Category: Devotionals

Autumn Blessings

Last week our local writers’ group gathered for their monthly critique session.  To warm up our skills before the critique, our leader gave us a brief writing exercise, challenging us to take a common word associated with the Fall season (cider, cornstalk, pumpkins, etc) and place it in an unusual context.  My assigned word was “apple orchard.” What follows was my offering to the group.

 

I’d hiked all around the farm market that damp October afternoon when I saw the kid sitting on the curb.  Was he eight years old?  Nine?  He wiped his nose on his sleeve and looked up at me hopefully.  In front of him sat a plate of dark green leaves, withered and sere.  From his bulging pocket, he withdrew another round object.


“Lady, I haven’t made a sale all day.  Won’t you buy my stuff?”


I bent over to examine his meager offerings.


“I grew ’em myself.  They’re from my backyard.”


Glancing around, I searched for my husband.  When I turned back, tears were running down the child’s grimy cheeks only to be wiped away by an even dirtier fist.


With feelings of pity mixed with disgust, I sighed, “How much?”


“Which one?  The apple or chard?”

 

 

While I enjoyed the writing exercise as an opportunity to create a play on the word “apple orchard,” I knew my story was based on a real memory.  Many years ago I had walked through a Saturday market in a small Mexican town where I lived in the hills of Oaxaca.

 

There I met a child who looked very much like the urchin in my story, only instead of chard, his tin plate held five ripe tomatoes.  I was willing to purchase all five tomatoes, but he refused to sell me more than three.  Confused, I asked why he would not sell all five.  “Because then I’d have to go home.”  Once his “goods” were sold, he had no further excuse to linger and socialize at the market.

 

So many times we look at the world through our adult eyes and forget to see through the eyes of a child.  How thankful I am that God, our Heavenly Father, sent His Son to live here on earth and see our world from a human perspective.  Our Savior doesn’t laugh at our often foolish reasoning and or offer help due to pity for our human needs.  He responds with love.  And that is a blessing, in Autumn and in every season of the year.

 

 

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Mixing Oil and Water

 

 

Our son Tim dropped his high school textbooks on the dining room table and announced, “Mom, Dad, I want to be home schooled.”


Ever since second grade, Tim had fumed about school. Our other children were happy in public school, but our oldest child complained that his assignments there kept him busy yet taught few new concepts. Even in the program for gifted students, Tim felt bored. “Mom, we waste so much time each day on rules, hall passes, and parent permission slips.”


Now in ninth grade, Tim had just compared his general science homework assignment with that of his sister. Prisca was covering the same material in her fifth grade science class. And Tim’s second-year Spanish class was not much better. In the Spring term the students were still reviewing first-year concepts.


Tim’s complaints were not new. Every year we had offered him alternatives to public school, but he always turned down the suggestion. This time he initiated the discussion.


“Tim,” I asked, “on a scale of 1 to 10, where 1 represents no interest and 10 represents total commitment to home schooling, where would you put yourself?”


“I’d say I’m about a 9.5.”


So there it was. After seven years of toying with the idea, Tim was finally voting for home schooling. We asked Tim to create a list of reasons why he wanted to learn at home. His reasons ranged from academic (“Class time is flexible…we can finish a discussion without worrying about a bell ringing”) to whimsical (“I can come to class barefoot”). That summer, we took the legal steps to start educating him in our home.


Most home schooling families begin with preschool or elementary curriculum. By starting at the high school level, we jumped into the process at a stage when many other families were winding down their at-home programs. While their children were shifting to the traditional classroom, we were just learning about county regulations, log books and portfolios. Home education is popular in our area, but we soon discovered that Tim would be the only high school student being taught at home in our district.


We faced an additional challenge. Most families we knew either sent all their children to public school or taught all their children at home. In our case, however, our other children had no desire to be taught at home. Prisca played the violin and wanted to continue performing with her school orchestra. She participated in school track meets and was on the volleyball team. John wanted to see his friends every day in the classroom. Tim would be the only one of our children to study at home.


Having a family where some children are in the public school setting and others are taught at home was like mixing oil and water. They didn’t always blend. The combination presented special challenges.


