response to home school apostacy

I just finished reading this article: The Homeschool Apostates  It's a lengthy article, but please take the time to read it before reading the rest of this post.

This was a hard article to read.  Although most of the home school families we've associated with have not gone to this extreme, we have known some who were following a dangerous path, with the very real risk of losing their children.  Some already had, but still couldn't see their own fault in the matter.

I myself had been influenced strongly by a lot of the extreme ideas described here.  Some of these ideas were originally biblical, but were distorted and twisted by controlling, ultra-authoritative people (mostly re-constructionist men, I'm sorry to say).  The overriding mindset behind the distorted extremes is the over-emphasis on the child's outward appearance and behavior, and the failure to adequately shape--and treasure--the child's heart.

This article represents the dark side of home schooling, the side that gives all home schoolers, especially Christian home schoolers, a bad name.  Thankfully, not all Christian home schooling families are like this.  Some of us hold some convictions dear, but realize they can't be forced on our children.  Some of us have figured out that the more you try to force your child to believe something, the more likely they are to run as far and as fast as they can to get away from it.  Some of us have discovered that having your child's heart is far more important--and more rewarding--than making sure they dress and act "correctly" in public.

The fundamental theological error that is at the heart of the kind of extremism described in "The Homeschool Apostates" is patriarchal reconstructionism.  I'd rather not give a detailed description of this doctrine, but in a nutshell, the basic gist of it is that Christians have the ability and the responsibility to "bring in the Kingdom": to prepare the world--particularly the "chosen" land of the United States--for the coming of Christ.  They believe they can do this by saturating society with their own ilk, putting their people in all levels of society, especially in politics and Hollywood.  They hinge their hopes on their children, grooming their sons to take leadership positions in law and politics, and training their daughters to marry reconstructionist men and raise as many reconstructionist children as possible.

These ideas in and of themselves are not necessarily wrong.  Scriptures are rife with passages extolling the blessing of family and exhorting believers to be salt and light in the culture at large.  It's the motivation behind the reconstructionist ideal that is flawed.  The idea that we can set up God's kingdom on earth is, in fact, unbiblical.  Even if you are not a premillenienialist (as I am),  you cannot deny the Scriptures which describe the destruction of this world at the end of time, and which state that God (not people) will create a new heaven and a new earth.  While people are redeemable, this current world system is not.  Reconstructionism is not a new idea, but it suffered a severe setback after "Armeggedon" (a.k.a World War I) failed to bring about lasting world peace.  Those who have spurred a Reconstructionist revival have not learned from history, and continue to try to make a flawed-at-heart system become heaven on earth.

My husband and I do hold to some of the beliefs common to "fundamentalist" home school parents.  I won't list those specific beliefs here because that's not the point of this post.  But there is one key point in which we differ with the extremists, a point I alluded to earlier: each of our children must ultimately decide for themselves what they will or will not believe, and what convictions they will or will not hold.  They are the ones who will stand or fall when we are gone, so they need something more than "my parents said so" to stand on.  They have their own hearts to yield (or not) to Christ.  And it is He who will lead them in the path they will follow, which may be a much different path than the one their parents followed.  Our responsibility as parents is to train them to follow Christ, but we cannot force them to do this at all, much less in the way we ourselves do.

In other words, as our children work through adolescence and become adults, they will form their own convictions and make their own choices.  And we as parents must give them the space to do that.  We cannot live their lives for them, and we should not try.  Our children, both daughters and sons, know they are welcome to stay home as long as they want, but they also know we're not going to force them to.  We watch who their friends are, but they certainly are not isolated or secluded.  College is waiting for all of them (both genders) if they want it (and if they are able to pay for it themselves).  Higher education is neither required nor forbidden.  Of the two children who are or will shortly be married, both chose their own mates, then sought their parents' blessing and counsel.

Probably the saddest observation in "The Homeschool Apostate" is this:

I feel like at some point I had to choose between my family and my freedom," [Rachel Coleman] says. "I couldn't pick them both; I had to pick one. And I picked my freedom."

No child should ever be forced to make such a choice.  No child will ever be a carbon copy of his/her parents; no child should ever feel shunned because he/she is not.  In some ways our adult children are less conservative than we are, and in other ways they are more conservative.  One child has chosen a non-religious path.  All of them know they are welcome and encouraged to come home to visit, regardless of what they believe or don't believe.  And while there may be conversations about their choices (but usually there are not), there will not be heated debate or hostility.  There will be hugs and "I love you" instead of a cold shoulder or a refusal to speak.  There will be respect (though not necessarily agreement) for differences of opinion.  And there will always be an open door.

chosen bride

The moment Jael saw Joshua she knew she liked him.  She had heard about all the good things he had done for the community, and all that he planned to bestow upon the woman he would marry.  She saw that he was a man of integrity, that he was a hard worker who would provide well for his bride, that he had built a beautiful home for her.  He was wealthy, prominent, but not proud.  He was polite and kind to all, and ready to lend a hand to anyone who had need.  This was the man of her dreams, and she decided she was going to marry him.  He was a prolific writer, and she read everything he had ever written.  In this way, she learned so much about him, including all the things he desired in a bride.  She began to work hard to make herself into that person.  She also discovered where he liked to gather with his friends, and went there.  She introduced herself, and tried to talk with him as much as she could, so they could get to know each other.

