As we sat down in the morning to start the school day, I asked my boys, "Why do we work?"
They thought I meant work like Dad does and right away one answered, "To make money."
"What about the work you do in the house -- Why do we do it?" I asked again.
The youngest piped up, "Because it gets dirty!" Very true! With small children in a small house things get cluttered, messy and dirty faster than I can believe at times. So I asked them, "What do we learn from working?" I was a little surprised at their answers, although I would agree.
One said, "Because it teaches us not to complain."
Another said, "It teaches us to work and not be lazy."
Then I prompted them a little, "Does it teach you to obey your parents? Does it show you that we are all part of a family?" After I said it, of course they agreed with me.
Then I asked, "What does school teach you?" They listed the subjects we have been studying. (Math, Spelling, Reading, Writing)
I thought schoolwork could teach them the same things as housework, so I tried to draw the connection for them. "Yes, you learn reading, writing and math, but do you think school also teaches you how not to complain even when it's hard? Does it teach you to be diligent, not lazy? Does it give you lots of practice obeying?"
They agreed that it did. I was glad, because if schoolwork can teach the same character qualities as housework then I could maybe limit the boys' housework and still develop their character. I wondered though if homeschooling made children feel like they belonged, if it made them see they are an important part of the family.
When I asked, Zac responded, "Yes, because we are all down in the basement working together."
They do still need to learn to manage a house, but maybe we can work on that at a slower pace because schoolwork seems to accomplish several of the same purposes.
That being said, there are still many benefits to teaching a child to work around the home that I don't want to take from them. First of all, I need them. I am not Super Woman. If there is only one of me cleaning in comparison to four of them messing, I will be buried in laundry, toys and dirt for most of my life. Helping Mom will teach them to help a future wife, to look around at other people's responsibilities and try to lighten the load. (I hope.) Also, I do not want my boys to be one of those stories of college guys who just learned how to do laundry. It may be funny in college, but not in the real world. I want my boys to realize the work it takes and be able to keep a house tidy, to cook healthy, delicious meals, to plan and stay within a budget, to repair vehicles and things around the home. My husband is so capable and I am grateful. Training children is a gift to their future spouses. I am getting long-winded, but one more thing. Teaching children to work brings a sense of accomplishment and joy as they finish a task, and hear "Well done."
Now what should a 3 year old be learning?
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Monday, January 19, 2009
I once heard a preacher say, "Everyone wants to be a servant -- until people start treating you like one." How true! Jesus came not to be served but to give His life for many. Obviously He gave His life on the cross when He died for sinful man, but I think also as He lived He gave His life. How often did He go without sleep? How often did He put off eating? He had no place to lay His head, even though He said the animals have dens and nests. He gave up personal space as He was surrounded by needy people. He gave His time. Am I willing to do the same -- without recognition, without thanks, without breaks?
Sunday, January 18, 2009
My brother, Lazarus
Now a certain man wasn't sick. Not really. He had some shortness of breath. Maybe he tired sooner than normal. I guess it was enough to cause some concern, so Dan decided to visit a doctor and get a check up. Soon they were looking at his heart. Next thing we knew he was scheduled for surgery to repair a small hole. The thought of being cut open never really appealed to me. I suppose some consider it routine -- I'm hoping that the doctor that is operating finds it at least a little routine. But my brother was so calm. He said, "Shari, they just use words like 'open-heart surgery' to make me feel better about the bill." I think I liked the word "open-heart" even less than "surgery". It would take at least three weeks to recover. And that wasn't a full recovery, just to the point that he could do sitting jobs again. It would be months before he would be back to his previous activity level. My mom and I were to travel to West Virgina to care for his six children so his wife could be with him in the hospital during the surgery and his stay there.
The morning of the surgery arrived, as time always does have a way of continuing. The doctors began the prep work for the operation at about 7:30a.m. A few hours later, Liisa, Dan's wife, called to tell us that they had ran into problems and would have to break his sternum to continue the operation. Ouch! Of course he couldn't feel that. Waiting is so hard. Not that the time didn't go by quickly with six children plus three of my own to care for!
Then things turned worse. The original hole was patched, but the heart wasn't responding properly. It wouldn't stop bleeding. They kept pumping blood and fluids through his body, but he was losing blood at almost the same rate as he was receiving new blood. Also the blood was continuing to thin. The fluids were causing immense swelling and putting pressure on his internal organs and constricting his muscles to the point of damage.
Some friends of Liisa's came to watch the children and my mom and I headed for the hospital. My brother was swollen almost beyond recognition. He had tubes coming out of his nose, throat, chest, arms. He lay there motionless except for his chest heaving up and down. His life blood flowing through a machine, it was hard to believe that just yesterday he was cutting firewood, talking to us like he had for the past 31 years. Would he rise from this state of unconsciousness? Would he kiss his wife or hold his children in his arms again?
