Third Birthday

(Notes from this weekend...)

She slides close in the coming light and I bury my head in her tendrils, damp and tangled, this night halo she wears through dreamworlds. And then I remember. Today (I can hardly breathe) is the last day.

Tenderly sweeping back these gold strands from around her face, I watch her eyelashes flutter but a moment, her lips slightly open, breathdreams rising and falling softly. On this very pillow she lay the night she first breathed air of this earth, this sliver of heavenlight. That night I cupped her head in my hand, fragile moon, and slept the night us two nestled near, while lightning bugs blinked celebration at the edge of the woods. And in a blink I wake to this morning, to this, the last day of her being two.

Her and I, we’ve always only known two.

Two from the meeting, from the soundless, cosmic settling, the forever light unfurling, the knitting into me. Two from the watery womb swelling, her skin stretching mine, her heart staccatoing under mine, us two in time together.

Cutting the cord on the emerging day changed everything and nothing at all. Heads close on this pillow, we breathed into each other faces. My life flowed out, nourishing hers. Our skin now touched, melded, us two. Though two, we lived entwined, mingled, one.

But today two slips away and she, this gift child, blooms three.

The intake of breath, the realization, pierces sharp.

But He comes quick, soothes with Truth, " But hasn't Two always been Three?"

And I close eyes, nod a half smile, caress her soft cheek, and slip out of bed to bake a cake for tomorrow in the peace of always Three.

"A cord of three strands is not quickly broken" ~Ecc. 4:12

Lord, braid us, these ones near to us, our lives around You, a strong strand for these days...

(To those who sent Shalom birthday wishes, you make us smile, together we delight, and we thank you for sharing this journey with us... We'll write soon...)

Home Education

More on home education...



For us, our guideposts through a day:

~Prayer, memorization, Bible Reading, hymn singing

~2 hours a day of Reading --especially before they are five

~Reading Living Books (history, science, geography, literature, poetry, art appreciation)
(for lists of living books see here: Ambleside Online, 1000 Good Books, Real Learning Booklist)

~Bluedorn's Ten Things to Do before the age of Ten was formative for us as we began

~ readings happen in Circle Time (and explore Kendra's circle time posts), or known as Morning Time (Cindy of Dominion Family mentored a small email loop long before blogs, and she was used of God to help shape what our homeschooling looked like... her morning time posts are priceless gems, worth printing out and praying over) ...

~Latin, math, grammar/writing/spelling
~apprenticing to real life: 2 hours of barn work daily, and then household chores

And at day's end, we think on our Seven Daily Rungs, the seven things which we endeavor to learn and do daily, to live holistically, our one-piece life.



And these books that have shaped our course... Possible readings for the summer hammock?

~Laying Down Rails --before embarking on any homeschool journey, regardless of paradigm or philosophy, may I humbly offer that this is where to begin. Because it is all about habits. What rails you lay down will take you somewhere. Lay them well. I will be re-reading my well-worn, much noted copy this summer.

~Seven Lesson School Teacher (available online by John Taylor Gatto, NYC Teacher of the Year and NY State Teacher of the year--see here for his acceptance speech)

~Real Learning: Although written from a Catholic perspective, there is much here to be gleaned, much to chew on, much to embrace--real learning in a real home. With a Charlotte Mason philosophy, this book sings with the joy of authentic living and joyful learning. Inspiring and practical, I'm rereading this also this summer. (Her suggested reading lists of living books throughout the elementary years can be read online here.)

~For the Children’s Sake: The summer of my third year of university, my sister-in-law loaned me this book. And God began to give a different vision of what our children’s lives could look like.

~Christine Miller’s Classical Christian Homeschooling: Our oldest was 4 when I found Christine Miller’s site. I had so many questions...

~A Charlotte Mason Companion, a very worthwhile guidepost that I revisit often and keep beside my bed...

~A wise homeschooling mother's memorable blog post deeply impacted our journey: "Homeschooling Heresies"...