Jael told everyone how much she loved Joshua, and she tried to do the things she thought he would want her to do.  She was so eager to marry him!  He never asked her to marry him, but she thought he wouldn't mind if she asked him.  She brought it up several times in their conversations, and talked about all she wanted in a wedding.  She was so interested in what she was saying that she scarcely noticed he wasn't really listening.  In fact, if Jael had not been so caught up with all the things she was doing, she might have wondered at the time Joshua spent talking with a young girl named Rachel.  But Jael didn't notice, and she continued her plans.  She asked him to settle on a date, but he didn't answer her.  She decided he would let her know when he was ready.

Jael was pleased one day to see an announcement on Joshua's website that he had chosen his bride, and had set a date for the wedding.  She was surprised he hadn't called her first, but at least now she had a date.  On the day appointed, she got herself all dressed up in flowing white.  She had her hair gorgeously arranged with pearls and gold and filmy white veil.  She arrived at the church in a limousine, but was a little disconcerted at finding no one outside.  No red carpet lined the stairs, and the doors were closed.

Confused, Jael climbed the stairs and reached to open the door.  It was locked.  She shook it.  It didn't budge.  There were no windows, so she could not see what was going on inside.  She knocked.  No one answered.  She knocked harder, pounding with her fists, tears of panic pouring down her cheeks.  Finally she heard footsteps, then the bolt slipped and the door opened.

"May I help you?"  Jael recognized the tuxedo-clad man as a close friend of Joshua's.

"Oh, Gilchrist!  What has happened?  Why have I been shut out?  Where is Joshua?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"The wedding...I'm here for the wedding..." Jael began to realize from the confusion on Gilchrist's face that something was terribly wrong.

"The wedding has already begun.  You are late.  Do you have an invitation?"

"An invita--  Gilchrist, I am the bride!  I don't need to be invited to my own wedding!!"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but you must be mistaken.  Joshua's bride is there."

Gilchrist opened the door wider, and pointed toward the altar.  To Jael's horror, there stood Rachel!  Her spotless gown shone like the sun, making Jael's appear gaudy, soiled, cheap.  Even at this distance, Jael could see the adoration in Rachel's eyes, the pure love in Joshua's, as they stood reciting their vows.

Jael let out a shriek and collapsed on the steps.  The guests sitting nearest the door turned, whispering among themselves, wondering who this delusioned creature was, dressed as a bride at someone else's wedding.  After glancing at her with embarrassed pity, they turned their eyes back to Joshua and his beloved.  Gilchrist shut the door, leaving Jael huddled, sobbing, outside on the step.

Soon Jael heard organ music begin to play, and footsteps drew closer.  She scrambled out of the way just as the doors began to open.  Joshua and Rachel came out, hand in hand, to the cheers of the guests.  For the first time, Jael noticed the carriage waiting for them.  But this was the wrong bride, surely!  What was this all about?  This was her day, not Rachel's!  Besides, everybody knew all the work she had done for Joshua, all the kindnesses she had bestowed in his name, all the changing she had done in her own life to make herself a fit bride for him!  Who was this Rachel, anyway?  She was nobody but a poor, miserable wretch who had spent most of her life with the worst people over on the other side of town, the place where respectable people never dared walk the streets by day, let alone at night.  How she ever got connected with Joshua in the first place was a complete mystery.  But now here she was, clean, radiant, with a love in her eyes that made Jael feel uncomfortable.

Jael knew she was running out of time.  She couldn't lose Joshua!  She had to make him see the mistake he was making!  In desperation she flung herself at him, hardly noticing or caring that she was making herself ridiculous.

"Joshua, what are you doing?  You were supposed to marry me, not this miserable tramp!"

The guests, stunned at Jael's outburst, gasped at her insult.  Joshua's face reddened.  "Who are you?  How dare you insult my bride?"

"Who am I?  Joshua, I'm Jael.  We were supposed to get married today!  I asked you to marry me!  I worked so hard to be the bride you wanted me to be.  I--"

"You asked to marry me, but I never said yes.  My love is for Rachel, and Rachel only.  I never loved you.  Now if you'll excuse us--"

But Jael refused to move.  She clung to Joshua.  "Never loved me?  But how--  I did so much for you!  I asked you to love me!  You have to love me!"

Joshua grew impatient, even angry.  "Gilchrist!"

As Gilchrist stepped forward, Jael's jealousy changed to unmasked rage.  She turned on Rachel and spat in her face.  Gilchrist just barely restrained her from clawing at Rachel.

Joshua became furious.  "Have this woman arrested!  She shall not spoil this day!  Away with her!"  Then, gathering his weeping Rachel in his arms, he stepped into the carriage.  Just as the driver pulled away, the guests saw him wiping away Rachel's tears, gazing tenderly into her face.

