diagnosis

It's been a particularly challenging several months for our family.

Nothing huge or life shattering. Just enough to be a nuisance and yet mild enough to keep us from change.

There are things we want to do in the *whirl and twirl* of our days that don't fit into a standard mold.

Dreams. Visions. Promptings. Passions. Callings.

We recently reached a point where we decided that enough is enough. We've been troubled by some challenges we've had with our son and it's time we do something about it beyond question and wonder.

     (Tell me, what eight-year-old boy doesn't appear to have an attention issue?) 

So this is it.

Diagnosis time. Margin readiness.

We're popping the bubble and relieving some of the pressure.

The typical public school structure and rhythm creates stress that we have realized we can avoid.

We've unwrapped what just might be one of the best gifts of our lives -- Freedom. 

Folks will disagree with us (even my parents).

     Neighbors may think we're strange (perhaps they already do).

     Other folks tell us, "Who cares what other people think?!"

     And others will wish they are doing it, too.

We've gotten assurance in the most unlikeliest places, from sweet souls who remind us that we are the only ones who know our challenges.

We are learning that we are the only ones who can advocate for us. This is our duty. Our responsibility.

I pondered and questioned, and deliberated and decided . . . and questioned and doubted all over again, until I finally realized that there isn't a right answer here.

(And that means there isn't a wrong one, either.)

So we've decided to homeschool.

Effective now.

Tomorrow is The Boy's last day in public school for the year, with one quarter still remaining.

It feels a little bit like quitting, but it isn't.

We're clinging to this truth and reaching for grace.

     We're still responsible parents and our son will still be learning.

But, we're pressing pause on the busy and hectic and crazed. Because, it's just been so very chaotic.

And, it's time -- Right. Now. -- to say enough is enough and get some control back. Get our togetherness back.

We're beyond the considering and we're Doing. This. 

With one quarter remaining of the year we have a smaller bite to try.

     Flavors of *different* to taste.

     Sweet and steady to savor, over busy that leaves us bitter.

We don't need a professional to give us a diagnosis. We know that we're stressed. The typical and common is chaotic and we don't have to live it.

The biggest ah-ha and freedom reaching realization ever is this:  

We. Don't. Have. To. Do. This.

We can get off the ride. We really can.

And so we are, thankyouverymuch.

Most of all, we're doing it together -- this choosing, my groom and me. We're aligned and that's a beautiful thing.

Sure it's a bit scary, and daunting, and parts of us feel sad for our boy's mixed up emotions. But the point is we're choosing courage to try Some. Thing., and we're doing this.

So, to the principal who affirmed us and just never made us feel badly . . .

     Thank you. 

     We appreciate you for caring more about what's right for one child and his family. 

     For setting aside your opinion and helping us to find our own.

     For caring. 
     
     For investing.

     For empowering us as parents . . . 

          to consider and choose to make a change for our own child . . .

          a change that will help us get to know him more fully, 

               and ultimately (we hope) show him how much we accept him, just as he was created. 

     You've helped us to receive grace for differences and embrace how God made us all so unique. 

     Thank you, Mr. Principal.

*This* is worship. 

     Our choosing. Your encouragement.

          And all of our lives lived outward -- Authentically. Courageously. Boldly.

And to all the rest of you, I pray you choose courage to make your own diagnosis' in life and take your own step toward a good treatment for you, and your family. Brave on.

Share your heart . . . add a comment below.

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18 Reasons Why Doctors and Lawyers Homeschool Their Children

home

It's comfy and cozy, though sometimes loud and mean.

Humans live here and we tend to forget that as we whip around rooms costume adorned.

Superheroes is what I too often think we are. And yet we so aren't.

We're messy and sloppy with our love giving.

Shame-filled and grace-dividers.

Only *sometimes* (with an if/then math equation) do we want to be nice when really all the time we should be.

In defense of another's mis-treatment we mis-treat another. We just get it all so wrong.

It's easy to get Love wrong here where we feel so safe and secure. 

Though we sometimes each have visions that this could one day come to a screeching halt, we mostly consume our commitment with big gulps, like kids drinking grape Kool-Aid on a hot summer's day then rushing off to play.

We don't look back and give thanks.

We consume, gulp, and wipe our faces on our sleeves and keep on trudging through life. 

Our man-created-home does this. Makes togetherness get all comfy and cozy where we forget the fragility of life-togetherness.

Yet, He's so much bigger than even our idol of this place. 

He allows the chaos to enter in, and the Kool-Aid to run out, and our faces to meet in confession for our unlovingness.

His Home will be better. I forget that sometimes in my play-house life.

A piece of His Home is here, in our so called home. And sometimes it's almost too much to receive.

I try to remember that. How the days are a *process* toward receiving fully.

He's readying me. Even here.

Today's post was part of my friend, Lisa-Jo's fun challenge each Friday to take five and Just. Write.

     "...for five, short, bold beautiful minutes... unscripted and unedited...

     without worrying if it's just right or not."

Share your heart . . . add a comment below.

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bare

again

accepting

myself

I pay a-mortgage-a-month for a house I don't own

Two years ago my family and I moved back Home.

My groom and I were raised in this town. And our son was born into it.

I learned how to drive a snowmobile here.
I made mud pies and rode my bike down this quiet, lonely street.
I helped with hay by steering his truck while my dad picked up fallen bales.
I played violin and poked my bedroom ceiling with the bow.
I secretly kissed boys here.
I learned about potato picking and corn selling.
I got banged up and had my share of skinned knees.
I made my first forever friend here.
I learned how to run here.