~And this profound article, on how to avoid pitfalls in homeschooling which I read again, and again, and so wish I had in the beginning.

~~~

To delve deeper, we've been blessed by:

~this complete Charlotte Mason curriculum, the PNEU curriculum for gr. 1-12--inspiration!

~ the Ambleside curriculum

~ Veritas Press' curriculum, and their online scholars program for our upper elementary learners, along with the Teaching Company courses

But really, curriculum is not the road on which homeschoolers travel. Whether what lines the shelf is of a Charlotte Mason bent, or classical, Abeka or Sonlight, Tapestry of Grace or Bob Jones is of secondary importance.

We travel on The Way. We live and breathe in Him. He is our road, He leads us on, He is a guide worthy of our trust.

Lean on Him.

(More about our personal homeschooling journey)

Photos: young learners in our home...

Knee Travellers

Most mornings find us here, ringed around this farm table, blocks and chunks of sunlight bejeweling faces. We've slept in beds but a few steps away, done chores before dawn in that barn on the other side of the lane, and now gathered here, some still eating their toast, crumbs falling on the table into squares of golden light.

We stay here and open pages, read of other places, different times.

And so it is we meet historical Gustavus one morning after Emily Dickinson's poetry, his sure and steady voice calling across the centuries. It's the 17th century, words have taken us to Sweden, and we listen to King Gustavus’ standing in the great hall of the Diet in Stockholm, passionately addressing his government on May 20, 1630. With the slaughter of brethren in the faith throughout Europue, he anguishes for “our religious brethren who sigh for deliverance. With the help of God, they will not have sighed in vain.”

The words of Gustavus’ ardent plea catch in my throat. Nearly 400 years had passed since those words rang out; an ocean and near-light years away. And yet, was there not still a collective sigh escaping from our persecuted brothers and sisters around the globe…at this very moment?

We are just here, rising every morning, serving breakfast, praying, opening our books... entirely oblivious, generally apathetic and indifferent to the countless, innumerable cries of imprisoned, oppressed, tortured men and women for do what we do every day: talk to Jesus as Savior and Friend.

Even if I had ears and heart to hear, I wasn’t Gustavus. I simply could not abandon spouse and children to deliver my brethren in the faith. While a husband and father, Gustavus was a king. We are simply, merely, a homeschooling family of a half dozen kids and a mom and dad trying and praying to hold it all together.

We turn the page of Gustavus’ story, the children and I reading as Swedish troops waved farewell to hearth and home and sailed for mainland Europe, risking their lives, the only ones they had, so that unknown siblings in God’s family might worship freely.

After five wave-tossed weeks at sea, Gustavus and company landed on the coast of Germany. Falling heavily down on the sandy beach, Gustavus led his weary army in prayer, “My Lord and my God, You who rule the winds and the seas, I give You thanks from the depths of my heart. You know, O Lord, I haven’t come for my own glory, but to help Your oppressed church. Protect us and bring us victory in this sacred work.”

Standing, Gustavus observed tears in the eyes of his brave men.

Reading the story, my own emotions well close. Hope-girl, seated beside me, softly wishes, “Too bad we couldn’t go help the oppressed church like that, Mama.”

Gustavus stirred hearts, ancient and present, with truth, “Weep not. Pray to God with all your heart. To pray often is almost to conquer.”

I whisper his words again, “To pray often is almost to conquer.”

I look at the children circling our table, Caleb with face in hands, Hope with intent eyes, Joshua and Levi pressed together, leaning close. We could not go to China. Or Sudan. Or Iran. Our family of eight would never, in all likelihood, step foot in Saudi Arabia where discussing the Bible would toss you in a barren jail cell for 4 years and include a sentence to lashing—750 stinging, biting strokes. We would never fellowship in the dark of a damp underground church, or defend sisters in Christ from a flurry of fists and sticks for singing hymns on Sunday morning. No, we were simply a family. But might we too go into all the world, freeing the oppressed?

Gustavus echoed across time to our family gathered around the table: “To pray often is almost to conquer.”

This family could go. The oppressed church need not sigh in vain: we could pray.

Often. Daily. God would hear…does hear. Our prayers would be as going, as conquering, emancipating our persecuted brethren, releasing those held captive to the dark.

So we bow heads, holds hands, and ask, “Father, today be with Pastor Van Thong, imprisoned in Laos for attending meetings with Western Christians. No one is allowed to visit him Lord and he is being held indefinitely. We cannot go to Laos and implore the government for Pastor Van Thong’s release. But we can pray, Lord, for his comfort, his encouragement, and his glorifying You in all these things. And may Your Spirit and Your good and perfect will reign victorious, Father, in Laos…and all the world over.”

A little hand squeezes mine and we know: To pray is almost to conquer.

So we travel into the world on our knees.


Related:
Persecution.org
Prisoner Alert
How to teach geography and go...

Post adapted from a column piece no longer available at Christian Women Online
Quotes of Gustavus from Trial and Triumph

Gestation Days

I don't remember how many times stainless needles poked about her blue veins in attempt to drain in another IV bag. You lose count in a storm of hyperemesis gravidarum that pounds relentlessly, leaving one limp and hanging over a toilet bowl. The days, weeks, months of wooziness, churning smells, swirling green nausea, it all eroded away at joy.

But when a whisper of fingers wrapped close yesterday....

"Wasn't that worth every single day of it?" The words are soft. No one speaks loud on holy ground. I search my sister's eyes.