Jael was arrested, kicking, screaming, full of rage, and dragged away.  No one ever saw her again.

our home school journey

 Typical school day morning, September 2013




We began our home school journey in the fall of 1992 when our oldest was four years old.  We have learned a lot over the years, and our philosophy has changed with our growth.  When we started out, we lived in Ohio, where home schooling had only just become legal.  We felt obligated to "do it right" and use an established curriculum which we knew would be approved by the head of the local school board.  So I dutifully ordered all the brightly colored (and expensive) student books and teacher materials A Beka said I had to have for K4.  In due time, the box came, and one sunny September morning my son and I walked over to the church building next door (where I thought he would not be distracted) and we began.

I don't like to remember that day, or that year.  Before the end of two years, I hated home schooling, and wondered if there could possibly be another choice besides public school and (expensive) Christian school.

We moved to Texas in the spring of 1995.  I had basically suspended school during the upheaval of moving, and Texas was a gloriously free state with no enforced home school regulations.  The church there had its own private, members only, school, and I looked forward to placing my two older boys there in the fall. 

It never happened.  It's too long a story to tell here, but we decided to continue home schooling.  I did my research, and this time chose Bob Jones.  Only, Bob Jones was about a year behind A Beka in content, so for my oldest it was like repeating first grade.  We were all bored with the program, and schooling became a drudgery, something we all dreaded and despised.

The next fall, I began a form of "unschooling", though I had no idea that was really a term.  I just thought I was being lazy.  I made sure the children did their math.  I taught my daughter how to read.  Every now and then I had them turn in a writing assignment, and we used those to talk a little bit about spelling, grammar and punctuation.  I bought curriculum we only partly used before I astounded the children by burning it.  We watched a lot of educational programs on PBS, and we visited the library a LOT.  I looked over their books, making sure they had a good mix of fiction and non-fiction, history and science.  But basically let them read whatever they wanted.

Those two or three years were the best, but I didn't know that then.  I thought I was lazy and failing my children, but I needed that respite.  We were about to enter the lion's den.

In 1999, we moved to New York State, the second hardest state in the Union for home schoolers, at least at that time.  Due to all the rigid laws and my own inexperience, we returned--with dread--to A Beka.  Since our fourth child was still younger than the compulsory age of attendance in New York, I only had to deal with the first three.

The books came, and the light began to dawn.  My second son came to me, new history book in hand and disappointment all over his face.  "I know all this stuff already," he mourned.  So that's what all that free reading during the "lazy" years had done.  Slowly, I began to consider other options to the traditional sit-at-your-desk, fill-in-the-blanks, workbook-and-pencil type of curriculum. 

I sought out new catalogs, researched hands-on curricula, and read radical-sounding books.  My all-time favourite was, and continues to be, A Charlotte Mason Companion: Personal Reflections on the Gentle Art of Learning by Karen Andreola.  I found a kindred spirit in Mrs. Andreola, and read all her reviews in Christian Book Distributors' home school catalog.  I couldn't afford to buy all the stuff she reviewed, but I learned a lot just by reading about her experiences.  She blew a breath of fresh air into my weary soul, and a whole new world began to open up to me my children.

The year 2000 saw us packing up again, this time to move to Ontario.  Ontario's home school laws are even freer than those in Texas, which I didn't think was possible.  Every year after that, I continued to explore and change.  We rarely did the same thing twice.  The children learned a lot.  Our philosophy changed even more as we looked around at the sorry state of affairs in the public school system, and at the results they were getting.

As the older ones passed through high school, they gained an adequate education that they had to help earn by doing a lot of things on their own.  What they didn't learn at home, they learned in the work place and in apprenticeship programs.  One of them earned a bona-fide home school diploma.  Others chose to work through their teen years and get their diploma through an adult continuing education program.  All of them took time to choose what they wanted in life, and geared their learning experiences toward that end.

I still have five children working through home school.  We gather every morning and spend an average of 2-3 hours doing academics, but our whole world is one gigantic classroom.  Gardening, baking, cleaning, yard work, laundry, and a whole host of other home chores prepare them for real life in their own real families.  Interaction with family and friends of all ages at home and at church, on field trips and at the park, on vacation, and in other public places teaches them real-life social skills with a variety of people, not just with their own age-mates.

Our children are good workers who are in high demand.  The manager at Wendy's is a bit miffed that one of our sons has no interest in working there, and keeps trying to recruit him.  One man came knocking on our door saying what good things he had heard about our boys, and could we spare a couple of them to work for him.  One daughter is working for her piano teacher in exchange for more advanced lessons.  Even the younger boys work hard doing "man things" like cutting and stacking wood, mowing grass, remodeling the house, and processing chickens.

They are also polite and friendly to all.  Babies, toddlers and preschoolers adore them, and adults love having them around.  They have friends their own age, but also enjoy the company of those older and younger than themselves.

