from Dad: on graduation

It has been almost a month since I wrote my last blog. Since then Shirley and I have spent several days in California, holidaying and attending the Bible Lectureship at Pepperdine University. We listened to inspiring speakers, attended great classes, heard wonderful singing and learned. After we returned home we spent a week in Smithers, BC, visiting Shirley’s uncle who had just been moved from the hospital into a care home. I will share a bit about these events at a later date.

Last weekend our three daughters were all home to visit and help Trey, our oldest grandson, celebrate his grade 12 graduation. We honoured Trey, took family pictures, looked at old photos, ate lots of food, reminisced and laughed. A tear or two was also shed as we watched the handsome 6 foot 4 inch young man wearing a big smile posing with his parents, grandparents and girl friend. I thought of “my little buddy” helping me build a fence, snow boarding down our drive way and practicing his golf swing on our front lawn and was proud of the man he has grown into.

I thought back to the time I graduated from high school many years ago. There were 175 fewer students in my graduating class and no stretch limos to take us to the banquet but it was still a significant event in our lives.

Honouring achievements and participating in ceremonies that celebrate important milestones in our lives create memories. They help us remember how far we have come and point us to the future.

And so I say congratulations to all of the students who are graduating from high school this month. Remember your accomplishments with pride and look to the future with anticipation.

 

why do I homeschool?

It’s the May long weekend, the holiday Monday, and I am home alone. My husband is working, helping the neighbours get the last of their crop in before the rain comes. My youngest is at Grandma’s house, planting potatoes and rafting in the slough with his cousin. The oldest two are at a friend’s. They took their dad’s old Browning and the bows and they are out to get them some gophers. Pesky critters.

I am home alone. And I’m thinking of my friend, Anne, who I’ve been avoiding lately. Hello, Anne. My friend and I are trying to do some writing together. We’re trying to write about our boys and our homeschooling years and being a mom through it all, and it’s been hard. The ideas are rolling around, but the corralling of them, and the writing of them – not so easy.

A few weeks ago we gave ourselves an assignment. We decided we would each write about why we decided to homeschool. You know, way back when. And I’ve been wondering why this has been such a hard thing for me to do?

I have been homeschooling children forever. My oldest son is seventeen. I have one year left with him and then, poof. He’s done. We’re done. And I’m struggling with that a little, I think. As I’m trying to think back over the years to the mom I was when we began this journey, well, she sometimes seems like a stranger to me. And the reasons for the beginning are not the same as the reasons for the continuing or the finishing. And, really, as homeschoolers – what does finishing really mean?

Because how do I measure success? I have no idea how things would have turned out for us if we had not been homeschoolers. I can’t see how it might have been. I only see what is. And the truth is, it’s not perfect. I make mistakes and my kids do, too. Imagine.

Why do I homeschool? Here’s my short answer. Relationship.

As I near the end of my homeschooling years with my biggest boy, I am thankful for the shared time, shared space, shared words, and shared working-it-through experiences that we have accumulated together through the years. Because what that has resulted in, I think, is a unique relationship.

I think that I have a unique and interesting relationship with my almost-grown son because we chose to homeschool.

There’s nothing magical about it, really. It’s more a mathematical thing. I just know that my relationship with him (with all of them, and they with each other) is different than it would have been if he’d been traditionally schooled.

I cringe a little as I say these things. Because I don’t want anyone to feel judged, or to think that I consider myself better than anyone else IN ANY WAY. Most of my friends, all of whom I consider great parents and who have great kids, do not homeschool. So, while my short answer is relationship, the main answer for why we are a homeschooling family is because I feel God made us this way. It just seems right for us. The lifestyle, the way we live, the simplicity of it – it fits us. And because we are all uniquely made, I accept that homeschooling doesn’t fit everyone.

We homeschool because it feels right. How’s that for an airy, artsy, non-substantive answer?

Because homeschooling can be such a divisive topic, I haven’t blogged about it much. But the truth is, lately people have been asking. And I’ve been pondering, and Anne is waiting for my words. So, this is a start.

 

a yellow bowl blessing: crunchy blueberry crisp

The original version of this recipe comes from my old Harrowsmith Cookbook, Volume 1, which was published in 1981, the year I graduated from high school. The cookbook was a gift from an old boyfriend, the vegetarian one, and I’ve made many dishes from its well-worn pages. The relationship was short-lived, but the gift has been a treasure. The Blueberry Crisp recipe, found in my cookbook on the stained and dog-eared page 222, has been a favourite.

I usually make this recipe with saskatoon berries, but frozen blueberries were what I had, so that’s what I made. The topping is the one I use for any fruit crisp I make, saskatoon, blueberry, strawberry, rhubarb. A perfect desert, especially served warm and topped with ice cream. This morning’s crisp is for a friend’s potluck birthday party this evening.

Here’s the original recipe, with the changes I have made included in brackets:

Crunchy Blueberry Crisp

Filling:

4 cups blueberries (or any fruit – I usually use at least 5 cups of fruit.The more fruit the better, I think!)