She smiles, looks down into those gleaming black jewels just opening.

"Entirely." She strokes that heaven-fresh cheek. "If you only knew... had a window ahead to see... then you'd know for all those days where you just want to give up. It is more than worth it."

A stretching yawn captivates. Smitten, we laugh.

"It's like heaven, isn't it?" I watch Little Ana sigh, purse her lip, bubble. "If we just had a window ahead... We'd know these hard days are worth it."

Quiet settles and we let it, eyes only for this miracle bundled. I smell her whisp of black hair, kiss her forehead.

And then... after a bit, the realization comes slowly.

"You know....," my eyes don't leave that flawless face. "We did know. We had a window ahead of why it was worth it: her three sisters."

My sister sadly nods. "True."

And through the twilight home, I can only speculate about all the windows ahead He opens, faintest glimpses of heaven's glory, that I miss, ignore.

Today I pray to wake. To wake to this endless stream of assurances He gives.

For all around He writes that heaven's coming wonder will be worth these long gestation days.

Lord, wake me to the windows of the soon-to-be that open into now. Let us bask in the rays of light, warmth to carry us through the weariness of gestation. Oh, the delivery coming!

Photo: Ana and I meeting

A Dwelling Place

It’s the slow, heaving pant on the other end of the line that wakes me. No words in the receiver, just this heavy, exaggerated exhale of a body.

My brow crinkles. I don't open eyes, searching for a way out of dreams, to figure out who, why.

And then a voice, hardly audible:

“I think it is today.”

Today?

It registers.

My sister’s voice.

And today. The Saturday before Mother’s Day.

I know this place, familiar and worn. I been here before.

Thirteen years ago on the eve of Mother’s Day, that was my labored breathing, the muscles of my abdomen contracting taut and iron hard, me riding wave after cresting wave.

I don’t open my eyes to the grey mingling of dark and dawn, just inhale and exhale too. I remember words for this in between place.

“In Him, you can do this, sister.” I press the phone closer, wanting her to hear, get this.

“Just stay fluid, lean back into it. Let it come. The more you tense, the more it intensifies. Let it all flow through you. Channels only.”

They are close, handy, those phrases that coached through our six births. And too, I guess what is true of labor is true of the work of life. Stay fluid, let His current take you, don’t rail. Channels only.

“You think I can do this?” Her teeth are chattering now, nerves jangled, scared.

“Lay back into Him, and let it all just come. Don’t fight it. Then yes, you can definitely do this.”
She answers with long, methodical breathing. I nod, smiling into dark lighting.

“Enjoy this fullness,” I whisper. “You know not if you pass this way again.”

We both know it’s time and she has to go and I step into new day coming. I stretch covers up over sleeping places, comb out Little Girl’s dream knots, set bowls out and around for their coming in from barn and chores and early morning air. But prayers linger on lips, always prayers.

Hope-girl and I, we dress for a Mother-daughter garden tea at the chapel this morning, this Saturday before Mother’s Day. She wears flashing pink and I wear safe black and I don’t know what my mother would have wore, for now she cannot come. Mama will collect my nieces close while my sister lets go of curled child within.

At garden gathering, we choose a table draped in yellow, Hope-girl and I, finger the violet petals strewn about, and listen to this chatting, laughing, weaving of lives together, shuttle slipping back and forth. I am there, surrounded by daughters, mothers, grandmothers, but I am not there, a loose string. Talk of recipes, sipping of cups, but my thoughts are in the same hospital I was in thirteen years ago on the cusp of my first Mother’s Day.

I am with a uterus emptying.

Sometimes I catch myself, this laying a hand on my flatness, over that still cavity, and feeling the pulse of ache’s echoing howl. A woman’s body and soul is hollowed out to create, to weave, to knit in the private spaces. And so the longings come, yearnings to fill, to carry, to deliver.

I remember where I was when Husband looked into these seeking eyes and tenderly agreed, “It is true. The barren womb never is satisfied” (Prov. 30: 15-16). If only he really knew how it can scald...

And yet, I have come to think, does the womb need a seed, an unfurling, embryonic soul? Can any soul fill the void? While not necessarily with child, perhaps we may be with abandoned, with elder, with needy. The barren and deserted may become the dwelling place, the fertile home, of souls seeking mother-care.

“The barren has borne…” (1 Sam. 2:5).

Hope-girl beside me, she brushes up against my arm, yogurt-dipped strawberry kissing her lips. She's laughing with her friends. How did that babe I once enveloped in watery womb, unfold into this long lissome dreamer? She grows and I lay fallow. And yet…

We are hardly through home’s door when the phone rings, her voice again, her breathing now undetectable.

“Already?” I glance up at the clock over the table.

“She’s here.” Her voice is light, wearily happy. “We have four.” I shake my head at the wonder of those four sisters laughing and weaving old together.

“Ana… after you.” My breath catches. Words scatter, leaving me stilled.

“Ana Jordan… Jordan cried when we told her. Who knows? Jordan may never marry or have children. And there is always this little one to love.”

The barren has borne. Both of us.

And I realize: We never cease to be with child. Those of us who have birthed, and those of us who never have. We may make spaces within us for all of humanity, for their dreams, their stories, their hurts, their lives. Do we not, over the years, line our lives with the stretchmarks of love?

The privilege of carrying a soul is always ours. We may choose to never let our wombs languish empty. Always we may open and welcome another person to find nourishment and comfort within the empty places we have made just for them.