I say these things not to boast, but in awe and with great thanksgiving to our Lord for leading us on this journey, however reluctant I may have been at times.

well reported of for good works

 Spring, 2009

Two sisters and their brother lived together in a small town called Bethany.  It is not known for sure whether any of them were married or had children, but it seems unlikely.  Maybe one or more of them had been married, and were now widowed.  No parents are mentioned, so they were likely deceased.  According to the law of the land, single women and widows remained in their father's house until marriage/remarriage, or until death.  If they had no father, they lived with a brother, an uncle, or some other male relative, in his house.  The fact that these sisters lived with their brother is a strong indication they were not married.  This is an important point to note.

This sibling group was well known for their hospitality.  Their house was a favourite resting place of our Lord's while conducting His earthly ministry.  He often visited, and wherever He was, there was sure to be a crowd.  Mary, Martha, and Lazarus opened their home to all.  They loved their Lord Jesus, and they loved being part of His ministry.  They loved and served because that's what we do when we truly love our Lord.

What do we really know about these people?  Martha is often criticized; Mary is praised, and elevated to an almost unattainable position.  The only thing we usually mention about Lazarus is that he was raised from the dead.  Do we accept these stories, and only these stories, or do we dig deeper?

Listening to sermons about Mary and Martha usually makes me cringe.  One is held up against the other, compared, scrutinized, with the end result that Mary is venerated, while Martha is almost villainized.  Worse, we women -- no matter who we are, or in what stage of life we find ourselves -- are exhorted to be more like Mary, less like Martha.  That's a lot of guilt to heap on all of us who identify more with Martha than with Mary.

I spent a good deal of time writhing under the guilt of being Martha when I was being told I needed really to be Mary.  I felt I was being belittled along with Martha; that my gifts and abilities were not nearly so highly valued as the prayers of those who seem to sit for hours at the Lord's feet.  I felt the ridicule of those who made fun of Martha.  As one person said, "If the church called everyone for prayer and fasting, Martha would bring the muffins."  This is grossly unfair to Martha, and shows that many people really don't understand the Scriptures.

Have you ever thought that maybe the reason we knock Martha down so much is because she happened to have a sister like Mary?  Think about it: Who criticizes Dorcas for spending so much time sewing clothes for poor people?  Who thinks Priscilla did wrong making tents with her husband Aquilla and with the apostle Paul?  Who believes Susanna, Joanna, and many other women should not have used their wealth to meet the needs of the Lord?  Certainly Lydia should not have taken in Paul and Silas, feeding them and providing a place for them to sleep.  Surely she should have stayed by the river with all the other women praying instead of making meals and changing sheets.

Do you see my point?  Martha was not wrong to serve.  That was her gift.  Jesus was a human being who required food, water, a place to sleep, clothing, and even friendship, just as much as the rest of us.  What a privilege it must have been to cook for Him, to make a bed for Him, to sew and mend for Him, and, yes, even to sit quietly at His feet just listening to Him talk!

Martha's problem was her attitude.  She was "cumbered about with much serving".  The idea in the Greek is that she was being far too detail oriented.  The tablecloth had to be snowy white and wrinkle free.  The napkins had to be folded just so.  The silverware had to be arranged in the order of their use, with the salad fork on the outside because it would be used before the dinner fork.  The food had to be just so, served in their proper dishes with the proper utensils and at the proper time.

Jesus got hungry just like anyone else, and needed food.  But He also craved fellowship.  He didn't mind Martha cooking for Him.  What He minded was that she was so busy with all the unnecessary details that she had no time to sit and fellowship with Him.  This is what He rebuked her for.  Later, another story is told of the same family, again with the Lord visiting in their home.  This time, it appears Martha has learned her lesson.  She is still using her gift of service.  But now it's not encumbering her.  Instead, she is simply serving quietly in the Lord's presence.

Remember my point about Mary and Martha being single, and without children?  They had more time for things like sitting at the Lord's feet than most married mothers do.  Mary-Martha analogies are often damaging to mothers because we don't have time to sit in quiet reflection with our Bibles open before us for hours on end.  We have diapers to change, husbands to feed, dirty clothes to wash, floors to mop, vomit to clean up, jeans to patch, and all the rest of it.  We would be wrong to neglect all that in order to shut ourselves up in our prayer closets.  And after being up half the night with a sick child or a nursing baby, there's no way I'm going to be able to get up at five so I can spend an hour reading my Bible and praying before the rest of the family gets up.

Nor should we neglect prayer and Bible reading.  I have learned to study my Bible with my door open and my ears attune to the sounds of children getting dressed and doing chores.  And they are welcome at my side, as well.  Sometimes a child has to sit beside me in order to stay out of trouble, and we've had a number of conversations about the chapter I'm reading out loud.  The girls and I sing a lot while working in the kitchen: scripture songs, hymns, choruses.  I'm often carrying on a conversation with the Lord while hanging out laundry or working in the garden.

