Earlier this summer, someone asked my youngest if he had learned a lot of new things in school last year. My beautifully neurodiverse child paused for a moment and said “No, not really.” This person squirmed a bit, knowing we home educate, and graciously tried to cover for me. “But your mom seems like a good teacher! I’m sure you learned something.” My boy looked at her and said very matter-of-factly, “well, the thing is my mom is actually a really good learner and thats the first thing you need if you’re going to help your kids learn.” The adult smiled, “so you did learn new things this year!” He shook his head, “no— we didn’t learn a lot of new things. We mostly remembered old things.” ✨✨✨ A few days ago someone messaged me, wondering if I would ever talk about homeschooling again or if I was now devoting myself to covering the crises in Cuba. I had to pause for a moment and consider that some might see homeschooling and the situation in Cuba as two totally unrelated things. But for me, they are extremely intertwined. Not one day of the life I have lived on this earth is unattached to the stories of my family and their experience. Remembering matters. My freedom to home educate is not something I take lightly. I know who paid the price for it: their names are written on my heart. In the mornings, my children recite the apostles creed instead of communist propaganda about Che or Fidel. I can ask my children, “what is the chief end of man?” instead of questions about serving the state. I’m sharing voices of the people in Cuba as a way to remember what happened before and what is happening now. As a way to remember the importance of asking questions and to remember the value of human life. My son said that our way of homeschooling is an exercise in remembering. Just so. We stretch our hands to the heavens and cry out as we remember Cuba. We remember where our faith and hope lies. We remember, not only Cuba, but places around the world and throughout history that have fought for their freedom. We remember.
Today I stood in the quiet cathedral of a forest. A thousand miles away my relatives on the island of Cuba stood in food lines with diminishing rations and growing hunger. I walked through the creek and watched my boys shake the boughs of young trees, releasing canticles of raindrops onto the forest floor. They tell me the rain in North Carolina smells different. It doesn’t smell like home but it gives the same longings to be restored to something we can only hear echoes of in this world. My youngest stands beside me, holding a box turtle in his hands. He does not think about hunger. “mama, what do I name this turtle? I don’t know his story or where he comes from.” When my Abuelos escaped the clutches of the regime, they left everything behind but their names and their stories. They tore their roots from the ground, wrapped them in memories, and transplanted them in the welcoming soil of America. They tended, nurtured and pruned those roots until they formed an anchor for all their new stories. As they worked, they testified their grief, gratitude, trauma, joy, humility. All of it communicated in their own unique way, benedictions of remembrance for us to walk in. “What is your name?” I ask the boy standing beneath the tall trees on his Abuelo’s land. He cradles the turtle and whispers his name into the canopy of trees and wind and mother love. “Who are you?” I ask him and he answers while he sprinkles water on the unnamed mosaic shell. Minutes later we hear a heavy thud echo in the forest. We run up the path and discover a tree, unmoored by last night’s wind and rain. The walk back to the house is quiet until he tells me that he won’t ever forget the day of raindrops, turtle shells and trees weakened over time. “I will tell my kids!” A few days ago, I read these words and felt them deeply: “wisdom is often purchased at a great price, and much of it fades into disremembering because of silence or modest restraint, or because of shame and grief. Yet without the telling, we would soon cease to understand who we are.” (Michael O’Brien) Today, I walked in the benediction of remembrance. Today, I sing their songs of joy and grief over my children and understand
Today we’re celebrating what my eldest learned in his Anatomy strand this term. No tricky wording to trap him or limiting bubbles to constrain him. Just the freedom of an empty sheet of paper, some pastels, and the testimony of what he received and studied. I’ll share this moment with permission from him and open the window to our home a bit. We traced his body outline on a sheet of butcher paper and he filled it in with drawings of all the major body systems and labeled each part from memory. He couldn’t write fast enough, which is a strange thing to witness. His dyslexia usually makes him write painstakingly slow. But today—- it poured out of him. He wasn’t thinking about how long it took him to learn how to read or how brutal the multiplication table was for him— he simply enjoyed the fruit of his faithfulness these past few months and proceeded with confidence to receive the right reward. This took a lot of daily work. It didn’t just happen 🙌🏼 I got to witness those moments when he had to stop and figure out how to layer things. I saw the problem solving wheels that have been helping his dyslexic brain adapt to the world around him churn out workable creative solutions. I saw the moments of resolve when he took ownership of the project and put on habits of diligence. How did he learn those body systems so well? He read/listened to living books about them, studied the images, practiced drawing them and NARRATED it back to me as he was drawing. 🤯 He’s figured out how to teach himself things and that is such a boost of encouragement as we tackle what’s next (we’re looking at you executive function skills!) He’s ready for the next challenge and as it turns out we were never punished for tossing out that awful reading workbook in the trash when he was in second grade. 😂 🔥 Dear young man, you are right on time. I’m still behind you. Let’s take the next step. ✨✨
