Learning, the Art

Learning....an art...creativeness, imagination, excitement, discovery. 

When did learning lose its fun at such a young age?

Daily doses of realism, high amounts of factualism, always expecting perfectionism, the learning force of high expectations, roll call, numbers, and results. 

Learning as an art is always splashed in color, creative expression, abounding in astonishment, and inspiration. Where there is lack of art, there is a burden in the young soul and heaviness of learning for what gain? 

When some little beings are being berated for failure to learn as book after book describes, color of art fades and the soul loses a little joy. To sit, to stare, to follow, to be singled out, to be talented yet held back, to learn in a way that doesn't comprehend with the mind, challenging to some children.

All minds are different. Learn as an art. Everyones art is different. 

Thrive. Some thrive in the setting of groups, being able to sit for a long time, being able to block out noise to concentrate, handle stress and tasks. Others, may do better with one on one learning. Either way, the hope they thrive, are happy, love to learn, is a parents wish. Everyones art is different. 

Our family, for now, has decided to learn at home. Josiah, having adhd, has a short, be quiet, be still attention span. He is young. Each year he improves greatly in this area however restricting his behavior to eight hours a day of sitting and strict routine is something that would be hard for him to undertake. Since he is young, full of energy, we decided to teach him at home. And no he still doesn't sit still for long periods of time but he is getting there! 

Each homeschool day is a test in itself of how to teach with love, patience, and self control=the Fruits! But I fail sometimes, make mistakes, ask for grace, push through in prayer. This can be done!



I hope to instill in my boys who are 6 and 2..learning as an art full of creativity, imagination, and awe. Their own, not somebody elses. To give  them a desire to want to learn the secrets of knowledge behind every equation, every experiment, every book. To pursue always even when the mind believes the brain is full, to press, to love to press on.      

My longing is to keep their minds alive in the goodness and beauty of learning. It's hard, very hard. To allow them to discover on their own...an art. Show them what they cannot see on their own. Open Doors. Discover and build upon what interests them no matter the scale, no matter if statistics say they will forget, or if I would rather just not spend the time.

Lead gently. Instruct wisely. Praise often. 

Children grow needing direction, needing to feel appreciated and full of purpose. They love having a purpose, they love a sense of accomplishment and achievement with direction. 

As mothers we need praise as well, speak praises to your children, to yourself, give yourself praise!

I pray that God gives me that direction to lead everyday even when I feel like tossing out all the books, calling it quits, feeling as if there's no hope. Prayer for patience to repeat, to be calm, to realize that he will eventually get it! Feelings of failure may they not rule in my mind nor that of my children's.

But to seize the day for what it is a gift. 

A day filled with the one who created it, God, the all knowing Father who rests the world in the palm of his hands.  May they rest in His art.

With Song

"Eat?"

I get that questionable word everyday at a quarter to five from my youngest son ever since he could first utter words from his tiny, little mouth.Now my oldest follows suite.

They both walk in the kitchen arms limp, eyes wide with sincere longing, their mouths quivering as if they had just arrived home after having been gone for days, unfed and cold. In my mind I'm thinking "it's only a quarter till five!"

In response to my "dinner's not ready yet" the whimper begins. That lovely whimper that gets louder and louder the longer they wait (mainly from my youngest.) and which as Mom's we tend to try and block out.

I give them scraps and bites here and there;  today its of ham. I try to erase the image of throwing scraps to hungry dogs from my mind. After being teased, they only sit and beg for more until they finally reach the table and then its the persisent, "take a bite, please."

And yes, I get "timed" sometimes. The blue sand timer so generously given by the dentist a  year ago gets good use except for what it was intended for.

Its easier when Josh is home. He cages them off in the living room, away from the small, cramped kitchen. But Josh is at the House of Prayer, its soup day and the kitchen is the hot place to be.

The peeling, peeling from potatoes. A tedious process that I loathe and that I can't seem to do fast enough. Screams echo to the kitchen from far away rooms where children bounce from beds, wrestle, take each others toys and need "Mom!" Dismiss. Peel.