But this isn't just worshiping while working.  My work is my worship, because I'm doing it for HIM.  I wrote about that once in my old blog, in a post titled Holy Ground.  Service is just as much a part of worship as praying.  Some people have not learned this.  They are content to sit at the Lord's feet without serving, and are often so heavenly minded they are of no earthly good.  Amy Carmichael, working with the poorest of the poor in India, once asked a visiting missionary to help her by carrying a bucket.  He replied that he would rather carry his Bible.  But Jesus said that in order to be great in His kingdom, a man must learn to be the servant of all.

Still others go to the other extreme of serving without bothering with the fellowship with Jesus part.  They are prone to complaining about all the work they have to do that no one is helping them with.  If only other people would work, they would have more time to spend with Jesus.  But since no one else is helping, there they are, so pitiful, doing all this work while Jesus sits on the sidelines saying, "Martha, Martha..."

Let's learn to turn our service into worship, taking the few minutes we have as wives and mothers to be alone with God when we can, but always remembering that He is with us always, and fellowship with Him all day long as we do our work with Him and for Him.

farewell to summer

Today is the last day of August. The last day. I'm letting that sink in.

Summer is over; the academic side of home schooling is starting--arithmetic worksheets and journal-writing, followed by a lunch of sandwiches and apples in the great outdoors.

The days are getting shorter, and the nights cooler.  It's quilting weather, hoodie weather, run and play in the leaves weather, and put your garden to bed weather.  This is when campfires start to feel good again, and hot chocolate comes back into vogue.  Hikes are more enjoyable with fiery-bright colors and fewer mosquitoes.

Apples begin to ripen, and there's a crisp feel to the air as the mugginess wears off.  It's time for cinnamon and pumpkins, and scented candles in the windows.  Time for the first fire in the wood stove, and all-day soup simmering on its top.  Pies and muffins appear on the table.  Sweaters, socks, and warm fuzzy jammies come out of hiding.

Geese sail honking toward their southern vacation grounds.  Crows argue in the high branches near the corn fields, and squirrels chatter over their acorns.  Leaves are raked into playhouse blueprints for living in, or piled on the trampoline for jumping in.  Cornstalks gleam golden against vivid blue skies.

As darkness gathers, so does the family, sharing laughter and teasing over a game of Uno, enjoying a book read aloud, or singing favourites with dad's guitar.

The cold winds of winter draw near, but fall is a song of joy.

get rid of the germs! ...or not

In my study of health and nutrition, germs and disease, herbs and natural remedies, and illness prevention, I recently came across an interesting observation.

As the daughter of a nurse, I grew up hearing the story of the long-ago maternity patients who died, and whose babies died, because their doctors came straight from the morgue to deliver these babies, without stopping to wash their hands first.  When these doctors started washing their hands, the mortality rates dropped dramatically.  The moral of the story was that we should always wash our hands after using the bathroom, before eating, after handling pets and other animals, before working in the kitchen, etc.  And, of course, with a story like that being ingrained into my thinking, I couldn't do anything but wash my hands when told.  The child-me probably rolled my eyes a few times, but I washed.

Tonight I read a short summary of the actual historical account.

Ignaz Semmelweis, a Hungarian obstetrician, was practicing medicine when childbirth was just beginning to occur more frequently in hospital.  At that time, close to 30% of all maternity patients were dying of what was then referred to as "childbirth fever", an infection of the female reproductive organs, that developed after birth.  Strangely, home birthing mothers were not susceptible to this infection, so many families felt they had reason to fear physicians.  In those days, doctors working in autopsy rooms often went straight to their living patients afterward, delivering babies, and moving on to other patients without washing their hands in between each encounter.  But since most people never thought twice about dirty hands, it took a while for them to begin to make the connection.

Until Dr. Semmelweis came along.

Dr. Semmelweis took note of the fact that midwives, who never performed autopsies, had a much lower mortality rate among their patients than doctors did.  Then one day a close friend of his accidentally cut his hand while performing an autopsy.  Shortly thereafter, he came down with the fever, which soon killed him.  Dr. Semmelweis believed this was more than a coincidence, and began washing his hands before and after working with autopsies and living patients.  He also encouraged his fellow physicians to do the same, but since what we think we know is the greatest hindrance to discovery of new facts, these doctors did what many doctors and scientists still do today: they laughed him to scorn and continued with their own theories; in this case, their practice of working with dirty hands.

It took some time, but when Dr. Semmelweis' mortality rates dropped dramatically, more physicians began washing their hands, and "childbirth fever" began to be a disease of the past.

And thus began the "good hygiene" campaign.  People everywhere were warned of the dangers of disease-causing germs, and were strongly advised to wash their hands frequently.  People began to clean everything more thoroughly, and there was a general improvement in health wherever good hygiene and good house cleaning habits were adopted.

Yet all the while, one important fact was overlooked.  One question failed to be asked.  Why were an overwhelming majority--more than 70%--of maternity patients NOT dying of "childbirth fever"?  Why were so many women surviving, and bringing strong, healthy children into the world, in spite of their doctors' "germy" hands?  There had to be something more to staying healthy than merely keeping clean.

