What my children know.

As I peer over the precipice of the school year that looms before us, I’ve been pondering the things my children will need to know. Reflecting on the things they already know. And stewing over how I prepare them to navigate a world that is both beautiful, and broken.

It’s a weighty task, this home education thing. Daunting to say the least, and to be perfectly honest, I’ve been dreading the approach of the school year a little bit. It feels like we just finished, for one. And I’m not sure I’m ready to be done with the little windows of freedom I have had this Summer, for another. The older my children get, and the busier our schedule becomes, those windows of freedom seem fewer and further between.

Today, as I arranged the cart with the new year’s curriculum, restocked the school supply caddy, and tried to figure out how to fit all our books on the right shelf, this piece wrote itself in my head. And so here I sit, attempting to get it all down. A pre-school reflection, as I ready myself for another blessed year in the trenches.

My children may never darken the doors of an elementary school.
They may never know the ring of the recess bell.
They may never sit at a desk in a room full of children their own age.
But they know how to learn.

They know the spark of curiosity. They know how to fan it into flame; curling up in a cozy chair with a fuzzy blanket, searching for answers on a rainy afternoon.
Reading, researching, and discovering to their heart’s content.
They know what it’s like to live in a home with shelves of books, full of answers to their questions. How to navigate the stacks of the local bookshop. Put a hold on at the library.
They know what it’s like to lose yourself in a story. Or dive into one when your soul feels amiss.
They know what it’s like to lay in their beds, listening to the comfort of their father’s gravely voice. Transporting them to Colorado ranch country, where they live the rough and tumble, roping and riding adventures right alongside Ralph, a boy called Little Britches.

My children may not know the latest tunes. They don’t listen to the radio.
They may not have a favorite artist, or know how to find him on Spotify.
But they know how to close their eyes, and experience the pulsating percussion of a symphony composed by a deaf man who could only feel his music.
They know where each instrument belongs in an orchestra. The sound each instrument makes to contribute to the whole.They’ve heard some of the greatest music ever written, seen the scribbles on a page come to life in a room, taking command of their senses.

My children may not know any famous actors. They may not get all the jokes.
But they know the words spoken by Winston Churchill as he rallied his country to fight for freedom. They know of his “Finest hour.”
They know of the dragon that led J.R.R. Tolkien into the mines of Moria, across the hollers of Hobbiton, along the plains with the riders of Rohan, and into the last battles of Mordor.
They may not watch the latest movies or keep up with the latest toys.
But they know what it’s like to ride down the side of a mountain with Jim Craig, defying sense and gravity on the back of a wild brumby.
They may not watch a lot of TV, but they know what it’s like to spend the day in a tree, building, and hauling, and living in a world of pretend.
They may not have seen the most popular Christmas movies, but I’ve watched them spellbound in their seats at Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Ballet.

My children may not get to travel the world.
They may never go to Disneyland.
But they’ve stood where Lewis and Clark stood, looking out into the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone. They’ve hiked its trails. Temped its geysers. Drank in its scenery.
They’ve read of John Muir and Teddy Roosevelt traveling the Yosemite wilderness, two giants in their own realms, a meeting of minds that saved California from industry.
They’ve played among redwoods as old as Romans, and camped under the same stars that shone above. They’ve roadtripped with their best buddies, sharing audiobooks and s’mores.
They’ve rolled in the black sand of Crescent City, bathed in the saltwaters of the PNW.
They may not ever see Morocco, Uzbekistan or Cape Verde, but thanks to the World Cup, they’ve memorized their country’s flags.

My children know how to work. They know they are expected to help with work in and outside of their home. Hauling wood, mowing grass, tending fields, planting trees.
They know how to care for chickens, feed the cows.
They’ve seen animals butchered and born.
They may not go to the zoo very often, but they’ve watched the growth of baby birds on their bedroom windowsill.
They may not know what it’s like to play in the Summertime like so many other families, but they know what it’s like to ride berry pickers into the sunset. Fingers stained red from indulgence. Bumping through the fields as a family, clouds of dust leaving a trail behind the pickup truck. Country music blaring on the radio, windows rolled down, muggy summer air in their hair.

My children may never know earthly greatness. They may never know wealth.
But they know that we work hard, and trust God for the rest.
They know time and time again, He has shown up for us, provided abundantly more than we needed or could have asked for. Surrounded us with loving and supportive family who have blessed us beyond compare.
They may never know the world’s version of “success,” but they have watched their parents carve out a living from work they deem meaningful and important.

My children do not know perfect parents.
They never have and they never will.
But they do know they are loved deeply. And that their parents love each other.
They know their dad works so hard to further a family legacy, so that legacy will live on and be there for them, should they choose it.
They know their mom is always home, but they may not understand for some time the reasons why. The reasons for the sacrifice, the rearranging of priorities, the restructuring of our lives. All because theirs are the most important thing.

My children may not sit in a pew every Sunday.
They may not know every hymn.
But they’ve wound their hands in the mane of their Savior enfleshed— or en-furred, rather— in the great lion of Narnia.
They’ve walked the narrow path with Little Christian.
Been warned of the world by Vanity Fair.
Fought the giant Greidawl in the fields of Cornwall, wrestled with Dobro in the Feechieswamp.
Committed the creation of the world to heart in the form of a song.
My children may not know every Sunday School story, but they know the God who formed their hands, their minds, their souls.

I can’t teach them everything. I can’t teach them what I don’t know.
There will be gaps, empty spaces, pages left blank.
But as I set out on another year, I am pledging to them and myself, to dive all in.
Give them presence of body and mind. Give them excitement and enthusiasm.
Give them consistency and routine. And a heart prayerfully open to the things they need to learn from me, and with me.

I am thankful for what my children know.
I am grateful for all the time and freedom I’ve been given to teach them.
And I am steeling myself with hopeful resolve for another beautiful year of learning together.

Whew. Getting me a little bit in the feels. New schoolyear, let’s do this thing!

I know I just published a birthday post, waxing poetically about how I want to write books. And that dream isn’t going anywhere, nor is it any less true, but the truth is…I probably won’t even start anytime soon. Because I fully believe my purpose and calling in this season, is teaching and learning with my kids. What a beautiful commission I’ve been given. I pray I can make the most of it this year.

Thanks for being here for the journey, friends.