The Autodidact

The last few months have been full of ruined plans, emptiness and frustration, to the point where I just don't plan anything anymore. Long story, and it's not the point here anyway. But the Master Planner really pulled one off this week. The 9 yr old had his adenoids out (OK, that was planned) and I had arranged for my older adult kids to help out around the house while my husband and I were away for several hours. We left the house at 8:10 and the 21 year old arrived moments later. He plugged in his music to our stereo, cranked it, and proceeded to cook a big breakfast of pancakes, sausage and bacon. The kids awoke to a shaking house and delicious smells. Then he cleaned up the kitchen and helped his 6 year old sister with her math, while the rest of the kids did their schoolwork. The 23 year old arrived later and settled in to wait to snuggle her baby brother. We got to the house to find the 15 year old cooking a lovely soup with the assistance of his 18 and 12 year o...

What do you do when you are blindsided by life?  When your world is thrown into chaos and your days are filled with phone calls, appointments and putting out fires? When your heart is broken beyond belief and you simply can't focus on getting through the day? The circumstances are not relevant here- it could be anything. What is relevant is how to pick up the pieces and try to carry on as a homeschooler. Putting the kids in school would seem a good idea at this point, since you are struggling to figure out what's for dinner or how you are going to get to the store. But the more you think about it, you realize that really won't solve anything. It won't heal your heart or restore order to your life. So what do you do? You.just.stop. "Kids, we aren't going to do school for a while, and I'm not sure when we will pick back up." This has been my school year. We have gotten back into a very pared down routine, but I have witnessed the following: ...

I had just had my babies and was then snatched away from certain death at the hands of the animal warden when I found myself in a large home with lots of kids and dogs. A really nice lady took me in and began to search for someone who would like to take me home forever. I wouldn't have minded staying there, but I understood this was just a stop on my tumultuous journey. Then after only a couple of days, the nice lady called a neighbor to come and meet me. She came with her kids, and I took one look at her, and knew. She was mine. My new mom, and these kids were mine. She snapped a leash on me and we walked to my new house. It was great! There were couches and beds and chairs- and they were all mine! There was food in my bowl every morning and evening, but better yet, the kids dropped a lot of food on the floor that I dutifully picked up. Thus began my career as a nanny and comforter, a guard dog and floor cleaner. Goodness, these folks sure needed me and I have no idea how they...

Sometimes things are too close to your heart to be able to speak of them. They can be pondered, but when it comes to words on paper, nothing seems to be able to describe how you feel. One day, recently, I discovered a Cardinal's nest right under my kitchen window. The babies had just hatched, and were fuzzy lumps with mouths opening wide whenever they thought food was near. They were so helpless and tiny, but mom and dad were always nearby to feed and protect, ready to die, if necessary, for their babies. The kids and I took such joy in watching them! Every morning we would check their progress, and day by day, they grew bigger and stronger and more feathers. It seemed they would be little forever. We thought we would have more time with them. But one morning, the 8 year old breathlessly came running to me to announce that one of the babies was out of the nest. It's too soon, I thought. Maybe it fell out, and we should put it back in, I thought. But no, mom a...

I love it when Christmas falls on a Sunday. Going to church first thing in the morning, then coming home to open presents! The front page of the Sunday newspaper was mostly covered with a picture of a live Nativity scene. It was gratifying to see the birth of Christ portrayed in that manner. It was hard to miss- in your face, so to speak, and yet it was reverent and beautiful. Tucked away in the middle of the newspaper, a very small news article reported a new born baby was found in a trash can in a Wal Mart bathroom. An employee made the startling discovery- I can't imagine what that person must have felt. Panic? Wonder? Anger? A Baby. Placed lovingly in a manger by his mother. A baby. Thrown away in a trash can by his mother. The two stories seemed unrelated to me a first. Disconnected. One was so lovely. The other was so barbaric. One was a celebration. The other was never meant to be discovered. Yet, there is a connection. One so strong and obvious, I was surprised I ...