Enter Professor Max von Pettenkofer.  When this brilliant German bacteriologist heard that a former student of his, Dr. Robert Koch, was doing experiments with cultured cholera bacteria, he sat up and took notice.  Dr. Koch was quite famous.  He had received a Nobel prize for isolating and identifying tuberculosis and anthrax along with cholera, and his students were well on their way to doing the same for other diseases.  His theory was that cholera-causing microbes will always cause cholera; essentially, he was stating that all (not merely some) who are exposed to cholera will come down with the disease.

Professor Pettenkofer disagreed.  To prove his point, he asked Dr. Koch to send him some cholera bacteria.  When the package arrived, the professor promptly drank the whole thing.  Of course, everyone exclaimed over the foolishness of this rash act, and expected him to become deathly ill immediately.  On the contrary, he merely suffered a bit of mild diarrhea.  He came through his risky experiment virtually unscathed. 

Dr. Koch's conclusion?  "The important thing is the disposition of the individual."

In other words, if you boost your immune system, you will be more resistant to disease.

But people weren't yet ready to say things quite that way.  Instead, they focused more on washing their hands and cleaning their houses.  And modern technology kept up with the times with the manufacture of disinfectants, and antibacterial salves and soaps.  People had never been cleaner, and many of the old diseases such as those whose bacteria Dr. Koch had identified began to disappear.

There was, however, a change in health among the aristocracy.  Remember Theodore Roosevelt's childhood asthma?  That was a new illness, becoming more and more prevalent among the children of the upper class.  Allergies, hay fever, and skin rashes also began to be more common, again among the wealthier families.  In fact, these maladies became known as "diseases of the rich".

Not until the 1980s did people begin to connect these new illnesses with extreme cleanliness practices.  The British Medical Journal published an article in which it was observed that children with older siblings were less likely to develop allergies.  They also noted that throughout the late 19th/early 20th centuries, large, rural families and farmhands had been healthier than their more prosperous contemporaries.  Finally, in 2008, a study was published in which it was revealed that children who grew up with pets, particularly dogs, experienced fewer cases of asthma than those raised in pet-free environments.

So what do rural children living with lots of brothers, sisters, pets, and often farm animals have that suburban children, living with fewer siblings, and without pets, don't have?  Those pesky little creatures commonly known as germs.  Actually, they are microbes, and there are more of them that are good for you than otherwise.  Microbes, both good and "bad", keep your immune system in practice.  By keeping you constantly exposed to a certain amount of "germs", microbes keep your immune system strong in the same way soldiers are kept sharp by constant watching for and fighting against their enemies.

Children are better off living with a certain amount of dirt.  Yes, they should wash their hands after using the bathroom.  But unless they are covered in mud, it's okay for them to eat their peanut butter sandwiches and their apple slices while playing in the sandbox or weeding in the garden.

Once at a cookout during my childhood, I dropped my hot dog in the dirt by the fire pit.  My mother wanted me to wash it off, but my dad merely brushed it off with his hands and tucked it into my bun.  "It's clean dirt," he assured my mother.  "It won't hurt her."

Turns out, my dad probably had a good point.

my summary of Understanding Holistic Health, "Chapter One: Germ vs. Terrain Theory", by Jessie Hawkins, published by Vintage Remedies School of Natural Health

a day of rest (part one)

I am not a sabbatarian.  I don't believe there should be a list of do's and don'ts prescribed from the pulpit, religious literature, or other sources about what should or should not be done on Sunday, commonly referred to as the "Christian Sabbath".  Our Lord Jesus spent a significant amount of time sharply rebuking the Pharisees for their practice of adding hundreds of their own rules to what God had already prescribed in the Mosaic Law.

That said, I do believe that each family can and should prayerfully decide how they will observe the weekly day of rest God has given to us.  God has designed our bodies to require one day of rest out of seven, and He meant for us to enjoy that rest, not look at the day as a drudgery.

My dad had a way of making Sunday special and enjoyable.  There were definitely things we were not allowed to do, but the focus was on all the really cool things we could do, that we did not normally do any other day of the week.  Here are some of the things I remember:

• Playing Scrabble using Bible words.  In this version of the game, you are allowed to use proper names, such as Hannah or Samson.  When you lay your tiles down, you say one sentence about the word you are playing.
• Listening to Dad read missionary stories aloud.  We got to know William Carey, Hudson Taylor, George Muller, and many others.
• Taking a walk in the woods.  Not a long hike, but a nice, brisk walk, with apples to munch along the way.  And we learned what the word "biodegradable" meant when Dad taught us to toss the cores into the bushes "for the birds and the rabbits and the field mice".
• Relaxing.  Once the Sunday dishes were done, we were free to lie in the hammock, wander through the woods on our own, curl up on the porch with a book, draw, or partake in some other quiet, reflective activity.  No homework, no house chores, no piano practice (unless we wanted to play hymns), etc.

