An old hymn from 1758 begins with the words: “O thou Fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing Thy praise.” These days we have all sorts of electronic gadgets and apps for instrument tuning, which takes some of the meaning out of the phrase. When I began taking music lessons, a few decades ago, I was given a simple tool called a tuning fork instead.
Instead of many notes, electronically replicated at the touch of a button, a tuning fork produces one. One clear, smooth, beautiful note from which all others can be discovered. Tuning requires much more work and a deeper understanding of music, but the process is actually quite simple. Strike the metal fork against a hard surface so that it vibrates with a perfect, pure, natural sound.
Similarly, God is the one note to which all others are tuned. There is nothing artificial about Him. Tuning our hearts to produce the same note requires work. Often it requires being struck again and again until we finally find the right note. Then when we have managed to match that first frequency, when the remaining cadence of our lives jars discordant against it, the even harder work begins to tune it all to a perfect scale from which the song of thanksgiving can be sung.
One day we will meet Him face to face, and all the voices of the faithful, tuned by trial, error, and dedication, will sing the new song of triumph and love.
Yesterday my kids held their annual pumpkin carving session. Because buying a pumpkin for every family member in a household of seven puts something of a strain on the already holiday stretched budget, they team up. Boys get one pumpkin, girls get the other. As you can imagine, this is not a situation that leads to peace.
What pictures will we carve? Everyone has a different idea. Something scary! No, something silly. An elaborate design far too advanced for childish hands. Can’t we just use something from the book? And the squabbling begins. Who gets to carve which part? Who has to scoop out the seeds? Mom confiscates the knife and removes the stem herself to prevent accidental stabbings.
The results are… interesting. What is it? No one knows. No one cares. Destruction and creation went hand in hand, the dream come true of every kid. Whatever it is that was created, it is unique, holding a piece of each young participant in its creation.
Like life. There is no cookie cutter life. Each individual adds a piece of themselves to each day, a slice here, a scrape there. Sometimes the bits overlap, sometimes they fail to intersect at all. Sometimes the contributions seem to clash, making no sense together, because the contributors could not agree. Each wants a different design for life, and each sees a different outcome. The result cannot be identified with certainty, leaving an unbeautiful “whatever it is” to reveal the glow within its heart.
In the end it doesn’t matter. Despite the squabbling and the chaos, not one kid was disappointed with the end results. They couldn’t wait to light them up and show the world their delight. Our squabbles and our chaos bind us together, carving something out of this crazy “whatever it is” life we can only appreciate when we step away and let the light shine through.
My five year old and I butt heads. Frequently. As in, all day every day. She has extremely strong ideas of her own, and the determination to pursue them against all odds. If she doesn’t want to do something, it isn’t happening without some serious and repeated consequences.
Yesterday it was her turn to run errands with me, her first time to experience a day out with mom like the older kids. She was so excited that she did almost everything I required of her beforehand without lip (let’s face it, perfection would be a little much to ask of anyone), and the whole time we were out she was the model of an obedient child.
We had philosophical conversations, experienced our first lesson in the Dewey Decimal System at the library, picked out books for the whole family, discussed ingredients we needed for freezer lunches, and bought a water spigot for the yard. She asked a million pertinent questions, and volunteered her services for several helping jobs. We have never had such a pleasant time together, and I couldn’t help but reflect on the reasons.
You see, at home there are five. Five voices clamoring for attention. Five bodies filling up my immediate space. Five minds to be filled and trained. Five hearts to be molded and fulfilled. (And that’s just the kids.) A lot for a mama to process and accomplish. A lot for one small girl to feel in competition with for recognition and approval.
Yesterday she had no competition. She could say anything she wanted, help with whatever she wanted, express whatever she felt without delay, etc. I could focus on her every word and action and provide positive feedback rather than the rushed and stressed responses so often prevalent in the mayhem of home.
I was reminded of a principle that I know, but often fail to apply when it comes to my children. Although we as humans do need correction when appropriate, what we crave more than anything is approval. When we receive positive attention, we will do just about anything to keep it. If positive attention is rare, we will demand attention in whatever way produces it, even if the result is negative. In turn, the negative response feeds the need for approval which translates into more negative behaviors.
I sat down with all my kids this morning and apologized. We started over. It was very hard for me to hold my tongue when a math lesson consisting of three problems took an hour and a half. It was hard for me not to express frustration when someone’s undone chore interfered with my own task. It was hard not to complain when for the third day in a row all the kids played in the mud, this time in a pouring rainstorm, creating more laundry on the already heaping pile needing to be addressed.