Enter Lazarus.
Lazarus was Jesus' friend. He had two sisters, Mary and Martha, and Jesus loved them all. Lazarus became ill. What do his sisters do? They send for Jesus, of course, the Son of God that created life, that sustains life, that restores life. Did Jesus rush to them? Did He lay His hand on the sick man's forehead and restore him completely? No. He waited where He was two more days.
I stood beside my brother's hospital bed. I cried. I prayed. I paced the halls. I didn't sleep. I hardly ate. I cried some more. I prayed some more. For almost a week I called for Jesus the creator, sustainer, restorer of life to come and save my brother's life.
Jesus came to Mary and Martha's house, but Lazarus had been in the grave for four days. Martha rushes to him, weeping, I think, broken, "Jesus, if You had been here my brother would not have died." Her heart was crushed. She didn't understand. Everything was swirling. Becoming blurry. Where was God's Son when she needed him?
My brother died Wednesday morning, and my fickle heart cried to God, "Where were You? God, do You care? If you had been here my brother would not have died."
But what does He say to Martha? What does He say to me?
"I am the resurrection and the life! He who believes in me, though he may die -- he will live! Your brother will rise again!"
Now Jesus wept for his friend Lazarus. He wept for Mary and Martha. He wept because He loved. He is love. That day He raised Lazarus from the dead. It is recorded and I believe it. I need to wait a lot longer before I see my brother restored again, but Jesus is the Resurrection and the Life. To those that believe in Him, He will give eternal life in Heaven with Him. What hope! What victory!
The morning of the surgery arrived, as time always does have a way of continuing. The doctors began the prep work for the operation at about 7:30a.m. A few hours later, Liisa, Dan's wife, called to tell us that they had ran into problems and would have to break his sternum to continue the operation. Ouch! Of course he couldn't feel that. Waiting is so hard. Not that the time didn't go by quickly with six children plus three of my own to care for!
Then things turned worse. The original hole was patched, but the heart wasn't responding properly. It wouldn't stop bleeding. They kept pumping blood and fluids through his body, but he was losing blood at almost the same rate as he was receiving new blood. Also the blood was continuing to thin. The fluids were causing immense swelling and putting pressure on his internal organs and constricting his muscles to the point of damage.
Some friends of Liisa's came to watch the children and my mom and I headed for the hospital. My brother was swollen almost beyond recognition. He had tubes coming out of his nose, throat, chest, arms. He lay there motionless except for his chest heaving up and down. His life blood flowing through a machine, it was hard to believe that just yesterday he was cutting firewood, talking to us like he had for the past 31 years. Would he rise from this state of unconsciousness? Would he kiss his wife or hold his children in his arms again?
Enter Lazarus.
Lazarus was Jesus' friend. He had two sisters, Mary and Martha, and Jesus loved them all. Lazarus became ill. What do his sisters do? They send for Jesus, of course, the Son of God that created life, that sustains life, that restores life. Did Jesus rush to them? Did He lay His hand on the sick man's forehead and restore him completely? No. He waited where He was two more days.
I stood beside my brother's hospital bed. I cried. I prayed. I paced the halls. I didn't sleep. I hardly ate. I cried some more. I prayed some more. For almost a week I called for Jesus the creator, sustainer, restorer of life to come and save my brother's life.
Jesus came to Mary and Martha's house, but Lazarus had been in the grave for four days. Martha rushes to him, weeping, I think, broken, "Jesus, if You had been here my brother would not have died." Her heart was crushed. She didn't understand. Everything was swirling. Becoming blurry. Where was God's Son when she needed him?
My brother died Wednesday morning, and my fickle heart cried to God, "Where were You? God, do You care? If you had been here my brother would not have died."
But what does He say to Martha? What does He say to me?
"I am the resurrection and the life! He who believes in me, though he may die -- he will live! Your brother will rise again!"
Now Jesus wept for his friend Lazarus. He wept for Mary and Martha. He wept because He loved. He is love. That day He raised Lazarus from the dead. It is recorded and I believe it. I need to wait a lot longer before I see my brother restored again, but Jesus is the Resurrection and the Life. To those that believe in Him, He will give eternal life in Heaven with Him. What hope! What victory!
Saturday, January 17, 2009
God's Gracious Gift
“I’m not finding any heart tones, Shari. You and I both know that’s not good.” I heard the words my midwife spoke, but I did not believe them. No heart tones? This baby was due to be born in 3 weeks. Everything seemed to be progressing so well for this pregnancy. My blood pressure, iron, weight and measurements were all normal. What was this silence? What was happening?
I stayed on the examining table while she checked again for any sound -- hoping for life as the tears quietly streamed down the sides of my face.