Patricia M. St. John, author of Star of Light, Treasures of the Snow, Rainbow Garden, and other wonderful Christian children's books, recalled the joyous delight Sundays were in her own childhood:

"...the service being over, we belted for home in high spirits, for the rest of Sunday was the most exciting day of the week.  There was a special pudding and sweets after lunch, and, for the little ones, tiny biscuits shaped like letters (being Sunday, you had to make a text with them), and special bricks and modelling clay (being Sunday, you had to build a recognizable Bible story with them).

"For the older ones, there were missionary books, and how my mother, in her busy life, managed to write to so many missionaries and persuade them to produce letters, postcards, photographs, etc., is still a mystery to me; but there was always a pile of material for our fascinating scrap books....  The evenings were spent around the piano singing those old hymns then beloved of little children, with their bright imagery of blue skies, shepherd and lambs, or marching round the table with a percussion band to the strains of "Onward Christian Soldiers" or some such military theme.  In winter we gathered around the fire and my mother would read us a "Sunday book," and Sunday books in those days were not very cheerful.  They were nearly all about poor orphans who lived in slums and died making beautiful speeches pages long.  My mother would cry and we would shout with laughter at her (we were not nice children) and we would all enjoy ourselves immensely."

(excerpt from An Ordinary Woman's Extraordinary Faith: The Autobiography of Patricia St. John)

In our house, we've changed the definition of "Sunday book" to include missionary stories and biographies, and Christian children's fiction.  Sometimes we have gone for walks or on picnics, but mostly we try to stick close to home and rest.  Those who are too young to stay awake during the evening service without a nap usually go to bed, sometimes with Dad--a special treat that encourages sleep without too much fuss.  We try to keep meals simple enough that there is at least an hour after clean-up before we all have to get ready to go again, and this hour is kept sacred for relative quiet, each with his/her own thoughts and quiet activity.

We've tried to keep chores to a minimum, but sometimes there's an "ox in the ditch" that we need to care for: plumbing emergencies (waking up to no water), bedding to wash (someone wet their bed or was sick in the night), pigs loose in the yard and needing a sturdier cage, a car that wouldn't go, etc.  Once I spent a weekend goat- and chicken-sitting for friends in Texas, and had to spend a good half hour on a Sunday morning rounding up a couple dozen chickens that had escaped.

There are a few things we need to change in our house, since Sunday mornings tend to be a bit more harried than I'd like.  Here's the list of things I'm planning to amend for next week:

• Buy boxed cereal for Sunday breakfast.  Those of you who know my "whole foods militarism" will perhaps understand how desperate I am for peaceful Sunday mornings, for me to resort to such measures.  I assure you, those boxes of non-nutrition will be strictly reserved for Sundays only, and only when I haven't had time to bake granola that week.  (Side note: while at Maranatha a couple of weeks ago, I did buy cereal for those mornings when camp was not in session, and we had to feed ourselves.  "RICE KRISPIES!!!" Elizabeth exclaimed.  "I haven't had Rice Krispies in so long!")
• Have young boys' clothes better organized so that when the older boys help on Sunday mornings, it's easier for them to tell whose clothes are whose.
• Make sure everyone knows where their Bibles and Sunday school worksheets are.
• Have lunch meat, cheese, and other sandwich fixings already bought/prepared so that nothing has to be made on Sunday.  We could also use paper plates, thus cutting down on clean-up time, as well.  The traditional full-course Sunday dinner is only restful for those who don't have to cook or clean up.
• Put everybody to bed at 7:30 instead of 8:00 on Saturday night.  People who think they are too old for such an early bed time can read a book.  This will mean starting baths/showers at six, which will mean having supper no later than five, which I'm not always able to manage.  But it's better than trying to wrestle sleepy children out of bed. 
• Be organized enough for me actually to eat breakfast on Sunday morning, instead of rushing all over creation trying to do a zillion things. 

Next week, I hope to be able to say I made progress.  :)

the wife of one man: a love story

This is me, age 19, in my favourite spot: meditating in the Pennsylvania mountains.

I had just ended my third relationship, this time with a guy I met in college.  Or, rather, he ended it for me.  He offered some lame excuse, but it wasn't long before he was being seen around campus with another girl.  And I was left reeling with hurt, anger, and jealousy.

This was not going to happen to me again.   The dating game was getting old, but Joshua Harris had not yet written his classic I Kissed Dating Goodbye.  So I did the only desperate thing I knew to do.

I prayed.

After six agonizing months living in a college full of paired off couples, I went home for summer break, and I prayed.

Lord, You know my heart.  You know how I long to be a wife, and have children, and stay home with them, and home school them.  You know how hurt my heart has been.  I'm tired of looking for a husband.  Just please, You give me the man you want me to have.  You pick him out and bring him into my life.  Because I'm done.  I can't go through this again.

I was 19 years old, ready to be an adult for real, not just an over-grown kid pretending to be an adult.  I wrote a list.  I wish I still had it, but to the best of my memory, here were some of the items:

...a Christian
...believes like I do, doctrinally
...plays the guitar
...has brown, curly hair
...has a beard
...has blue eyes

Yes, I prayed about the color of his eyes and hair.  Maybe those things aren't important, but, hey--I serve a God who delights in giving His children what they want, not just what they need. 