The response to “Mama, can I help?” does not, for me, stop at the word “yes.” The response is an ongoing one inside my heart. It has to be, because they have asked to enter into my work with their own way of doing things. “Yes,” and then the work begins. Welcoming my boys in, keeping my heart tender towards them, and encouraging the attitude that has presented itself before me is essential once their unique ideas collide with their high energy and limited experience. They want to help, bless and serve. So I must help, bless and serve them by letting them put their kindness into practice. Another round of dishes or a funny looking batch of buns laughingly christened “hot splotch buns” are a small price to pay for another thread well-stitched and pulled tight to bind our hearts together a little more closely. When one boy is helping with a tradition, the moment serves to add weight to the anchor of home and place and meaning. This anchor will serve him well when he goes sailing out into the world. Holy Week is at the doorstep and we have been carefully preparing for the last few days. On the outside, this looks like cleaning the house, preparing and planning out food, bringing out books, readying pysanky tools and finding all the little wooden story pieces that help us mark the progression of Jesus as he sets his face towards the cross. On the inside it looks like setting aside prideful agendas and selfish flesh to love and welcome and make these boys feel down to their bones that this is their home too. I say this to to them all the time with my words, but it must be said with my actions too. They are part of the story and part of the tradition and they are welcome here too. Tomorrow is Palm Sunday and we will gather our branches and march around the dining room singing “Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna in the highest. Lord, we lift up your name, with hearts full of praise. Be exalted, O Lord Our God, Hosanna in the highest.” It is our response and the echo of our hearts as we begin this special week. “Mama, can I help?” Yes, boys, you are welcome here.
Jeff and I fell in love writing letters back and forth while he worked in Honduras. Those letters bound our hearts together in a deep and lasting way. We married and the babies all came one after another. We wrote love letters independently and then we lived out our love letters together. Years went by. The boys were itty bitty and their actions often ruled my day! One day my Abuela called and I told her all about my rough day reacting to my little boys and all the havoc they were wreaking in the house. She laughed sympathetically and said “pero Negrita, remember how your actions shape their day. They don’t have the words to say it yet, but it matters to them. Let your responses be led by love and that action will rule your day.” Oh, she was right. The image of our love letters popped into my mind. I wanted my actions to read like love letters for my boys. I wanted them full of beauty and wisdom and truth. I didn’t want actions that read like prickly letters to an unknown subordinate at the complaint department. It’s been years and years of working hard to teach with intention and love so that my responses could be reminders, instead of teaching in the heat of the moment. Years of battling my sinful flesh to respond with actions of love. The work of the last year, when we have been so often at home, has been to keep the voice of a love letter and not the droning of a disembodied voice nagging in the background. Every day I wake up and walk out of my room, ready to write the day’s letter to my boys. What will I fill it with? Scriptures, hymns, stories, laughter, good meals, flowers, tree climbing, hope-filled grief, freedom, confession, repentance, truth, love, chocolate, dances in the kitchen, longings for restoration? I hope so. Dear boys, I love being with you. Dear boys, i am sorry for losing my temper, will you forgive me? Dear boys, how will we outdo one another in showing honor? Dear boys, let us overcome evil with good. Dear boys, meet me in the treetops, my heart rejoices over you. Love, Mom.
Giveaway closed! Congratulations @ninas.nettles @fernandita31 and @timmonsla 🎉 This beautiful Friday afternoon calls for tea in the library and a GIVEAWAY 🎉🎉🎉 We worked with the talented and creative young mama behind @betterthingscandlecompany to create a candle that captured all the tender warmth of these story time days. Reading together has been a sensory experience for us- the sound of a voice you love, the taste of a homemade cookie, the feel of a soft blanket, that delicious book smell (if you know, you know!) and of course, a story that makes your heart sing!
Hi there!
I was wondering if you could give me a bit of advice on MFW. I have scoured blog posts and recommendations and have thoroughly read through your experience with MFW- that being said. having to do it over, would you chose MFW for ECC again? Or would you chose a different path? I am trying to decide where to go for fourth grade history for my 9 year old son We had a rough go with another curriculum for American History and I don’t feel like he truly grasped the beauty of Am history– I’m torn whether or not to spend another year in it — or chug along. MFW was the route I was looking to go for this school year after much consideration, and after reading your blog I thought you might have some insight/ advice on where I go next. thanks for your time and consideration, and thank you for pouring your heart into your blog and IG account, I look forward to the little snapshots of your family’s homeschool adventures each week.
blessings.
nicole.
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hi! where’s your recap on russia, australia, and antartica? i love cheking your blog for your experiences!
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