Hats Off!

Hats off to homeschooling moms! Mostly because the hat will be knocked off anyway. Things can get wild and crazy in a homeschool room. In the past few years, I added homeschooling to my repertoire of school experiences. Whether as a student, parent, or teacher, I have experienced: private Christian school, public school, and homeschool in the United States as well as international, Christian, boarding, and homeschool in several foreign countries. Each situation carries a unique set of challenges and benefits.

Not very far into my first year of homeschooling our kids, I realized that homeschooling is not for the faint of heart or for anyone low on energy. My image of homeschooling moms has never been negative, but it certainly jumped up a few notches once I started doing it myself. I kept thinking, “And all this time I had no idea what all they had to do!” Sure, we get done earlier in the day, but when we are done...I am DONE, you know what I mean? My brain is toast by two o’clock in the afternoon! Emails? Forget it. Dinner? Did we already order pizza for dinner this week? We did? Phooey.

Last year we did homeschool and dorm school (different kids did different things obviously). This semester all the kiddos are homeschooling. Next semester it will be Christian school abroad. See what I mean? We really like to mix it up in our family! Ha!

To all the families starting up a new year of school...HAVE A GREAT ONE!

The Rest of the Story

I got a lot of responses from my post The Box. For some reason the "comment" tab doesn't always work so some responses were verbal or in emails and messages. Sounds like the post stirred something in all of us. So now I'd like to post the rest of the story... and I've invited my mom (shout out to Diana Norwood!) to be a guest blogger for this! We all may be wondering what the rest of the story will be for Wi'am, but here is a look at someone else's end story... thanks for sharing Mom!

Consider the difference Jesus Christ makes in a life. The contrast is significant.

It happened to me in South Asia…

We were in a small town that had a decent hotel. We were staying there while we taught a leadership seminar for national church pastors and leaders. For women teachers, it is appropriate to teach in a sari. Hence, I was wearing a sari, riding in the local rendition of a rickshaw, which sets the occupant high in the air on a small seat, behind the man who peddles the rickshaw. Talk about conspicuous! First of all, being white seems to draw everyone’s eyes in your direction. Secondly, a white woman wearing a sari is really strange. Oh, the looks I endured as we traveled the roads to the community center where the seminar was being held. Especially irritating to me were the stares of the men. They were all Muslim men. When they looked at a woman there was no respect in their eyes. It was more a look of disdain and distaste and vulgar thoughts. A woman feels dirty after noticing a man looking at her in that way. After enduring many such looks on the way to the community center, we arrive. I pay the rickshaw driver and walk inside to meet our class which has gathered from many areas of the country. It’s always a thrill to meet these men and women. This week, I notice a man who is dressed just as any Muslim man, with white salwar-kameez (long shirt and pants) and a very bushy black beard. One of the participants brings him up to me to introduce him.

The contrast to the men on the street is vast. He walks up to me with a huge smile shining through his black beard, and he looks at me straight in the eyes. He’s eager to meet me and talk to me. I quickly shift my cultural gears. In this Muslim culture, a woman doesn’t look a man in the eyes or talk to him. But there was no avoiding this wonderful man. I quickly learned his story:

He was the imam (leader) of the mosque in his village: looked up to and respected. As he frequented a pharmacy in town, the pharmacist (who was also sitting in this seminar and who was a strong believer) began to share with him Jesus Christ. The imam became a believer, but kept going to the mosque and sharing Jesus Christ there. He was run out of the mosque and eventually out of their village. His wife had also become a believer. They and their children were now without a home. Eventually they were able to relocate in another village and have been attracting Muslims and winning them to Christ. He no longer can lead in a mosque, but he now leads a growing group of former Muslim believers as they have gathered into a “church”.

Only Christ could change such a man. It’s a miracle. And it's "the rest of the story" for this man and his family. What can we do today to help write "the rest of the story" for those without Christ?

It's Time

“It’s time, Mom,” said my boy. He stood in the open doorway of the hotel room where we stayed. The light of the afternoon sun flooded the doorway where he stood so that his face was dark and his form was a silhouette outlined in gold. His eyes were not hidden in the shadow, though; they beamed. His backpack hung over one shoulder and he carried a bag in each hand. He stood tall and handsome. When had he grown so tall? His voice was deep too. When did that happen? When did my little boy start talking as if he were a man? In recent days I found myself startled to hear a strange man in the house talking to my children. Then, I’d realize from the conversation that it was not a man, it was my own boy (whose voice seemed to have dropped multiple octaves overnight) talking to his siblings.

My boy. He was going to move into a dorm and attend school far away from home. We planned for this day for years. We talked about it, read about it, and dreamed about it. But now it was time to do it. Were we really ready for this? Was my son?

He thought he was. But he didn’t know about homesickness and broken hearts, about mean teachers and selfish friends, and...and...

“I’ll be there. Trust me.” It was not the deep voice of my son who’d grown up too fast, it was the Holy Spirit in my heart. The same Holy Spirit Who was in my son’s heart too.

We raised our son to love Jesus and honor His Word. But, would he keep on the path to life when he was out from under our watchful eyes? What about bad influences around him and temptations and...and...

“I’ll be there. Trust me.” It was that Still Voice that my son would recognize too.

I remembered the words of my father, “You and your husband have raised him well, Dear. Like an arrow, he will fly straight.” I remembered the conversation I had with my father the night before...

“I keep trying to tell him last minute advice, Dad,” I complained, “and he doesn’t hear a word I’m saying. He’s so excited to go that my words seem to bounce off his head like ping pong balls off a wall.”

“He doesn’t need to hear them, Dear,” my Dad replied, “He doesn’t need to hear them because you’ve already taught him all the things he needs to know. But you need to say them for your sake. So it’s OK, just say them and let them bounce away. He’s going to be just fine!”

I know my dad was right. I knew this day was coming, but can it possibly be here already? So soon?

“Mom? Mom, it’s time to go.” I jump and look back at the doorway with the silhouette of the young man that somehow I am old enough to have borne and raised. “The dorms open in twenty minutes.”

“Well then,” I reply, “Let’s do this!” I flash a smile at him. Gosh, I am so proud of him. He’s gonna do great. I grab my purse and follow him out the door. Before closing it behind me, I reach back in and snatch the box of tissues off the entry table. I’m gonna need it!