Somewhere under this night pinned up with stars, Ana Jordan sleeps near her mother’s face, her warm breath falling, her fists clenched tight. And we of empty uteruses still swell, making ourselves homes.

It’s my last act on this Saturday before Mother’s Day. To fold a card and write a haiku of feelings for my own who loves and harbors yet:

Silver-crowned mama
Still you swell, full with child, an
Always dwelling place.

Lord, show me today how I can make space in my life to be a womb...

Related:
On Mothering
In Mama's Honor

Seed Bed

She’s laid bare, exposed and waiting. We, all of us, watch as he stands on her tilled edge, opening bags, preparing to fill soil’s barrenness. Something about the sound of ripping out stitched string, hope and promised unsealed.

The open seed bags line the tailgate, ready. The truck bed sags under the heaviness of seeds, millions of diminutive, near-weightless-in-my-hand seeds. Across the field, edging toward us, the tractor with planter behind, seems to enlarge, grow up out of the dirt. Engine drones louder, closer. That horsepower’s filling earth’s emptiness with seeds, 16 rows drilling 29,500 embryos of life into every acre of naked ground.

Farmer Husband kneels down into land already planted. Like a prayer, he scrapes back the surface, searches.



“Found one.” The wind carries his voice to us sitting in the ditch’s grass. “We’ve got the depth, the spacing. Looks good!” His grease-creased hands move slowly, carefully, folding the seed back into its dark earth slumber.

Granules, sediment, is all she looks like. Dirt. Kick a foot at her, and she flies away, a cloud of dust. But beneath her, still and hidden, lies millions of seeds about to awaken, stir, burgeon, swell with life.

Farmer Husband’s brother backs up tractor and this planter empty of seed. Time to refill. These brothers, whose blood comes from a land far across the Atlantic Ocean, heft seed bags and pour into planter hoppers.

Little Girl stands beside me watching her daddy work, her cheeks full of apple, her hair riding wind. She’s standing on dirt I stood on as a little girl, watching my own Daddy pour seed to fill this farm with.

Seeds and dirt. Isn’t that what we are, really? Seeds planted deep into loam, growing, living, dying, dust returning to dust, new seeds planted. Seeds as many as the stars in the sky.

I reach down and touch her silken hair, touch all the children within her to come, and think of Abraham and Levi before Levi even yet was… and yet he was:

“Because when Melchizedek met Abraham, Levi was still in the body of his ancestor,” reads Hebrews 7:10. The New Living Translation offers,“For although Levi wasn’t born yet, the seed from which he came was in Abraham’s body...”

Inside the frames, the bodies, the souls of our children, reside the children still to come. And the children then still to come. Like nestled dolls, future generations dwell within the child whose eyes I now look into, whose hands I now touch.

Stars in the sky, seeds in the earth.

We parent not one child, or even a few children, but every day, we parent innumerable, countless children. When I raise my voice, frustrated with a child, I speak to generations of children. When I wipe away a tear, comfort, listen, I honor centuries of children.

When we meet our children, children we will not live to meet on this earth, are, in very real ways, met, shaped, formed. Parented.

She bites again into white apple flesh, looks up with smiling eyes.

Face of clay, she is. Made of the dust of the ground. But, oh, the seeds within.

The planter drops back down into seedbed, heads across earth, and I take her hand and whisper a prayer.

God, give grace to tend her well.

Slow to Savor

The sun pools in the sink, caught in suds, prisms refracting light from unseen heavens. I wash dishes. Hands do their squeaking work, but my eyes look out to the back yard, watching the six of them there under the spruce trees. Twelve arms gathering pine cones. Twelve legs bent. Twelve limbs that once curled inside of me, now out there, growing, working. I dry my hands on apron’s front and lean up against the windowsill, just to see that near-man’s arms rake a pile of dead grass, winter’s refuse. Long girl tucks Little girl’s blowing wisps of blonde under her hat. Two boys bend over a pail, tossing in the pine cones, their heads near touching in some story. I know the sound of that laughter.

Little girl comes in cold, finds me writing a letter. Her slender frame slips up on the chair, wriggles behind me, winds her chilled fingers through my hair. Her talking-to-self-words wind along too, into this murmured sing-song story. I feel her breath heavy and close. She’s thinking on how to wrap this ribbon through my strands. Her slight fingers play me, and the rhythm of her chest rises and falls, pressed up against my back. I stop writing. It’s this moment that begs branding into neurons. She’s telling her fingers, “Now like this and like this.” I turn to see her face. She pauses, locks eyes, searching, reading. I’m just trying to memorize now. Then she pats my cheek. “I’ll stay your baby, Mama.” How did she know?

As a child, (now, not so much), I scarfed down food. Grandma Ruth would shake her head in obvious disgust. “Child! That is no way to eat. It took time to make this meal. And it should certainly take you time to taste it. Slow down, will you please, and savor.” Then she’d chew quite deliberately to punctuate her point. I tried. But chops, potatoes, peas, it was all just food to me. Dinner. Something you ate at six o’clock.

But her apple pie? Her butterscotch pecan tarts? Her lemon-coconut dream bars? She needn’t rebuke me. I savored, tongue slowly caressing, swirling sweet high and low. I lingered. I ate slowly, tasting.

I’m not quite sure when I began thinking that life wasn’t dessert. Somewhere along the way, somehow, it all sped up; and I got to thinking that life was something that you just hurried up and did. That you scarfed down. That there wasn’t much of it, so you better get it all down fast.

But maybe that is exactly the point.

There isn’t much life. Which is precisely why it mustn’t be consumed mindlessly. Raced through.
Simply put: Life is too brief to hurry.