But I made sure to praise for the understood math lesson at the end of the time. I did the dishes myself. I laughed at their antics in the rain. I tried to give full attention one at a time. It wasn’t a perfect day, but it was productive, and it was a beginning.
Three teachers scheduled back to back have no contact before the date, but all deliver the same message from three unique perspectives.
A child prays for another person for no apparent reason, and shortly afterward his parents find out the person was sick or injured.
An unexpected medical bill empties the bank account, but the next day a friend hands you a check just because they thought about you and wanted to bless you. They had no idea you were broke.
A barren woman approaching old age becomes pregnant and gives birth to a healthy child.
A broken man, drowning in sin and pain, is offered hope and love instead of condemnation by his victim.
A teenage girl faces imprisonment and abuse because she was caught reading the Bible. She teaches her fellow prisoners the scriptures from memory.
A child steps between a bully and his victim.
A dog, old and infirm, lives years longer than expected during a time when his family endured great pain and confusion.
A family’s old house doesn’t sell for years, preventing the family from becoming homeless when the new home is lost.
A lonely couple ask permission to play Santa to your children. The only stipulation is that no one ever knows who they are, especially the kids.
A little girl, enslaved by the enemy, saves her captor’s life.
You turn the radio on and the first song you hear brings your tears because it says exactly what you feel.
You make a spur of the moment shopping trip and run into a friend, only to find out that at the moment you realized you had to shop your friend was praying desperately for a comforter to be sent to them.
When the city was surrounded by an enemy army and the prophet’s servant lost all hope, the prophet prayed only that the servant’s eyes be opened. When the servant looked up, he saw an army of fire filling the city and covering the mountain on which it stood. The enemy was not only outnumbered, but outmatched. The servant just hadn’t been able to see God working.
God’s hand is everywhere. We only need to open our eyes.
“I was yelling at Mr. Meanie! He just WON’T! LEAVE! ME! ALONE! I can’t do anything right anymore!”
The above came from my tearful, sobbing seven year old son. He had thrown his playthings and rushed to his room growling like a cornered tiger. To an outsider it might have looked like a temper tantrum, but tantrums are intentional and controlled. In that moment my son was helpless, trapped by his own mind and desperately screaming for help. This is the face of OCD.
My son is bright and beautiful. He can build anything he can imagine with Legos. He knows more than I ever realized existed about dinosaurs. He loves Godzilla and could probably provide sound effects for the movies with his imitation skills. He has a gift for finding the lonely and offering love. He adores his little sister and, though they fight like cats and dogs, will demolish anyone else who dares to offend her.
One tiny part of that beautiful little brain malformed. A section of neurological wiring has a short. Thoughts that feel like his but are not, unbidden and unwelcome feelings, and unwilled behaviors originate in that shorted out, alien knot. Chemical help can mute them to a whisper. Therapy can provide strategies for working around the shirt in the wiring. Nothing will ever make them go away. His whole life will be a battle with Mr. Meanie, the alien inside.
For now, we turn off the lights and snuggle on the bed, his head on my chest and his hand clutching my arm. Worship music plays from my phone, his choice, soft and soothing in its reminder of a love that bears his pain. He doesn’t fully understand it yet, but he can feel it, and his tension fades. We have quieted Mr. Meanie. For now.
“Do not have other gods besides me. Do not make an idol for yourself, whether in the shape of anything in the heavens above or on the earth below or in the waters under the earth. Do not bow in worship to them, and do not serve them; for I, the Lord you God, am a jealous God…” Ex. 20:3-5
From the time the first man and woman rebelled in the garden, humanity has tried its best to forget its creator. However, because we are created we have an innate need to look up to and revere something, and so we turn parts of the creation into substitute gods. For millennia these substitute gods took form in metal, stone, and wood, and in some areas of the world they still do, but the real substitutes were much less obvious and more enduring than the objects they inspired. Today in most of the world there are no idols, altars, and temples, so how can we recognize a substitute god and its worship? The answer is in human behavior. Consider the following.
Government: “Injustice is happening in my community. The government really needs to do something about that.” “My neighbors can’t pay their rent/mortgage. We must demand that the government makes sure they don’t lose their house.” “I don’t think it’s right, but the government says we have to, so we can’t really do anything about it.” “I’d like to help you, but the government says what you need is illegal, so I can’t.”