It's nice to be thankful, and I admit that while I am thankful for much, I am not thankful often enough. Sure, it's easy to be thankful for the big things in life: health, family, Christ. It's easy to be thankful for enough money to live on, or to have a car that works and a nice home to live in. And I am so very thankful for those. But it's harder to be thankful for the small things, the things that can easily escape our notice if we aren't careful. The sound of the car of a loved one pulling in the drive, signaling an upsurge of activity in the house. Bare feet running through the house and thundering up the stairs when I'm tired or not feeling well. Boo-boos that need kissing and tears that need wiping when my hands are preparing a meal. Dust that I can't keep up with on beloved pictures and furniture and hardwood floors. Embers and ash on the hearth from last night's cheery fire, spilling onto the rug. A serviceable bathroom full of pro...

21 years. A lifetime. A blink of an eye. Not a year goes by that I don't think of my first born. Some years were hard. Some were easy. Some found me so busy  I hardly had time to ponder his birth and death. And today marks 21 years. He would have been a full-on adult. He never shared his life with the rest of us; only I was privileged enough to share my body and a few months with him. I still cry for him. For what could have been, for more time with him, for a chance to watch him grow and become a man. A part of my heart is just for him. The rest of my heart is for everyone else. The other kids all know about their big brother, and they occasionally talk of him, but no one else knew him; not even my husband. And so he is buried deep in my soul. But I also see him in my other children's faces. In the sweet young faces: In the growing-all-too-quickly faces: In the faces that don't want to show themselves too early in the morning: In faces th...

We are snuggled under blankets in her bed, her stuffed lamb and bunny and assorted dolls under the covers with us. "Tell me a story, Mommy," she says. So I tell her one of her favorite stories, one that I made up about her and her brothers. The story never varies, and she always giggles at the ending. The story ends, her fingers go in her mouth and her arm curls around her lamb. She strokes my face with her other hand, as her breathing gets slow and heavy. Her eyes close and her body melts into my side. How many more times will I get to do this? How many more afternoons spent in her bed, reading and telling stories and singing songs? For how much longer will she beg me to snuggle her? For how much longer will I be the center of her world? When will be the last time I am at her side as she falls asleep? I don't know when, but I do know the day will come and my heart is heavy with the knowledge. I feel weak and weary at the thought that one day, it will be the las...

Recently, a woman diagnosed with terminal brain cancer committed suicide. She made her decision very public and drew much attention from right-to-die and right-to-life folks alike. Death with dignity. The right to choose one's own destiny. The right to die when and where and how it suits the individual. It all sounds so reasonable, except that it's not. Physician assisted death is really a euphemism for suicide, which is, in turn, a euphemism for murder, or at the least, a name for a particular type of murder. Death is not very dignified, it's not meant to be. It is the ultimate slap in the face, the ultimate losing of control. It's terrifying and uncertain and out of our governance. But how we die is not really about us, it's about our loved ones and our caregivers. It's about letting those around us rise above it all and give us the love and care they want us to have, to comfort us, to be with us to the end. I have had the privilege of sitting with three...

The trees are singing one last song of praise to their Maker. The wind lets loose leaf confetti and it blows past the window as we drive down into the valley. The sun is allowed into more of the woods and it's not as dark here as it is in the summer. The sky is a blue only seen in the fall. Crickets sing all day because they know the time is short. Gather in the last of the garden fruits and herbs before the first frost. Still plenty of green on the trees, but soon the balance will tip in favor of reds and yellows and purples. It'a all so beautiful and sharp and fleeting. I know it's coming- the dark, the grey, the cold, the slow descent into a death-like world. It envelopes me every year, and I feel it coming on slowly, like old age. I want to see the beauty, to enjoy the colors and crisp air, to breathe it all in and bask. But I can't because I know it's all a prelude. A prelude to colorless, odorless, darkness. And I just can't shake the feeling. I know...