I remembered laying in bed at night feeling our baby move and watching my active abdomen. Sharing those special times with my son knowing that soon the world would see. Soon they would be able to feel him too as he squirmed in their arms. What would happen to him now?
My midwife called my husband Eric, told him the news and explained she wanted to meet at the hospital. She then excused herself for a minute to give us some privacy. I couldn’t speak. I didn’t want to break down and sob right there. The thoughts were safer in my mind. Better not to speak the truth I already knew -- my baby was dead.
At the hospital they wheeled me downstairs for an ultrasound. A nurse in the elevator asked if we were excited. How could she know the baby was dead? I looked like I was about to deliver, and I would -- only this child would not come home with me. He would never cry, or open his eyes or move his little fingers. He would need no milk, no diaper, no mother’s arms to soothe him in the night. It felt like more pain than I could bear.
The ultrasound was quick. I thought I saw his head, then she quickly moved to his mid-section, looking for heart movement. Nothing. The silent heart was also still.
We left the hospital and began the long wait for labor to begin. The weather changed, matching my inner turmoil-- it became dark and gray and started to snow.
My sister, Mel joined me longing to bring comfort any way she could. Looking at my sister was like looking in a mirror. In her dark eyes, I saw my pain. Her tears were my tears. She hugged me and we cried together.
Mel had ideas to induce labor and that night we returned to the hospital. So began the almost forty hours of pitocin, contractions and waiting. I had monitors around my stomach measuring the frequency of contractions and then displaying the results on the computer beside my hospital bed. I ached as I looked at the single gray line on the screen. Mothers with live babies had a gray and a red line. It was almost deceiving. For a brief moment I would feel excitement with the start of each contraction. We are going to have a baby! Then just as quickly I would remember -- no, my baby is dead. Anticipation and joy would be replaced by grief. During this time Mel sat with me for hours, listening and talking. When she wasn’t in the hospital with me, she helped watch our three older boys. One time she came in with snacks for Eric and a soft, powder blue outfit for our son.
Sunday afternoon, our silent treasure, Ian Jonathan entered the world.
The nurses treated Ian so tenderly; like he was alive. They weighed and measured him and dressed him in the clothes from his aunt Mel. Eric put a hat on his head and carried him to me. We sat there quietly crying, holding our son. Ian Jonathan -- God’s gracious gift.
Many friends came to visit. Many pictures were taken. Many tears shed and then it was time to say good bye. The nurse came and wheeled the cart carrying Ian away.
The next week we planned Ian‘s funeral. Our home and office swirled with activity, and I was unable to keep up. I laid on the couch in our living room, chilled from fever, aching, while Mel cleaned my house and cared for my older boys.
In the weeks that followed I hungered for encouragement. I frequently checked my e-mail or mailbox hoping to hear from someone. The pain was fresh and I longed for a fresh word. Sometimes people felt awkward, not knowing what to say. Mel taught me that it doesn’t matter so much what you say or do, but that you do something. I cannot count all the times Mel left cards, flowers, e-mail or thoughtful presents.
One day Mel gave me a journal full of poetry she had written for me. Her words seemed to echo the sorrow I was feeling inside that I couldn’t express. As I read her poem, “O God, You are There“, I kept thinking that God was there -- in her hands, in her words -- comforting me through my sister. She was God’s gracious gift.
“O God, You are There”
I’ve shed a thousand tears,
You caught each one in your hand.
You wiped away the wetness on my cheeks.
Dried my eyes.
My heart is hurting.
My body trembles.
You place your hand on my shoulder to let me know…
That you are there
To catch me when I fall
From the pain that overwhelms me
You are there
When I tremble and cry out
You are there.
I’m dependent upon you now,
Never felt so much pain before,
But by your grace I keep pressing on,
I look to you for strength
To help me through this dark valley.
And I know…
That you are there
I feel your presence now
You are there
I feel your arms reaching out,
You are there
To wipe my tears away
To let me know that its ok to cry…
O God, You are there.
I stayed on the examining table while she checked again for any sound -- hoping for life as the tears quietly streamed down the sides of my face.
I remembered laying in bed at night feeling our baby move and watching my active abdomen. Sharing those special times with my son knowing that soon the world would see. Soon they would be able to feel him too as he squirmed in their arms. What would happen to him now?
My midwife called my husband Eric, told him the news and explained she wanted to meet at the hospital. She then excused herself for a minute to give us some privacy. I couldn’t speak. I didn’t want to break down and sob right there. The thoughts were safer in my mind. Better not to speak the truth I already knew -- my baby was dead.
At the hospital they wheeled me downstairs for an ultrasound. A nurse in the elevator asked if we were excited. How could she know the baby was dead? I looked like I was about to deliver, and I would -- only this child would not come home with me. He would never cry, or open his eyes or move his little fingers. He would need no milk, no diaper, no mother’s arms to soothe him in the night. It felt like more pain than I could bear.