Many thoughts run through my mind of what I would rather be eating and making instead of potato soup. Steak with portobello mushrooms, covered in a lite oil sauce served warm with rolls, a fresh salad, and a glass of chilled red wine to top it off. All by candlelite next to a soft blazing fire, served by two quiet, very obedient, little men in tuxedos. Sounds inviting.

Potatoes go a long way.

With fast flicks of the wrist, for children are eagerly waiting, I remind myself to be grateful to "Taste and see that the Lord is good," to "give thanks in all circumstances," "to be still," "not to complain."

Years and years ago women stood behind tables or with bowl upon lap, peeling potatoes with knifes and more often then I do. Invention of the potato peeler didn't happen until the mid 1900's before that they used what they could.

Peel, peel. Boil. Boil. Please boil faster!

A pinch of salt and pepper, a few onions, and the ham goes in. Soup day, that also means it takes longer to prepare and longer to cool off which equals more fending off with "it's hot, wait for it to cool off" followed by more soft moans. In the end, I have happy soup eaters.

Prayer.

We bless it with a prayer but more recently with song. For some reason the song sounds oddly reminiscent of the Sabbath Song (didn't realize it was called that until today) sung in Fiddler on the Roof of course with a little tweaking and a little holding of the hands, swaying of the arms.

Prayer not only with words but with song brings smiles and laughter from little faces. Such is the reality of dinner in our home.

"May the Lord protect and defend you.
May He always shield you from shame.
May you come to be
In Israel a shining name."

"May the Lord protect and defend you.
May the Lord preserve you from pain.
Favor them, Oh Lord, with happiness and peace."

Strength in the Needness

The dreaded reading accompanied by the faint beeping. Not again. Twice monthly.

104.7 My youngests temperature.

The shifting begins through cabinets. You would think by now I would be organized. Fevers. Twice monthly. Be prepared.

Out comes the reducers and the rotations begin. A fever that won't diminish but would diminish me. Fevers always come at the end of endurance.

Darkness of night comes and the fever prevails at its highest and glorious moments. Set the alarm for dosage intervals. You wake yourself, barely. Jolting out of bed; I must do this. Bones are tired, muscles, are weak, eyes are hungry for sleep.

Slothful, carry on. Gently, waking the hot, sweaty, sleeping child. 2am. A cold cup of water he is grateful for. Another reading, still too high. Medicine.

Gently you rock the sickly child, holding him against you feeling the heat of sickness sink into your skin.

You hum. The same song you hummed since he was a day old. You rock, you comfort, you soothe, you are his everything. You try to stay awake. You Pray.

Bath water runs. Fever won't subside. The hot child is placed in its lukewarm suds, a temporary relaxer. Cooler he feels, the panting disappears. Joy sets across his face as he realizes he is out of his room, and time for potential play has arrived.

Back to the chair to rock, back to the bed. Alarm is set. Another two hours same rotation.

You are his strength. You are his care. You are the needed. You have to be {telling myself!}

A sickly child, a spouse, a grandparent, a parent, a friend. You are needed, to tend and care. And through that needness you are blessed! The Comforter, The Healer, is in You!

There is nothing more stronger to give you strength than the creator of Strength, Himself.

Grateful. My strength does not come from me but from the one who made me.

Truest Gift of Days

A Birthday~the celebration of life, of beginnings, of pasts.

How precious the gift that grows and unfolds before your eyes year upon year.

Fond memories of birth stay buried forever in a Mother's heart. The carrying becomes the caring. The pain becomes the joy and excitement. The deliverance becomes hope. 

Hope that life will forever be sweet, kind, and gentle. That what graces his steps and his path will only lead to the One who made them. 

Little footsteps soon to become fast, determined, busy, tired steps. May the love of the Father hold his hand close. To carry him, to watch over him, to shield him from what comes.

Now, to soak it in. 

Never to forget the look in his young eyes, the smiles, the sound of his joyful, lite laughter, the ways his hands look so little, so small. 