2 Tbsp tapioca (If I have it, I use it. If not, I leave it out. The tapioca keeps the dish from being overly juicy.)

1/3 cup sugar (Today, because I had organic cane sugar in my cupboard, that’s what I used.)

1 Tbsp lemon juice

1/2 tsp lemon peel (This would probably be really good, but I’ve never included it. Just lazy, I guess.)

Mix it all up in a bowl, and add to a buttered 9″ square baking dish. I like to use one of my old wedding gift casserole dishes, because then I have a lid to use for storing any leftovers in the fridge. Also, I just like using those wedding gifts. I love that they, like the marriage, are still going strong!

Topping:

2/3 cup brown sugar (Again, today, I used my organic cane sugar.)

3/4 cup rolled oats

1/2 cup flour (I used spelt today, but I’ve used a variety of flours for this and they have all turned out great.)

1/2 tsp cinnamon

1/8 tsp salt

6 Tbsp butter (I got tired one time of measuring out 6 tablespoons and figured out that 6 tablespoons is really close to 1/3 cup, so I use the 1/3 cup measurement now. ‘Cause I’m a lazy cook, remember? And I melt the butter in the microwave. Makes the mixing easier.)

Mix all the topping ingredients together and place on top of berries.

Bake at 375 degrees for 40 minutes.

I’ve had so many compliments on this recipe over the years. It really is yummy!

 

seventeen

It seems like such a big number. How can he be this number?

On the eve of his seventeenth birthday, his dad comes home from the neighbour’s fields and the evening is warm and lovely and the breeze is soft. And the old schoolhouse-turned-barn calls, and out they go. All my men, from top to bottom, to put a few rows of metal on the roof.

I stand at the bottom, looking up. And I see my husband at the top, calling to his sons. Hold it steady, an inch to the right, hold it, hold it. Below him, clinging to the roof like a monkey is the youngest. Whirling the power screwdriver in the air like a gun, blowing the pretend smoke away like in the old westerns. Passing tools between the older boys and his dad. Trying to be a part of what is going on. And then my big boys, together, as they’ve been for so many years. And I think to myself that they should be wearing their brave knight costumes and battling each other with plastic swords. Instead they’ve donned work gloves and they handle power tools, but wasn’t it just yesterday I was sending them to bed in matching footed jammies?

I can hardly watch. I imagine the falling and I hold up hands so that I have a shield of fingers through which to peek.

What are you doing? calls my husband to me. You have to watch, or you’ll miss it.

From the bottom, looking up at my men, I see the story of our family. Growing and changing before my very eyes. And I open my eyes wide, and I watch. Seventeen years have passed in an instant, and I know the precious gift I have. I don’t want to miss a thing.

Today will be the seventeenth time I make a cake for this boy. Chocolate, with vanilla ice cream.

 

laundry

Every summer I have a little love affair. I am head-over-heels in love with hanging the laundry on the line. There is a kind of poetry about it. It is a circle-of-life kind of task. Washing the clothes, harnessing them to the line, leaving them to the forces of nature, and then releasing them from the battle to be folded, sweet-smelling with the perfume of the wind, into their drawers and cupboards.

It is an ancient, womanly thing. It is one of those simple tasks that has been done, countless millions of times through history, and as I pin and unpin, I feel their breath in the wind.

As I am doing the laundry today, decorating my yard with the colour and fabric of my family, I pray for each of them. I ask the creator of the sun and the wind to bless the ones I love. The ones who wear the faded tees and the denim blues.

Laundry, today, is a prayer.

**********

In the midst of writing this post in my head, I read this facebook post by my friend, Nadine. It says it beautifully.

I am having a love affair with my makeshift clothesline. I love experiencing each article of clothing and pondering its purpose and worth. It’s such an act of love, to hang someone’s clothes. Makes me grateful and more mindful of the things I use.

 

being a mom on the day after mother’s day

Mother’s Day is always a bit of a challenge for me, because I know (and I know you know!) that I haven’t always been the Hallmark card mother. And while I know that is true for all of us, I’m the one who remembers the look on my baby’s face the first time I yelled at him, or the time I sent my boy to bed with angry words, or the time they saw me fighting with their dad. Those moments are mine, and they do not fade with time. This is my family and these are my children, and I own these memories.

My sweet boys.

It’s the day after Mother’s Day, and this morning the roses from church and the card from the boys are pushed to the end of the table to make room for breakfast. And we sit, my husband and I, for a few minutes with the coffee and the conversation, until he leaves for the day and I clear his plate and make breakfast for the children.

And then it is time for the bowls and the boys and the morning scripture, and we talk a bit about poor Saul who lost his way. And we smile over David, the youngest son of Jesse, the future king, and I pause for a minute at the  glowing with health description of the boy – glowing with health from his days spent with the sheep and the slingshot and the harp.

And I look around the table at my own boys, growing bigger with each heaping bowl of morning porridge, and I thank God for them and their days with the animals and the fields and the guitars. I thank Him for the boys they are, and the men they are becoming, and I think, I must have done a few things right. Their dad and I, we’re doing our best.

I grab my phone and snap a few pictures until they say enough already! and start acting silly.