Another hot day at the pool with lots of kids shrieking and playing and splashing. She was in her 4th summer of life guarding and took her job seriously. These people, while she was in the chair, were her responsibility, and she guarded their lives attentively. But lately, she had been noticing some of the kids who regularly came to the pool came alone. They were obviously poor and maybe a bit malnourished. Some even showed signs of possible abuse. They seemed pitiful and unwanted and her heart went out to them. She taught some of them how to swim but her heart desperately wanted to do more for them. But what? What could she do? How could she make their lives better? And then one day, a busy 90 degree day, and the pool was full and the noise level high, she saw him. He was one of her students, one of the most pitiful. She was sure he was unloved and his parents didn't care about him. He had almost said as much at times when she was teaching him. She saw him and waved and he wav...

I saw her across the pool, sitting alone. For many years she and I have sat poolside while our kids took swim lessons, but I have never spoken to her. But today. About three months ago she lost her 16 year old daughter in a car accident, and it was all over the local news. My heart was heavy for her at the time, and then, life moved on for me and I forgot. But today. Last night, in Bible study we talked about keeping community with other believers, shoulder to shoulder, but also discussed the importance of looking outward at world. I and thought, that's great, but what can I do? I am swamped with the daily tasks of housework and family life; how can I look outward, when looking inward, all I see in insurmountable hills and chaos? I need that looking inward at other believers, to keep me on the straight and narrow, to keep me sane. But today. Today, I could no longer be quiet. I could no longer not talk to her. God just wouldn't leave me alone. And as I walked all th...

Once upon a time there was a little girl, and she was small for her age, often sick and not very strong. She played by herself mostly, in her room, or on long walks in the neighboring woods. She was pretty content to spend hours alone, and only once in awhile wished for a friend. But all too often, her solitude was broken by her brother. He was older, and much bigger and stronger. When he wasn't off doing his own thing, he loved to torment his little sister. His favorite amusement was to hold both her wrists in one of his massive hands, and with the other hand, he would poke, pinch and slap her around until she was crying and begging to be let go. And he would laugh and scorn and mock her crying. Or, he would "play" a game with her; a sinister game of inappropriate touching. And she lived in fear and dread and shame. Afterward, she would be filled with feelings of helplessness and loneliness and unworthiness. She was a nobody with no voice, no one to stick up for her....

I just needed two things at the store, but I kept forgetting what I was there for. I just couldn't stop looking at all the people there. Old, young, white, black, tall, short. And their faces; I couldn't stop seeing their faces. Slow down, and look at their faces. I keep seeing a face in my mind; I don't know her, really. I see her around town occasionally, I see her at the pool in the summer, sometimes I see her walking. Her daughter was killed yesterday in a car accident, near our neighborhood. Dead at the scene. Slow down, try to remember what you came to buy. But instead of groceries, I see the faces around me. Faces that reflect their Maker's image. I think how pathetically mundane and normal and easy my life is today. I'm frustrated because I have a kid who has to be on a special diet? I should rejoice that special food is all she needs; and I would but for the heaviness in my heart. Slow down, be thankful. Waiting in line. How many other faces are hi...

Ten years ago today, we buried my dad on a hill that overlooks the rolling countryside. It was a sunny, cold and muddy day. His suffering over, he was laid to rest after being ravaged by dementia. It was so hard to remember him whole and well. I think about him often. When I watch my husband fix something, I remember all the times I watched my dad fix things. When I talk to my brother on the phone, I hear my dad. When my oldest son talks or moves his hands a certain way, or uses his dry wit on us, I see my dad. When I look at my middle son's artwork or his experiments, I see my dad. When my youngest son gives me a devilish grin and sweet talks me into something, I see my dad. The mantle clock that he faithfully wound every Saturday night sits on my mantle, and the chimes remind me of him. Whenever I crack a corny joke, I feel I am paying him a tribute. The memories of his sickness have faded, and I can see him as he was: tall, handsome, strong, intelligent and talented. And fun...