It’ll all be over in a moment. Then why not savor , stop and swirl it about, really relish it? Isn’t Life meant to be lingered over? I have an appetite, a hankering, to nibble on bare toes. To hold on to that teen, feel that heart beat that once drummed faintly under mine, now beat beside, stronger, surer. To just sit long with my Mama in the last of the afternoon light.

I call children to tea and a plate of chocolate-chip melt-bars, the same my Mama baked up when I was a kid, and they rush in and fling off coats and circle round with empty tummies, and hungry eyes, and mouths full of words and stories that tumble out all over the table. But quiet falls as the chocolate-chips melt on taste buds ravished. I smile, watching them eat slowly, some transported ones reminding anxious others, “I am not eating mine fast. It tastes so good.” Young boy’s eyes twinkles, mouth gooey with good, and he serenades softly, “I love you and this, Mom.”

And I mourn all the feasts I have daily declined, too rushed and too harried, too busy and too driven, with my fields to see, cows to buy, work to do, my reams of pressing excuses (Lk. 14:15-24). He spreads the deserts and we fly by. Hurrying to wolf down life, we simply cannot come to His banquet.

But not today. Today I take my piece, short and sweet, and taste long and purposefully. For the invitation to His feast is worth the acceptance… and the savoring.

Lord, today, let me really taste You.


Related: Why the Push?

Slowing to See

Going on a God hunt....

little feet looking for big puddles,

and pools of spring,

down in the woods, where winter keeps hanging onto her skirts.

Going to catch a big one... boy and dog and swamp melting into life

with eyes wide open.

Found! Come sit in this patch of sun with me, and puddle splash?

And see! Spring friends are coming to join us too!

If the heavens declare.... let's get out there!

Take time. Only a few minutes a day. Look. Pause. Breathe Deep.

Slow to See.

Step outside. Go for a walk.

Give glory.

Grace. Gratitude. Joy.

April's Nature Calendar...(Click to enlarge for your own calendar of glorying in the Creator...
Calendar from: Natural Science Through the Seasons: 100 Teaching Units)

Feathers for the Nest

(Thoughts He keeps bringing to mind daily, changing me...)

An excerpt from my column this month at Christian Women Online:

"...When will I learn that down sacrificed settles and soothes? For scraps won’t suffice. Snippets of time, leftover me, a trinket, a diversion, tossed.

Mother ducks don’t line nests with feathers, dirty and trampled, the molted and unnecessary. Why would I?

Nests need feathers fresh, warm with mother’s life...."

To read the complete article, Feathers for a Nest

(I hope you'll take a moment to pop over)

Art: The original Koester painting, "Moulting Ducks," is part of the collection at the Frye Art Museum in Seattle www.fryemuseum.org

Interested in Easing Parental Stress?

A university student (and mother) who reads here contacted me, inquiring if any parent who passes through this out of the way place might be interested in participating in a research study to reduce parental stress--- through practising gratitude... Yes! Care to join me?


She writes:

WANTED: Parents who desire to reduce child-related stress.

COST: A little bit of your time.

PERKS: Improved outlook and better parenting relationships! HOW? Introducing an exciting study in the works with an outcome that will benefit you! We are happy to present you with the chance to participate and hope that you will find this helpful to your daily life. Read on for more information ~

The Purpose of the Study:

- To consider gratitude as a method for reducing stress in parenting
- To measure instances of parenting stress using the method below
- To measure the potential benefits (and maintenance) of gratitude as a means of stress reduction in parenting

The Method of the Study:

The 2 Simple Steps:

[Prior to beginning, compile a list of 10 specifics for which you are grateful. This should make the required expressions of gratitude easier.]

#1: When you experience a moment of stress related to one or more of your children, “reset” your thinking by verbally expressing gratitude, either in reaction to the current stressor, or by reading/saying something from your list.

#2: Add a mark to your daily tally (so that we have a record of how many times this happens each day).

That’s it.

This exercise will be carried out for seven days, beginning on Tuesday, April 1st, followed by a seven day break, and then repeated for a second seven day period.

If you want to participate, please e-mail gratitude.study@gmail.com by Tuesday so we can have an idea of the size of the study. Give your name, age, and gender—although you are welcome to participate anonymously, if you like. Feel free to spread the word to as many adults that you know that wish to participate. (This would make a fun project to do with friends and/or a spouse—men being specifically encouraged to participate as most studies tend to neglect the impact of gratitude from a male perspective.)


What’s in this for you?

Multiple studies have shown that people who feel more gratitude are much more likely to have higher levels of happiness, lower levels of depression and stress. They are seen as more empathetic, agreeable, and extraverted. Grateful people should be more likely to notice they have been helped, to respond appropriately, and to return the help at some future point.

You mean, you’ll get all that, just by adding some gratitude to your life? YES!


Definitions, for the purpose of this study:

Gratitude: Being aware of and thankful for the good things that happen; taking time to express thanks.

Parenting Stress is defined as those moments when life as a parent seems overwhelmingly unpredictable and uncontrollable (based on the 10-item Perceived Stress Scale). Within the context of parenting,

- you become upset because of something that happens unexpectedly.
- you feel you are unable to control the important things in your life.
- you feel nervous and “stressed.”
- you feel you cannot cope with all the things you have to do.
- you become angry because things are outside of your control.
- you feel difficulties are piling up so high that you cannot overcome them.