Human Institutions: “Only trained teachers are qualified to educate children. If kids don’t spend enough time in class with and pass the same tests as their peers they will never have the skills to succeed.” “If it isn’t approved by certain agencies/individuals, it isn’t safe or effective. If it is approved, it’s the only way to go.” “I know because I saw it on the news.”
Health/safety/comfort: “We must do everything possible to eradicate illness from Earth.” “If you don’t do/give me what I think should happen/want, something I am scared of/uncomfortable with might happen. That makes you my enemy.” “If I tell the truth it will hurt someone’s feelings and I might lose job/friends. It’s safer to go along.”
Traditions: “It’s disrespectful to disagree with your elders.” “We’ve done it this way for 100 years; that means if it doesn’t work for you now you must not have the right attitude.” We didn’t have that when I was young; using it will destroy everything good about our culture.” “A lot of people I know have said this is true since before I was born. If you say something different I can’t listen to anything you say because you’re wrong.”
Wealth/Status: “Blue collar careers are inferior.” “We both have to work all the time to make sure our kids have everything we wanted when we were kids.” “It’s not fair that I don’t have everything you have.” “God will bless us with everything we every wanted if we love Him.”
Though phrased in language that reflects our modern circumstances, these are the same gods that humans have chosen throughout time. The Israelites were rebuked over and over again for choosing them, trying to set them alongside God Himself and claim them as part of His worship. Jesus warned those who came to Him that choosing any part of the gods of Earth made them enemies of God. We hold closest to what we love most, and will give up everything else to keep it.
Faith is something that must grow through experience, and we have all succumbed to some of these gods at some point in our lives. Fear and desire are strong and quick to manipulate our choices. Solomon wrote of how spectacularly he allowed himself to be led away from God by these illusions of gods, but in the wisdom God had granted him to discern truth concluded with what must be the core of every decision: live in awe of God and obey Him because that is the whole purpose of humanity. The gods of Earth are nothing but desperate substitutions from rebellious imaginations.
The stories of the kingdom have been forgotten, and as they disappeared the fountains have all dried up. A thirsty child is the only person who will listen to the last storyteller. Every day the old man offers a new story that builds on the last. Every day the boy’s cup magically fills with water as he listens.
When a djinn threatens to swallow the kingdom with an enormous sandstorm, the boy knows just how to stop it forever. He begins to tell the djinn every story he has learned from the old man. Every night the djinn agrees to wait one more day to hear the next story, and every day more people gather with their cups to hear. The boy pours all the water into the dry fountains until they are full. When the djinn finally loses interest and attacks the kingdom, it gets a big surprise.
I absolutely love this beautiful book. Inspired by the heritage of Moroccan storytellers and weavers, it connects children from every culture with a tradition that no child can resist. At the same time, children are taught the often forgotten truth that who we are is built upon the stories of where we came from, and that forgetting the past threatens the destruction of our future.
I’ve always found it hard to explain to questioners what we do as homeschoolers. Not because I don’t know what we do, but because most questioners have preconceived ideas of what constitutes education. They want to know what grade a child is in, what their letter or number grades are, what subjects they are taking, etc. Even babies and toddlers are expected to learn according to curriculum and schedules. The concept of learning in any other way is foreign to most of the modern world.
The truth is that all those preconceived ideas are a relatively recently created box. Once upon a time, education occurred from reading living books, experimenting, discussing, researching, and writing. The concept of grade levels did not exist; tests and scores would have no meaning. Mastery was determined by how well ideas learned could be practically implemented by students, or by how well a student could reason using what they had been taught. A successful education was considered to be the ability to think, discuss, and work, rather than the ability to regurgitate disembodied facts or fill out an answer key.
In the past the difficulty and expense of dispensing information restricted education to those with the means to pay such costs, but much has changed since that argument was used to support the founding of public school systems. Books are inexpensively printed on paper that costs pennies; photography and digital recording have replaced the tedious work of sketching anything to be studied later, as well as made records less destructable, and both can be done by anyone from a handheld device at the touch of a button. Technology has advanced to the point that communication from any point to any other point can be instantaneous with a miniscule cost. Because of the many tools now available, the education coveted and treasured by our ancestors lies at the tip of our fingers, and yet we can no longer comprehend its nature.
