respect for anyone who can handle looking at the human eye - which gives me the creeps. I like to watch him work. While other doctors have long since computerized their records, my guy keeps meticulous, detailed, hand-written notes on my every visit. I have no doubt that he has record of my very first visit somewhere in that dogeared, inch-thick, manilla file folder. He talks to me using numbers and codes that I cannot possibly understand. He tells me all the dots and decimal points of my eye measurements. Cool - 47.53 this time. That's a relief. Oh, wait. Is that bad? He insists on taking my contacts out and putting them back in by himself. This drives me bonkers, but I endure it like a kid endures a spit bath from mom. He always gives me two tissues - one for each eye. His procedure is flawless and completely predictable. We'll probably both have alzheimer's someday, but people will actually notice his. We have grown older together. When I was a child, he seemed so young. I babysat his children when I was in high school. He is my parents's age, and, because I only see him once every year or two, he seems to age faster than they do. His hair has grayed. His hairline and pants have gotten higher while his eyebrows have gotten lower. He's becoming "cute"... like I think most older men do.

Several years back, I realized that I had inadvertently memorized the eye chart at the doctor's office. The 40/20 line for nearsightedness is O F L C T, 30/20 is A P E O T F, and 20/20 is T Z V E C L. The 20/20 line for farsightedness is H T V P F R U (which is the only line he ever asks me, since I have 20/20 reading vision). I have a somewhat photographic memory. Written text is specifically committed easily to my memory. I don't know how, only seeing it every year or two, it committed itself to my memory, but it did. I debated on whether or not this knowledge was harming my ability to honestly have my vision tested. I mean, I never intentionally cheated on the exam, but once I started to read the first letter, the others would just fall out of my mouth - like the Pledge of Allegiance or my Social Security number would. In fact, I found myself almost trying to see a different letter on the chart so that I could make myself question it. It never worked.

Finally, two years ago, I decided to tell him that I had the eye chart memorized. He didn't believe me. He's not a laugher, but he did manage a smirk and a "oh..." He said something to the effect of that he doubted I really did or that it would effect my results at all, and went about giving the eye test again. Lately though, I've noticed that my vision isn't as clear as I'd like it to be. I decided to bring it up again this morning at my appointment. This time, I said it to the receptionist first. I just blurted it out during the part when I'm supposed to be sitting quietly, reading a magazine. "I memorized the eye chart." She said, "Excuse me?" I said, "I have the eye chart memorized." She laughed, as though she thought I was just being silly (which is not out of the question). I said, "O-F-L-C-T. H-T-V-P-F-R-U." She and the other receptionist both stopped dead in their tracks. I said jokingly, "I can read it from here." Then I smiled and laughed and they both started laughing raucously and trading jokes about what he was going to do with me now. Oddly though, laughing with these ladies about this ridiculous situation gave me the courage I needed to tell the doctor again, with more confidence, that I had memorized his chart.

This story has a good ending. When I explained the situation, he said, "Wow. You're in luck. We just changed out the machines last week, and the new machine has a whole new chart." Whew! That was relief. Finally, I felt like I got a good exam. Turns out, I might be being overcorrected, since my eyesight is actually improving with age, which he says tends to happen to people who were nearsighted since childhood.

This situation, like so many others, causes me to think. Could I have successfully made myself see D-P-L-O-T instead of O-F-L-C-T in order to get better "perspective"? Could I have suppressed what I knew was absolutely true in order to try to get a true evaluation of my eyesight? In broader realms, "Can a person suppress what he or she knows to be true in order to try to gain a more truthful goal?" The idea of it seems ridiculous to me. Yet it happens quite often these days. Truth is viewed to be subjective. "You see it this way, but I see it this way," thinking... What happens, is that a person attempts to ditch what they've always believed in order to try to find a better "truth". From my experience, if you ever knew what the truth about something was, looking harder won't lead you to a better or truer truth. You might find additional, related truths, but you won't find a different one. Because that is the nature of the word, the concept - truth. It's nature is constant, unchanging, and final. If you have children, you might have noticed that they are sure and dogmatic and more honest (sometimes to your chagrin) than any adult. That's because they don't let anyone prevailing opinion or peer pressure lead them to look for something else.

I took Levi to his neurologist yesterday. The doctor asked him some questions I was sure he wouldn't be able to answer - at his age and maturity level, but I was wrong. He was quite capable of giving answers far above what I thought he would be able.

The doctor asked, "Levi, what do you think of your medicine?"

Levi responded, "Um, I think that it's pretty yucky."

He elaborated, "When I have a headache, I hold between my eyes and I cry and say, 'Daddy, I need some medicine,' and daddy goes to get some medicine, and then I take it, and I feel better. For awhile, it was very yucky, but mom got some flavor in it, and now it's not as yucky anymore, but it's still yucky."

Doctor looked at me and said, "Is he in school?"

I said, "Not yet."

He said, "He's ready."

Levi didn't say what he thought the doctor wanted to hear. He hasn't been conditioned to curb his honesty yet. He isn't yet at my girls's age where they are quiet about what they think around other adults - for fear of rejection or having the "wrong" answer. He told the truth, from his perspective. It was a subjective truth, an opinion, but he gave it unabashed, without fear of rejection.

If you are blessed enough to ever have the truth about something, don't look for a different one - because it'll just be a lie. Live by it. Let it change your life... or just use it to cheat on the eye exam.