Obviously, this will be a largely subjective assessment—that is the difficulty in measuring an emotional state. Just try to be as aware as possible.

Thank you! We look forward to sharing the results of the study.

Join us at gratitude.study@gmail.com by Tuesday.
(Feel free to repost this post in its entirety. Let's give thanks in all things!)

Beowulf the Book

Though it is recommended reading for youngsters, I had avoided it. Beowulf seemed... pagan? gory! This volume caused regret for skirting the classic poem for so long.

Our copy of Beowulf: Grendel the Ghastly is growing worn and real with re-readings.



Doug Phillips says:

"The beauty of Beowulf is not only its literary brilliance, but its rich Creationist theme, which dominates the epic from its discussion of Cain and Abel and references to the Nephilim of Genesis 7, to one of the antagonists of the story, the dragon, a clear, historic reference to dinosaurs living contemporaneous with man. For these and other reasons, it has long been my view that Beowulf is one of the ten most important works of Christian literature in history."

The oldest epic in the English languages, written anonymously around 700 AD, and the basis of modern hero tales, Beowulf, though a pagan hero, the Anglo-Saxon poem is that of a Christian, as the introduction of the Norton Anthology of English Literature posits:

"The poet [author of Beowulf] was reviving the heroic language, style, and pagan world of ancient Germanic oral poetry [...] it is now widely believed that Beowulf is the work of a single poet who was a Christian and that his poem reflects well-established Christian tradition."

A glance into this stunning volume, the roots of every word in the book researched by author Michelle Szobody to use only words with Anglo-Saxon origins:

"Beowulf boasted as he took off his armor. "I have faith in my hand-grip as the monster does in his. I will fight my foe without weapons. May God in His wisdom give glory where He sees fit." The leader lay down, and his band fell asleep.

Then from the marsh-mists the monster came slinking...."

And when we read the last words of this hue-saturated, lyrically rich book and turned the final page, the still sat for a moment... until a young voice asked: "How soon until we read the next Beowulf book?"

Ah, the sign of a book well-loved. When will the next word-feast be served?

(Grendel the Ghastly relates the first third of the epic poem of Beowulf. Two more volumes from the same author and illustrator are keenly anticipated. Discernment in reading to younger children encouraged. The artistry of this 26 page, hardback volume is rich, beautiful and vivid-- it may be best to wait until particularly sensitive children are older.)

View more sample pages and reviews here. A volume worth seeking out and reading... again and again.

Related: Linda Faye's Enjoying Beowulf --recommended

Beowulf and Courage--thoughts from Tolkein and Chesterton
Beowulf recommended by Ambleside
Ambleside's Beowulf's guide
Beowulf recommended by Classical Christian Homeschooling

See Children's Book Monday for more children's book reviews

Flourish

Soak in water

to grow roots

tender shoots

of veined green

tendrils twining.

"I planted the seed, Apollos watered it, but God made it grow."

1 Corinthians 3:6

Grow your own sweet potato
Photos: Levi's sweet potato since January

Behold the Lamb... Let Loose!

A series preparing hearts for Easter... (Day 5)
We pause to listen to His Word, linger, lift up voice in prayer...then go live the Word.
Perhaps gather family to join, cutting out the accompanying artwork and hang symbol on an Easter Passion Tree.


Listen to His Word (lectio/read):

From the Message:

8-12 There were sheepherders camping in the neighborhood. They had set night watches over their sheep. Suddenly, God's angel stood among them and God's glory blazed around them. They were terrified. The angel said, "Don't be afraid. I'm here to announce a great and joyful event that is meant for everybody, worldwide: A Savior has just been born in David's town, a Savior who is Messiah and Master. This is what you're to look for: a baby wrapped in a blanket and lying in a manger."

13-14 At once the angel was joined by a huge angelic choir singing God's praises: Glory to God in the heavenly heights, Peace to all men and women on earth who please him.

15-18 As the angel choir withdrew into heaven, the sheepherders talked it over. "Let's get over to Bethlehem as fast as we can and see for ourselves what God has revealed to us." They left, running, and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby lying in the manger. Seeing was believing. They told everyone they met what the angels had said about this child. All who heard the sheepherders were impressed.

19-20 Mary kept all these things to herself, holding them dear, deep within herself. The sheepherders returned and let loose, glorifying and praising God for everything they had heard and seen. It turned out exactly the way they'd been told!

Linger (meditatio)..silently meditate on His Word:

"Don't be afraid. I'm here to announce a great and joyful event that is meant for everybody, worldwide: A Savior has just been born in David's town, a Savior who is Messiah and Master.

(Join children in closing eyes and envisioning the passage, re-read again... again...linger.)

Lift up voice in prayer, responding to His Word (oratio):

Father! You've come! God in the Flesh! The Fall Mess is swept away by the the Faithful Messiah! We too set off at a run, wanting to see! Believe! Hear us let loose! We glorify and praise You for everything we've heard and seen. It's turned out exactly the way You said: You came to crush the serpent. AMEN!

Live the Word (contemplate it so long that it settles down into heart, hands, feet):

Today we can't help ourselves. We are spilling with the good news: we must speak, announce, that great and joyful event that is meant for everybody, worldwide! Who is one person that you could tell today that a Savior has come, a Savior who is Messiah and Master? Call them, write them a note, drop off a treat for them--and tell them the glorious news!