When bad weather canceled school for his sister and brother, Tim found that home school continued. During that first year, a blizzard released John and Prisca from a whole week of school. Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday passed. My oldest son continued studying each day. On Thursday, however, when I went down to wake Tim, I found a carefully arranged pile of white cotton balls outside his bedroom door. A sign taped to the door announced, “Home school canceled due to snow!” I laughed and he spent the morning outside building snow forts and sledding with his sister and brother.


On the other hand, Prisca and John resented Tim having only three or four hours of formal class each day. As a high school student, he did the rest of his work independently. Prisca and John left the house before 8:00 and didn’t return until after 3:00. Prisca asked, “How come we have seven hours of school and Tim only has half a day? It’s not fair.”


But when I offered her the same option of staying home, she quickly affirmed her desire to continue in orchestra and sports.


We learned some lessons the hard way. That first year, Tim skipped classes occasionally when other activities seemed more interesting. Those days were not logged as school days. When summer arrived, Prisca and John enjoyed vacation but Tim still had ten days of school to complete. Studying those last two weeks when Prisca and John were outside playing was agony for my teenager. The next year, Tim finished his required 180 days just before public school released his brother and sister for the summer.


Tim graduated with a Pennsylvania Homeschoolers Association diploma. Because he finished a semester early, he opted to spend six months in Costa Rica as the first home schooler going abroad with the AFS student exchange program. When Tim applied for college, the college asked him to write an essay describing a time when he had to make a big decision. He wrote about his choice to be educated at home.


Prisca and John continued in public school. She and John both starred on their school’s volleyball team. They too graduated and moved on to college.


Sometimes I wondered if my husband and I were right to allow each child to make such major decisions about their education, but our trust was validated as we observed the thoughtful process by which each one considered his or her needs. As a result, each child developed confidence in their ability to make good decisions in the future. They learned to weigh personal needs and the benefits and liabilities of each option. John and Prisca respected Tim’s decision to learn at home; he recognized that their choice was different but not wrong. Those were not bad lessons to learn from mixing oil and water!

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“Cracked pots”

Did God order a heavenly dove down to my college dormitory room years ago to tell me that one day I would be speaking to thousands of hormonal teenagers about dating and marriage? No. If he had, I might have whooshed that birdie out the window and slammed the sash down on its tail feathers. In his great wisdom, God knew better than to reveal the whole picture from the beginning.

 

After working as an archaeologist in southeast Asia and excavating an ancient temple site in Laos, I returned to Oklahoma ready to pursue graduate work. There God made clear that he never intended me to spend my life repairing cracked pots from hundreds and thousands of years ago. Instead he was sending me to work with a tribal group living in the jungles of Mexico.

 

Me, a missionary? I had a strong measure of faith, but frankly, I had no pioneering skills and looked more like “Missionary Impossible” than Indiana Joan. I filled out an application to the mission only to prove God wrong. They’d never dare accept it.

 

Only they did.

 

That night, I fled from campus to a nearby church which had an 24-hour prayer chapel. There in that darkened room, I wept and exclaimed, “God, for the first time in all eternity, you have made a mistake.”

 

Allowing my pulse to slow down, I began to read my Bible. It opened to the verse in Psalm 143 which said, “Show me where to walk, for I have come to you in prayer . . . Teach me to do your will, for you are my God. May your gracious Spirit lead me forward on a firm footing.”

 

And that is what he has done. Over the years, that Spirit has led me, step by step, to good places. Sometimes I go willingly but other times kicking and screaming. I ended up loving my work in Mexico so much that I intended to remain single all my life. When God introduced Gene into my life, I protested. Loudly.

 

But again God gently prevailed. The single woman married. Gene and I became the parents of three. They grew up and married. Together, my husband and I began counseling others whose marriages were falling apart. I saw all around me young people who had not chosen to follow God’s path. Their dating relationships were full of pain and sorrow. They had regrets. So with the blessing of my husband, I began speaking in public schools and to community groups about the benefits of waiting for sex until marriage.

 

Today I look back and see how every step of the journey has been good. God, with his wry sense of humor, moved me from gluing together shards of hundred-year-old clay pots to repairing the broken lives of young men and women. He is wise.

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