And I feel all motherly, in the midst of my messes and failures and mistakes, as I look around my kitchen table on the day after Mother’s Day.

 

 

what I really want on Mother’s Day

This is what I really want on Mother’s Day …

I want all the children in the whole wide world to be safe and warm and happy and loved.

I want all the mothers in the whole wide world to be safe and warm and happy and loved.

And I want to never be okay with the fact that this won’t ever be true for everyone in the whole wide world.

Real religion, the kind that passes muster before God the Father, is this: Reach out to the homeless and loveless in their plight, and guard against corruption from the godless world.

James 1:27

 

a yellow bowl blessing: blonde brownies

This was my mom’s Go To recipe. When Dad announced, Oh by the way, I need to take some goodies to the office today, or the kids needed something for the bake sale, or it was potluck – any baking emergency, actually – blonde brownies came to the rescue. They made an appearance in countless school lunches, and have been a staple at family gatherings for as long as I can remember.

So, in honour of Mother’s Day, and because they are just plain yummy, here is my version of this awesome treat. And hey, if the big yellow bowl is in the dishwasher because you used it to make the Saturday morning pancakes, then the beautiful blue bowl that your sister gave you as a wedding shower present will work just fine.

Blonde Brownies

3 cups brown sugar

1 cup butter or margarine

3 eggs

3 tsp vanilla

3 cups flour (I’ve done these with different combinations of flour, and even 100% whole wheat works great.)

3/8 tsp baking soda

Measure the brown sugar into the beautiful blue bowl. Heat butter to boiling, and add to brown sugar. (The butter must be boiling. This is very important. Something science-y happens to the brown sugar when combined with the boiling butter. Trust me, they just don’t turn out the same if all you do is melt the butter.) Stir well. Add eggs and vanilla and stir some more. Add flour and baking soda and mix it all up.

Grease three 8″ square cake pans. (You could improvise with larger pans, but we like the outside brownies, the couches and the chairs, better than the inside brownies. And my mom used to always grease and flour her pans, but I just grease. The crust is a little crunchier, but we like them that way. Plus, I’m kind of lazy that way.)

Divide the batter among the pans and pat it down with your hand. Top with chocolate chips. (I’ve topped with many different things: butterscotch chips, peanut butter chips, pecans … whatever sounds good to you is good with me!)

Bake at 375 degrees for about 20 minutes. Let cool a few minutes and then cut into squares.

Today, I topped my brownies with chocolate chips and walnuts. Yum. One bite, and you’ll feel like you’ve gone back in time thirty years and you are sharing potluck in an old church basement somewhere on the Saskatchewan prairie. Really.

Couches and chairs. Get it?

 

waiting

When we were in Las Vegas a few months ago, street performers lined the sidewalks of the strip. The most intriguing to me were the statues. Like this Gold Guy. He’d stand perfectly still, waiting, until someone put some money in his bucket. And then he we would spring into life, scaring everyone with the sudden burst of activity. Startling us all, even though we were waiting for it. Like waiting for a Jack-in-the-box to emerge.

Waiting to be, and waiting to see.

It’s the hardest thing, I think. Harder than staying busy. Waiting. Being watchful.

It’s almost Mother’s Day.

I’ve spent seventeen years as a mother, and I’ve done a lot of waiting. I spent years waiting to be a mom. And at a time when many were finished the bearing, I was just beginning. A decade later than most, a ten-year pregnancy in a way. And then the swelling belly waiting. The sickness in the night waiting. The why are they so late getting home waiting. These were the years of waiting to be. To be a good mom.

But I am realizing, now, that there is more to the waiting. That it’s not all about waiting to be. That it’s not all about me. That there is also that crazy, scary anticipation of waiting to see. To see what the children will grow into. To see what He will do with these lives, all these lives, and not just mine.

It’s the long climb up to the top of the water slide, the waiting in line, the awkward settling into place, and then … the swoosh! The ride! The bursting into movement and activity and fun!

It’s watching the Gold Guy, knowing something exciting is going to happen, and still jumping, heart-pounding, when it does.

 

through the valley

I’m reading a book with Carter. It’s an adventure story, because he’s ten and if he’s going to sit and listen to me read to him, he wants there to be lots of action and danger. So I’m reading The Red Pyramid by Rick Riordan right now. And he’s loving it.

It is full of characters facing conflict. Things happen to them. Crazy things, and they have to deal. The heroes, who don’t actually realize they are heroes, are caught off guard. They are challenged and they are uncertain, but they keep fighting.

And I’m reminded, again, that every good story has conflict. Conflict is the thing that makes the story. It is the thing that causes character growth. It is what makes me care.

I guess that is why it makes me so sad when conflict tears people apart rather than bringing them together. There is nothing more tragic, I think, than to witness people turning on each other.

Conflict happens. It is inevitable. I can hate it. I can fight it. I can avoid it, ignore it, distract myself from it.  Or, I can go through it, tough as it might be, because sometimes the best way through the valley is through the valley.

The valley holds the best stories.

One sees great things from the valley; only small things from the peak.

G.K. Chesterton