The ultrasound was quick. I thought I saw his head, then she quickly moved to his mid-section, looking for heart movement. Nothing. The silent heart was also still.
We left the hospital and began the long wait for labor to begin. The weather changed, matching my inner turmoil-- it became dark and gray and started to snow.
My sister, Mel joined me longing to bring comfort any way she could. Looking at my sister was like looking in a mirror. In her dark eyes, I saw my pain. Her tears were my tears. She hugged me and we cried together.
Mel had ideas to induce labor and that night we returned to the hospital. So began the almost forty hours of pitocin, contractions and waiting. I had monitors around my stomach measuring the frequency of contractions and then displaying the results on the computer beside my hospital bed. I ached as I looked at the single gray line on the screen. Mothers with live babies had a gray and a red line. It was almost deceiving. For a brief moment I would feel excitement with the start of each contraction. We are going to have a baby! Then just as quickly I would remember -- no, my baby is dead. Anticipation and joy would be replaced by grief. During this time Mel sat with me for hours, listening and talking. When she wasn’t in the hospital with me, she helped watch our three older boys. One time she came in with snacks for Eric and a soft, powder blue outfit for our son.
Sunday afternoon, our silent treasure, Ian Jonathan entered the world.
The nurses treated Ian so tenderly; like he was alive. They weighed and measured him and dressed him in the clothes from his aunt Mel. Eric put a hat on his head and carried him to me. We sat there quietly crying, holding our son. Ian Jonathan -- God’s gracious gift.
Many friends came to visit. Many pictures were taken. Many tears shed and then it was time to say good bye. The nurse came and wheeled the cart carrying Ian away.
The next week we planned Ian‘s funeral. Our home and office swirled with activity, and I was unable to keep up. I laid on the couch in our living room, chilled from fever, aching, while Mel cleaned my house and cared for my older boys.
In the weeks that followed I hungered for encouragement. I frequently checked my e-mail or mailbox hoping to hear from someone. The pain was fresh and I longed for a fresh word. Sometimes people felt awkward, not knowing what to say. Mel taught me that it doesn’t matter so much what you say or do, but that you do something. I cannot count all the times Mel left cards, flowers, e-mail or thoughtful presents.
One day Mel gave me a journal full of poetry she had written for me. Her words seemed to echo the sorrow I was feeling inside that I couldn’t express. As I read her poem, “O God, You are There“, I kept thinking that God was there -- in her hands, in her words -- comforting me through my sister. She was God’s gracious gift.
“O God, You are There”
I’ve shed a thousand tears,
You caught each one in your hand.
You wiped away the wetness on my cheeks.
Dried my eyes.
My heart is hurting.
My body trembles.
You place your hand on my shoulder to let me know…
That you are there
To catch me when I fall
From the pain that overwhelms me
You are there
When I tremble and cry out
You are there.
I’m dependent upon you now,
Never felt so much pain before,
But by your grace I keep pressing on,
I look to you for strength
To help me through this dark valley.
And I know…
That you are there
I feel your presence now
You are there
I feel your arms reaching out,
You are there
To wipe my tears away
To let me know that its ok to cry…
O God, You are there.
What to teach?
What are my goals for schooling my children? Should education be KING? What if God is King? What would that look like? Surely that does not mean that education is not important, but what does God value? He says, "Be followers of Me. Walk in love as I also gave myself up for you."
How can I teach them to actively love their neighbor, the widow, the fatherless?
What will prepare them for the real world? I received an academic scholarship for college and yet I feel that I fell short in practical areas of life. How do I teach them to be able to pick up a book, find the answer to their questions and then solve the problem? How do I instill confidence in them?
My husband and I are discussing different curriculum for 1st grade. What we used for Kindergarten was very thorough and we are very happy with it, except it is so time-consuming that I tend to put off the younger siblings that have not yet started school. So I wonder, do I enroll in an easier program so that I have more time to spend serving others, working around the house, and building character qualities in my children? Or do I reorganize my day so that I don't sacrifice academics, but still do not neglect the training of the younger children? How? I am stretched so thin it seems.
How can I teach them to actively love their neighbor, the widow, the fatherless?
What will prepare them for the real world? I received an academic scholarship for college and yet I feel that I fell short in practical areas of life. How do I teach them to be able to pick up a book, find the answer to their questions and then solve the problem? How do I instill confidence in them?
My husband and I are discussing different curriculum for 1st grade. What we used for Kindergarten was very thorough and we are very happy with it, except it is so time-consuming that I tend to put off the younger siblings that have not yet started school. So I wonder, do I enroll in an easier program so that I have more time to spend serving others, working around the house, and building character qualities in my children? Or do I reorganize my day so that I don't sacrifice academics, but still do not neglect the training of the younger children? How? I am stretched so thin it seems.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)