His quirks. The way he runs, the willingness to try without fear, the curiosity, the way his cheeks are swollen and so kissable after a nap or a mornings sleep, holding all of these close to remember him so young. 

To love him. To pray for him. The future is unknown, uncertain, invisible to the human eye. Desperate to see. No matter how I wish I could see it, its not there for me to know. If only I could see what lay ahead for him I could train him, prepare him, help him even more, spare him pain but that's not the way it works. 

The one thing that I can do for certain, that I know has endless promises, is to Pray. For there is One who sees all things, knows all things, endures all things, hears all things. And only He has the love and the power to set him under his wings, to protect him from all harm and evil.  

Guide my littlest one. Burrow your way into his heart and soul. May he be a stronghold, a mountain, that cannot be shaken for your names sake. 

Guide me that I may be a loving mother who so desires to uphold you. To teach, to show the love and the will of the Father to him, to guide. 

Thank you for the happy birth of days. For the days are the true gifts of your will and your hand.

Warmth to the Soul

One of the best ways to warm up a cold, chilly house-bake. 

Chillness in the air, a chillness in this Mom's soul.

Baking, no organic ingredients here. Just a good old fashioned recipe with ingredients from the local grocery store. I would love to cook using only organic ingredients, from scratch consistently. Somethings yes other things no. Time, cost, availability. Cost of which we cannot afford. Time of which may take away from little hands keeping full.

Sometimes the hand that reaches for the food is worth more than what goes into the bowl.

What goes into the bowl God can mix, knead filter through veins.What goes into the child, time spent wisely, preciously, sacredly. My portion.

Rest, my portion. The body He rested in fully complete. His magnificent creation. Sometimes you just have to rest. 

I have known too many frantic, frazzled, and worn from the all consuming, controlling fear of serving food that hasn't been purified, isn't hormone free, freshly picked, or free ranged. Rest. It's okay. 

God makes this heart pump. 

This heart that pumps, this hand to churn, to knead.

A sense of some achievement pouring sugar over melted butter, whisking eggs. 

I needed to be melted, whisked, kneaded, poured over by only Him.

Only He can warm the soul, melt the daily frustrations, knead the imperfections, and pour out his love and worthiness on us.

Click of the old gas burner and the stove roars to life. Children get excited, especially my oldest, the helper boy. 

Mess, the mess that will appear, that will need to be cleaned. Baking~ easier, quicker, cleaner if done alone. Warmer for the soul together.

Oh to the simplicity of life. 

To humble myself to find contentment in simple moments that warm the soul and the home.

Spirit Fruit

Newness. God is here in the stillness of the Newness.

Beginnings of a new year, clean as freshly laden snow, clear as sun streaked glass, bright as the early sunrise. Days never before been tarnished, disappointed in, lost hope. Gone are unaccomplished visions that are set in good anticipation only to falter, escape. Then newness comes.

Gods gift to us a new year. Hope in a new season that will bring fulfillment, joy. Peace in the despair and hearbreak. Strength to pass every hurdle. Laughter in the unexpected gifts.

Mine began early with a creak of a door and the frantic shaking of a gate. Husband bolted out of bed to care, to love his son, to serve. Grateful. Smells of breakfast tempt while writing. But my portion.

God. God is in the new year. 

Life in us. He bestowed it on us. Abundately. 

To give him my portion, a desire. Without Him the cup is empty, dry, barren. Dryness, I have tasted. But through Him gently flows His life which He so willingly, desperately, shares. 

Gods need this year and always is us. 

Walking with him, a portion of the cup. He is here, waiting to be opened, the new gift of the new year. Life comes daily and he gives us his Spirit, abundately.

And then the baby crys and you give him gentleness.

And the six year old whines and you give him patience.

And the husband wants time and you give him joy.

And the stranger with demands you give kindness.

And the world with its mangled madness of expectations, you give peace.

And the unexpected trial comes and you give it long suffering.

And you, you give yourself kindness, self control.

And to God who gives you the fruits to live you give love and faithfulness.