Print, mount, cut, hang art symbol on Easter Tree

Behold the Lamb... Cure for Discontent

A series preparing hearts for Easter... (Day 4)
We pause to listen to His Word, linger, lift up voice in prayer...then go live the Word.
Perhaps gather family to join, cutting out the accompanying artwork and hang symbol on an Easter Passion Tree.

Listen to His Word (lectio/read):

From the Message:
Numbers 21:4-9

4-5 They set out from Mount Hor along the Red Sea Road, a detour around the land of Edom. The people became irritable and cross as they traveled. They spoke out against God and Moses: "Why did you drag us out of Egypt to die in this godforsaken country? No decent food; no water—we can't stomach this stuff any longer."

6-7 So God sent poisonous snakes among the people; they bit them and many in Israel died. The people came to Moses and said, "We sinned when we spoke out against God and you. Pray to God; ask him to take these snakes from us."

Moses prayed for the people.

8 God said to Moses, "Make a snake and put it on a flagpole: Whoever is bitten and looks at it will live."

9 So Moses made a snake of fiery copper and put it on top of a flagpole. Anyone bitten by a snake who then looked at the copper snake lived.

Linger (meditatio)..silently meditate on on His Word:

Whoever is bitten and looks at it will live.

(Join children in closing eyes and envisioning the passage...linger.)

Lift up voice in prayer, responding to His Word (oratio):

Father, we repent of our grumbling, our complaining, of all the stuff we wail that we can no longer stomach. We've been bitten by the snake of discontent. Cause our eyes to look on Jesus and live. With Jesus, we have more, more, than enough.

Live the Word (contemplate it so long that it settles down into heart, hands, feet):

Today, keep tongues from the sin of ingratitude. When the serpent of discontent bites, choose to look to Jesus Who hung on the tree to give us everything we need. He is our life.

Print, mount, cut, hang art symbol on Easter Tree

Behold the Lamb.... Gift of Rescue

A series preparing hearts for Easter... (Day 3)
We pause to listen to His Word, linger, lift up voice in prayer...then go live the Word.
Perhaps gather family to join, cutting out the accompanying artwork and hang symbol on an Easter Passion Tree.

Listen to His Word (lectio/read):

From the Message:
Exodus 12:21-30

23 Moses assembled all the elders of Israel. He said, "Select a lamb for your families and slaughter the Passover lamb. Take a bunch of hyssop and dip it in the bowl of blood and smear it on the lintel and on the two doorposts. No one is to leave the house until morning. God will pass through to strike Egypt down. When he sees the blood on the lintel and the two doorposts, God will pass over the doorway; he won't let the destroyer enter your house to strike you down with ruin.

24-27 "Keep this word. It's the law for you and your children, forever. When you enter the land which God will give you as he promised, keep doing this. And when your children say to you, 'Why are we doing this?' tell them: 'It's the Passover-sacrifice to God who passed over the homes of the Israelites in Egypt when he hit Egypt with death but rescued us.'"
The people bowed and worshiped.

28 The Israelites then went and did what God had commanded Moses and Aaron. They did it all.
29 At midnight God struck every firstborn in the land of Egypt, from the firstborn of Pharaoh, who sits on his throne, right down to the firstborn of the prisoner locked up in jail. Also the firstborn of the animals.

30 Pharaoh got up that night, he and all his servants and everyone else in Egypt—what wild wailing and lament in Egypt! There wasn't a house in which someone wasn't dead.

Linger (meditatio)..silently meditate on His Word: (Join children in closing eyes and envisioning the passage...linger.)

"It's the Passover-sacrifice to God who passed over the homes of the Israelites in Egypt when he hit Egypt with death but rescued us.'"
The people bowed and worshiped.

Lift up voice in prayer, responding to His Word (oratio):

Father, we paint ourselves red with Jesus' blood so that satan cannot enter into this soul place to wrack ruin and death, but that You would come through the door of our hearts... that we would come through Jesus, the door, and into Your Presence. We are rescued. Rescued! Passed Over! We bow down.

Live the Word (contemplate it so long that it settles down into heart, hands, feet):

Today, we wear a necklace, a bracelet, a scarf, some visible reminder that we have chosen to clothe the lintels of our souls in You. We choose You. Because of Jesus we are passed over. We live a day of worship: gratitude for the Gift of Rescue.

Print, mount, cut, hang art symbol on Easter Tree

A Mother's Empathy

The sky cries quietly on a March afternoon, sadness slipping down window panes.

I recollect her tears from last fall, when the leaves flew away sometime in the night.

Now she weeps as the snow ebbs too, a memory.

My fingertips brush the cool of the glass, comforting her,

having grieved a few of my own passing of seasons.

Make an Easter Passion Tree

You hung on a tree, Lord.
Because of Your passion for all humanity.

We remember.
And make our own Passion Tree.

An old sap bucket, a patina of rusted green, hangs on the end of the gnarled wooden beam of the fireplace mantle.

Red dogwood branches from Christmas fill the bucket, remembrances of Your birth, Your Glorious Coming. Last year, it was pussy willows that Caleb carried in from the woods. We too could cut branches from a forsythia shrub or cherry tree, forcing them to open by placing them in water.

I suppose we could spray paint the branches in white or a pastel color...but I think I prefer the red of the dogwood branches. A vivid reminder of Your Passion.

We've hung some daintily painted eggs, attached with pastel ribbons, to the branches. You, Your Passion, is making all things new.

We'll be reading the Passion story, from the Beginning of Your Word.

We'll hang the symbols. We'll meditate. We'll remember.

And be transformed, a tree bringing forth new life.

The Parenting Pursuit

We reject Him, sin against Him, betray Him. But He pursues relentlessly. In the face of heartache.

