the nebulous end

As much as I love the sun, some days when it flings aside the gray clouds and we get a warm damp afternoon instead of a drizzly wet one, I’m disappointed instead of grateful. When the weather is promising, I do love to drag our schoolbooks to the deck and learn in the breeze. I like lacing up our hiking boots and exploring the nearby park, tromping through the horse pasture and the woodland trails. On especially hot days, I’m prone to throwing a towel in the yard to lay on while I read my book—only nonfiction and probably parenting-related, I wouldn’t dare allow myself the relief of fiction during the daylight hours—while my children turn on the hose and dig holes in the mud. 

But too many days like that, and the panic starts to rise. When will the laundry get done? How long can the toilet bowl look like that? Should I cook my onions/ginger/garlic/peppers while I slather butter on banana bread at breakfast, for the curry I’ll throw together hastily later, so I can get some extra Vitamin D? Is it all right to stay home, or do I need to buckle up my kids and drive to a playground or the zoo because heaven forbid we relax outside our own front door?

A rainy day, though. A rainy day offers me the chance to stay inside with no guilt. To put a dent in the chores and not feel bad about it. To ride my bike and turn on Octonauts and shower afterward without needing too much affirmation that that was an okay decision, because what’s the alternative? It’s cold and wet. I need permission when I shouldn’t, and bad weather grants it.

We’re coming to the end of our first year of homeschooling, although the end is nebulous. There is no date on the calendar. Our co-op concludes next week, but we still have reading and math curriculum unfinished, and a handwriting curriculum barely begun. When do I throw in the towel? How do we declare the work paused, the summer commenced? How do we celebrate the end of a year when it is up to me to choose the date, but the end isn’t real, because the work isn’t completed?

I feel this every week, too. When Friday rolls around, and the Sabbath looms near. How do I rest tomorrow, when the work I’ve done during the week doesn’t feel good enough? 

The hard thing about homeschooling is not the time that it takes to get the work done; it’s that the work will never be perfect and and I want everything to be perfect. The time it takes, at this point, is negligible; I’d spent that amount of time driving my kids to the Charlotte Mason school I’d wanted for them. Probably more, honestly. We’re saving time, if you think of it that way, heading to the back deck instead of the garage. 

The hard thing about homeschooling is when I complain to myself that this does not use any of my natural giftings. I am not a teacher, I am not a kid person, I don’t like crafts or games or manipulatives. I like jigsaw puzzles and good books, hot coffee and long hikes. Our schooling will never be good enough because I’ll never be good enough, and I’ll never be good enough because I’m not cut out for this kind of work.

But then I see the 1000-piece puzzle scattered over the dining room table that my son wants to work, and wants me to help him complete. I see the stack of books that I actually enjoy reading: the Iron Man; Charlotte’s Web; the Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. I see my daughter’s travel mug of oat-milk-creamed and maple-syrup-sweetened decaf, a morning ritual we can share together. I see the chunks of mud yet to be swept up; proof that we’ve gone out into the woods and come back with nature caked into our shoes.

I’m not crafty, I’m not patient, and I don’t enjoy math manipulatives. But there is a life here that I love, and things that I can share with my children because they’re with me. Maybe I’m not good at teaching my son how to read, but maybe I’m good at teaching him how to love books. Maybe I’m not confident that how we spend our time is acceptable, but maybe there is evidence that we’ve spent time doing something worthwhile, if I have the right perspective.

But I look at all the wrong things for affirmation.

Right now, the sun is out, but it’s okay if we gather around the table and piece together a puzzle instead of heading to the backyard. The school year will come to a close, but it’s okay if I don’t know the exact date yet, or if I shelve the books we’ve left undone to pick up once more in August. The work week will end soon, but Saturday offers the chance to explore the farmer’s market, hike, and grab takeout for dinner even if the floors never got mopped.

I can end something even if it’s unfinished. I can pause, rest, and take it up again later. And whether it’s a 24 hour rest on the Sabbath or a months-long break in the summer, I can be grateful for the rhythms of work and rest. For the sunny days indoors or out. For a God who has not dangled eternal life as a carrot for the future, but has granted me abundant life now. Who has called me, prepared a life for me, and given me the Spirit to guide me through my days. 

And who has, in his mercy, given me the freedom to choose whether those days are in the sun or at the table.