Spring is almost here, almost pushing its way from underground, and we are at our appointment to see our baby on an ultrasound. We excitedly enter the exam room and wait for the doctor, who comes in shortly and gets right to work. The lights are dimmed and the room is quiet and there he is! He's so beautiful and perfect, but he's not moving. It does not register with us that something is wrong, that he's supposed to be moving; but he is still. The doctor puts down the transducer and leaves the room, saying she must make a phone call, and that I need to get dressed. We're baffled and wait for her to return, when she tells us to get to our obstetrician's office immediately. No other words, no explanation. This is our first child and we wonder what's wrong and what's going to happen at the OB's office. The drive is short but seems to take forever, and we say nothing to one another in the car. At the OB's office, we are swiftly taken to my doctor's ...

I can see you smiling, sitting on the couch. Why there was so much strife I could never figure out. All I have are pictures, some of them are in albums,  but the best ones are in my head. You were so handsome and I was in awe, you always smiled at me and I loved you for it. We didn't talk much;  so many years separated us, but there was a bigger gulf imposed on us; one that we could not reach across. A gulf of selfishness and pride a gulf of secrets and sin and no matter how you tried, you could not bridge it. You in your banishment and I in my extreme youth; there was nothing we could do but smile at one another, as if that were enough. You will never know how often I thought of you, how I wanted to bridge the gap. I often thought of calling you, but feared falling into the trap, of someone else's making. So all I have are pictures,  now that you are dead, but that's all I had anyway. Some pictures are ...

     Years ago, when we lost our first child, (you can read that story here  and  here ) my husband and I attended a grief workshop for almost a year. It was instrumental in my healing, as was my faith in God. I took such strength and courage from the other women there, as well as the few husbands that attended. It was a safe place to cry, to get angry, to bare our deep hurts and fears to one another. I even kept attending when I got pregnant with our second child, because the fear and anxiety were always there, and the slightest cramp or feeling "not pregnant anymore" brought those feelings right to the surface.        But where there was anger and pain and uncertainty, there was also hope. There was a woman at the group, who had lost her daughter a couple of years before, and she attended the group to offer comfort to those whose lives had just been shattered by loss. Losing a baby at any stage, whether it is 6 weeks or 40 weeks, is so ha...

I'm walking toward the hospital, a tall, imposing, yet beautiful building, and I'm thinking about all the money it took to build it. I wonder what the purpose is for all the fountains and reflecting pools outside, and all the artwork inside. It all seems pretentious, bragging; is it all necessary? The halls seem endless, and I can't help but think how much this place resembles an airport. A huge drop-off area outside, high ceilings and long, wide halls inside. A people mover could easily fit, and would actually be helpful. There are janitors waxing and polishing the floors and cleaning bathrooms, concierges in their red jackets are everywhere, waiting to help. A grand piano sits up on something like a stage, waiting for someone to play it. I see a friend, a nurse, who is just getting off her shift, and we chat for a few minutes. They buzz us in to the ICU and we walk through a tangle of beeping machines and people and rooms. And he's there in his bed, still the same; st...

The storm has come, and my umbrella is holding up, though it is a bit leaky. I'm tired and everything moves in slow motion. Why is it like this when we grieve? Is it to make us slow down and take things easy? Is it so we can look all around us and notice more? It was raining all day the day we went to the funeral home and the cemetery, making plans, trying to honor his wishes as best we can. Rain and mist, a heaviness of air and heart. But I think God wants us to slow down and listen to Him, to notice his creation and let Him heal us. He wants our hearts to be heavy for a time so that He can lift them up, and see us rejoice. I see him in the hospital bed, peaceful, but dying. Tied to a bed through tubes and machines and monitors.  And then, I see him running, something he liked to do. Running, free of all restraint, eyes and mind clear, running for the pure joy of it. No longer sick, his face is like it was when he was young. And I think God wants us to remember the good as well a...