Our behavior drives Him deeper into relationship. He knows full well that the relationship problem is not a result of His failure to love, but the stoniness of His children’s hearts. It is not an issue of how much Father loves His children, but how much, if at all, His children love their Father. Undaunted, He gives His immediate love attention to the rash of our sin.

In hopes that His love will stir our hearts.

Read more... at this month's CWO column

What Do I really Want....

The moon floods her walls, quilts and face with light, reflected and brilliant.

And she, with that two-year-old voice that warms me, lights me, whispers before prayers, “I say it again for you, okay Mama?”

I nod, and squeeze her little hand, and she takes a deep breath, her eyes rolling high, looking for words, and plucks petals from her memory.

“The Lord is my Shepherd and I want Him, and... and... and I want Him so I shall not want.”

The words tumbled out and jumbled into this odd order, and yet oddly they seemed to mean much, and I smile in the dark and kiss her goodnight and pray that prayer for me too who strangely wants cheap tinsel and thrills when what I'm made to want is only Him.

He who made me to fit into Him so He could fill all my empty places that I keep stuffing with meaningless stuff--wads of words, crumpled desires, scraps that I must, seemingly, consider evidence of personal worth.

Why doesn't the flock just want the Shepherd?

Photo: Shalom sleeping in her Daddy's arms

The Importance of Touch

I don’t remember when I stopped touching him.

Lanky legs, stretching back were signs for me…signs to distance and retreat. Signs of Caleb emerging as a man. And, who was I to touch the skin that clothes a future man?

Perhaps it was mere self-protection, withdrawing before he, inevitably, rejected his coddling mother? Or maybe it was where I came from: cuddling babies was appropriate; embracing boys was not.

Yet on some other level, a deeper one never visited, I must have felt the absence of 12-year-old Caleb’s heart pushed up against mine, this son’s arms wrapped tightly around my neck. For I purposefully filled the emptiness with pink newborns held close, with the cheeky jowls of the irresistible toddler, with tickling and bear hugs and snuggles with preschoolers. But my stretching son? True, he and I rarely longer touched, and that whatever he grew in height, he, tragically, lost in touch. But wasn’t this the normal passage of mothering? Birthing, holding, stroking, touching, nursing…and beginning the long goodbye…letting boys become men. Little did I know that the retreat of my touch left our growing boy adrift, alone in his own skin. That the more he became a man, the more he needed my affirming touch.

Touching the skin of these who live and learn beside us has far-reaching, profound ramifications. Mothers and science know that massaging babe for 15 minutes reduces babe’s irritability, improves her learning and accelerates her development.

The significance of touch continues as babe grows into preschooler: massaged preschoolers showed better performance on tests for design, animal pegs and mazes compared with non-massaged peers. And touch into the upper schooling years? Studies have clearly indicated that massage and deep pressure touch aids children with attention difficulties to not only increase on-task behavior, but also results in greater relaxation, and less acting out. For after touching time, such as a massage, the hypothalamic area of the brain experiences a reduction of action, decreasing the body’s level of stress hormones, and increasing the level of endorphins, which leaves our child with a greater sense of well-being.

Dr. Virginia Satir of Wisconsin goes as far to suggest that human beings need four hugs a day to survive, eight hugs for maintenance and twelve hugs for growth.

Modern science can only concur with Biblical truth and Daniel’s experience with a touch from God: “Then the one who looked like a man touched me again, and I felt my strength returning” (Dan 10:18 NLT).

A simple touch on Joshua’s shoulder while reciting Latin paradigms, an arm pressed close around Hope during read alouds, a massage on Cale’s tense shoulder while bent over math questions, these were simple things. But a simple touch that could revive, like strength returning.

Tucking tired ones into bed after the Homeschooling Achievement Program, I stepped into Caleb’s dim room to say goodnight and again offer my congratulations on a fine recitation of Casey at the Bat.

He propped himself up on the pillow.

“You know how Kevin Smith played that piece on the guitar? And then how, afterwards, Kevin sat with his Mom and she just held him for a bit?”

I recalled the moment, and how awkward I felt. “Yeah…”

After a long, expectant moment, Caleb spoke his heart into the dark. “I wish you had held me like that.”

What was knowledge and learning and classics and Latin without love…without the unique, direct expression of love that only touch can articulate? Unintentionally, I was living Leviticus with it’s “do not touch” laws, and not embracing the vibrancy of Christ’s life-giving, healing, resurrecting touch --- a touch to bridge across the gaping chasm of being alone inside one’s skin.

I reached out and pulled Caleb close. It had been too long since I had felt the skin close of my once-baby, future-man. His warmth against mine, Caleb wasn’t alone anymore. And neither was I.

~~

A related post on touch :

Also, I would like to spend 15 minutes per day with everyone nurturing someone else. Make a row of children and Mommy, rubbing the back of the sister or brother in front. The 10-year-old rubs the 6-year-old who rubs the baby. Mommy rubs the 8-year-old who rubs the 3-year-old. My theory is that the time spent loving will reduce the time spent fighting, because you don’t want to hurt someone who is meeting your affection needs.

She quotes another study:

... research at the University of North Carolina showing that a simple hug can lower blood pressure and reduce stress. The research team is touting it as yet another health benefit of marriage.There is not only reassurance in such moments of touch, but the release of oxytocin,