I grew up here. Sort of.

The truth is, I've really only just begun growing up. 

*This place* where I did a lot of my childhood living, was a place where the fields weren't wide enough, even after I got married and moved to a house of our own.

And so, together with my groom and our two-year-old Boy, we set out to a land where I was wanted for my professional experience, and to where I hoped to grow.

We took a risk. And a choice that really was mine, alone; though I'd like to think it was made together.

I traveled to another state and bought a house without my husband. He told me this was for me. He never complained, though I could tell he wasn't thrilled. This wasn't his idea.

For two years we lived away from Home.
I thought I was happy-er.
I wanted to be. But I wasn't.

My groom would always tell me this was all for me.
And it pained me to hear him.

I resented the truth. 

Running away leaves a dust that clouds judgement.
I had ran so fast that I couldn't See.

And though I sometimes wish that choice didn't have to affect my family the way it still does, I trust that it was for purpose.

Beauty has bloomed in me as I've grown. I See it now.

Still, though, decisions have consequences and we're living this one. We are paying for a choice we made to come Home--a consequence of having decided to leave in the first place.

Every month we pay for something we don't own. A loan to cover the difference in the price we paid for the house we I bought, and the price we sold it for.

All to get us back Home--closer to family. Family who aren't perfect. But who are what we have been specifically given. Mercy in disguise.

I think of how the monthly mortgage payment of our first house--9 years ago--cost less than this monthly loan payment. And sometimes I think of what we could do with that money.

I think we could give it away--be generous. But the truth is, we wouldn't.
If we had more, we'd just want to do more--for ourselves. 

We talk about the cost of piano lessons for the Boy and wonder if we should stop--maybe he doesn't really like it, anyway. And we think about how we could use it to do *more.* But instead, we press on for our son to try something and see if he likes it.

Risks cost. 

And as I think about this, I choose gratefulness--for having taken our own risk in the move away from Home, and for our Father's provision to come Home, and for the fourth house we own now that really feels like *the one* (for now) and how it's really a gift we have no business in owning--
a true gift.

I choose gratefulness for my groom who gave me space to grow.

And, for this monthly payment, too; because, it keeps me grounded--reminded of His Grace, and so much more...the growth to accept my family just as they are, and for the gratitude I have for them and their purpose in my story.

So this payment for the thing we don't own, it's my sacrifice.
It's my worship. 

Thank you, Father, for the journey you allowed us, and the journey back, and the journey we have yet to See. 

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Five Minute Friday: Home

Happy Friday!, as I tell my family each morning of the week just like this one.  And truly it is.  It's the day when I have the most cheer for where I'll likely be spending the next 48 hours of my life.  And it's the day when I wake up without a post previously scheduled and just write - for five minutes flat.

Friday's remind me that living isn't about perfection and alltogetherness.  It's a day to kick back and just celebrate the living as it is.

And so, I join Lisa-Jo and others in the blessed five minutes of writing without a script or a long run to get my thoughts going.  This day is about not worrying if it's right or good enough.  Because it is.  

The prompt for today is just what days like this one - Friday's - give me the most cheer for:

Home...

GO

I walk in the door and the weight of my day is splashed across my face.  Try as I might on my drive home and then again in the few seconds when I sit in my parked car before venturing in my abode and out of the garage, I can't hide it.

Home finds me.

All of me - every speck of how I am feeling and who I am at that moment becomes abundantly clear.  And I can't hide.  Most especially, I'm not asked to.

You look tired.  Long day?

Why do I let myself feel shame and guilt over my Groom's honest observation?  He doesn't berate me.  He's just noticing.  And more than that, his {Grace} is loving on me and accepting me.

Home is where I can toss down my day on the side of the porch, take off my shoes and dance around the place like truly no one is watching.

It's where my story is lived out in all its freedom and pure unadulterated joy.  Laughter abounds and cheer is shared.  It's where our days collide and our hearts lay open for love.

Home is my favorite place in the whole wide world to be.  Where ever our home happens to be.

STOP.

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a thankful heart :: home

It's where I'm most comfortable and where I am entirely me.
There are no masks or personas to live up to here.
I walk in the door and {sigh}, as if I've just come in from a storm.
As if I've been walking for miles upon miles...

It's where I am suddenly tired.


Home.

Most nights I can be found asleep on the couch, curled up under a blanket wrapped tightly around me, pillows under my head and behind my back, and my husband close by.  I'm not sure what it is about Home that makes me feel tired - so comfortable.

Love is wrapped up in this place.  I am allowed to be me and to let go of all of the performances.  

I think of my son lately and the acting that this six-year-old has been putting on with all of his stories - trying to be like other people and making up stories that aren't his to tell.


I think of how tired he must be from keeping up with all the stories and the acting.  

I tell him that his life is important and that the day's he is given are gifts to be treasured.  I ask him     what were his favorite parts of the day, as his head lays on his pillow.  He asks me to tell him a story...a story from before I was a Mama.  I remind him that the stories I tell him are my stories - my true stories.

        I encourage him to be himself.
        I name his gifts, one by one.
        I speak outloud the truth of how special he is
             and how important he is to so many people,
        and
              to God's Story.

And then I think about how each day when I leave the comfort of this place - of our home - it is so difficult to live true.

With all the comparisons we all make, and with all the envy around us and self-inflicted guilt of not doing or saying something that we think we should, we aren't being true to ourselves.

We aren't honoring who we are.  We aren't living our story.

No wonder I find myself so tired.  

There is one place in the whole world where I can lay down the charades and just be me.  

For the comfort of home, I am incredibly grateful today!