I put the list away and went for a walk.  It must have been a Sunday afternoon, because I decided to walk all the seven miles from my house to my church for the evening service.  It was early enough that I decided to visit some friends who were the caretakers of Maranatha, a Bible camp very close to our church.

As I walked, I prayed again about my list.  Then I gave it all to the Lord, and enjoyed a brisk walk on a sunny day.  I got to the camp, walked into the house, and saw the most depressed-looking person I had ever seen in my life.  He needed a haircut, he had no beard, and he just looked terrible.  I knew who he was.  His name was Tom, he lived somewhere in Ohio, and he was friends with the camp caretakers.  He visited sometimes on weekends, and attended our church when he was here.  That was all I knew, and that was more than I wanted to know.  Oh, and he was old.  I guessed late 20s, early 30s.

No, Lord, not him.

So God let me go another whole year, waiting, praying, trying hard to avoid relationships with the wrong guys.  Or even with the guys who seemed like they might be okay.  I even transferred to a different school to lessen my chances of falling for a guy who did not believe the same doctrines as me.  All the while, the more I prayed, the more I lost interest in college, and the more restless I got.  Finally, in April 1986, the directive came.

Go home, Cathy.  No more college.  Go home and live with your parents, and help them, and I will bring you the man I want you to marry.

And there was peace.  I was ready to move on, into whatever the Lord would bring my way.

By the beginning of May I was home, settling into a new routine.  Then they came to my house, the caretakers of the camp.  Ever to the point, and blunt almost to a fault (but lovable all the same), this man said to me, "We heard you quit college, and we came to find out why."

After recovering a bit from the shock of such a direct question, I answered, "God told me to come home, and that He would bring me the man He wants me to marry."

"Well, we know a man who's looking for a wife.  But you might not be interested, because he's older.  He's our age."

I knew they meant Tom.  I looked at his wife to see if they were being serious.  They were.

"No, thanks.  I don't think so."

"Well, we're having a workday at the camp this weekend, and he'll be there.  Why don't you just come, and see what you think?  You don't have to talk to him, just come."

Of course, I was going to be there.  I always went to camp workdays when I could, and there wasn't going to be any way I could suddenly back out.  I had to go.  But now it was going to be awkward.  Did he know we were being set up?  Did he care?  Would he be laughing up his sleeve at some school girl checking out an older man?  Did he even know (or care) how old I was?  Grr...  Camp workdays were supposed to be fun, not tense with the eyes of would-be matchmakers and all their friends watching your every move.

I went.  I stayed with the ladies cleaning the kitchen and making lunch, and avoiding the men at all costs.  Then the ladies (were they laughing at me?) told me to go call the men for lunch.  I couldn't avoid him any longer.  I had to bite the bullet.

I walked into one of the back tabernacle rooms, and there he was, up on a ladder, with his back toward me.  There were other men in the room, too.

"Hey, guys," I said.

And he turned around.  And suddenly all I could see was the beard he had grown since I'd seen him last.  And the curly, slightly unruly, brown hair.  And the blue eyes.  And my heart turned over, and I was forever his.

"It's time for lunch."  Somehow I got the words out.  I went back to the kitchen, trying really, really hard to act like absolutely nothing had happened.  I didn't want them to know.

But they kept at it.  They took me to Tom's church, and out to eat with them and him.  They took us shopping, and we bought Tom's first tie, to wear while teaching the adult Sunday school class one Sunday.  We went to his pastor's house for dinner afterward, where we suddenly found ourselves completely alone on the front porch.  They must have arranged that, too.

But I think it was there, on that porch, that I found out Tom played the guitar.  The guitar.

Once I asked them, "Why is this so important to you, to get us together?"

"Because you both seem to have what the other wants," came the answer.

In June, Tom finally called, and asked for a date.  We went to Dairy Queen, where he ordered a black cherry milkshake, and I ordered an Oreo blizzard.  Blizzards had just come out, and that was my first one.  We talked about a lot of things.  Mostly I don't remember what, but I do remember he told me his testimony, how God had saved him from sin, out of rock-n-roll and drugs.  That impressed me.  He was the first guy ever to tell me, on a date, how God had saved him.

I went to bed that night telling myself I had just gone out with the man I was going to marry.

In July, we were engaged.  In August, we announced our engagement at a get together in the dining hall after one of the evening services at Maranatha.  In September, Tom left to look for work and housing in Georgia.  After that, the letters flew back and forth until Thanksgiving Day, November 27, 1986, when we were married, forever and always.

Our wedding day, November 27, 1986

Tom still plays the guitar.  His love for the Lord has grown deeper, and that love is reflected in the songs he writes.  His brown curls have turned gray over the years, but he still has his beard, and his blue eyes still make my heart turn over.

July 2012, sitting on the same bridge where Tom proposed 26 years earlier.