So, when I say we don’t know our grade level, I really mean my children are motivated to read books of greater difficulty in order to research their interests. When I say we don’t use a scoring system, I really mean that we work together on projects and correct mistakes until we understand all the elements of the project and produce the appropriate results. When I say that we have never taken a test, I really mean that my children can carry on an hour conversation with anyone who will listen about minute details of complicated subjects. When I say they haven’t memorized standard lists of facts, I really mean that they are capable of reasoning and arriving at conclusions on their own, often putting me to shame. When I say that I don’t have lesson plans or assign lessons, I really mean that my children have the desire to know and keep up with their own educational activities in special journals with my supervision and approval.
This is possible because not only do we function outside of mental boxes, but my children do not spend most of their life in the physical box of the classroom. As a mom of five, I can attest to the difficulty of monitoring, interacting with, and teaching discipline to only five children with five separate personalities and sets of needs. The classroom box renders such attention impossible and reduces everything within it to either rote and drone or total chaos. Neither lead to actual education, no matter how dedicated and caring the teacher; there is simply no space or time to do more than establish the ability to fall in line.
The world desperately needs a return to learning outside the box. I’m grateful for the freedom and the tools to pursue it.
When God called Moses from the burning bush, Moses already knew God. He had already felt a calling to help his people, a purpose greater than himself. Because his early efforts had failed, what he did not feel was equipped. He pleaded to be excused from the task because he did not think he had the tools to do it. God sent him anyway.
When Jezebel put a price on Elijah’s head, Elijah already knew God. He was a wanted man because he had taken a stand for God in the face of powerful retribution. He didn’t flee and hide because he didn’t believe in the cause, but because he felt discouraged. No one stood with him, and he could see nothing but lonely failure. God fed him, let him rest, then sent him back to stand again anyway.
When Saul’s entire focus bent toward killing David, the future king already knew God. Saul hated him because his great trust in the Lord had brought victory and respect of which Saul was unworthy. David didn’t flee Israel because he rejected God, and even in self-imposed exile he tried to help God’s people. He fled because he was tired and afraid. Not only was he in danger himself, but his entire family and thousands who supported him stood to lose their lives. God reminded him that danger was everywhere and sent him back to keep fighting anyway.
When Jesus sat in the garden facing death in the morning, He was God. He wept and trembled, not because He didn’t believe in His plan, but from the pain and grief of knowing what the people He loved would do, the suffering that was necessary for them to cause Him before they would understand His love. The angels comforted Him and He faced the cross anyway.
When the storm threatened the disciples’ ship, they already knew God. He was in the boat with them. They panicked, not because they weren’t aware of Him, but because they weren’t used to relying on Him. They thought they had faith because they believed He could save them. Jesus said they had none because they didn’t believe that He would.
So often we run – from the storm, from the task, from the danger. Perhaps we feel unequal to the challenge, think we lack tools needed to be successful. Perhaps we feel alone and cannot see how one person could make a difference. Perhaps the enemy is so massive that we see no other option but to hide, to pretend we are something other than we are. Perhaps the cost is so high, the loss so painful, that we must weep and tremble for a while. Perhaps we really do believe that, although God exists, we are still on our own.
It’s time to let God send us back to stand. Trust that He is equipped whether we are or not. Know that whether or not any human stands with us we are not alone. Shine against the pain of the world’s betrayal of our God. Let His peace still the storm.
It was June’s favorite spot at Maggie’s. The little antique shop on the square held everything from forgotten toys to glassware odds and ends, and the collection changed almost daily. Surrounded as it was by designer stores and expensive restaurants, Maggie’s was an unlikely success, but the window display stopped traffic every time.
She asked Maggie once why an old broken shelf covered with mismatched pots, cans, and boxes full of succulents. Other stores displayed the most appealing of their wares, carefully arranged and enticing. What did an unchanging window full of plants have to do with antiques?
Maggie had smiled mysteriously, and said to meet her three streets over an hour before opening the next morning. June was curious enough to agree, and the two of them joined the already bustling sidewalk throng as the pavement began to warm beneath their feet.
For an hour they walked up and down streets, dwarfed by metal and glass that reflected rather than blocked the sun. They cut through shaded brick alleys that smelled of yesterday’s trash and unwashed bodies. They peered in windows full of human imaginings. Then there was Maggie’s.
In a sea of gray, brown, and blinding, all June could see was green. It drew her, a smile widening across her hot face. The broken wood, the mismatched containers, all disappeared in that living cascade of color. June glanced at Maggie, who put her finger to her lips and turned the key. June was the last of a dozen smiling hustlers to enter and breath a slow deep breath of sudden peace.
The Word Worker 
