I sit and sip in the gentle aroma of Earl Gray from a sturdy, yet delicately decorated, cup which had been buried in boxes and paper until only a few weeks ago. This new life, in a new place, old things, new routines... it is adjusting.
In adjusting, the Kohosh which has kept me sane these last 10 years since my surgically induced menopause, was forgotten. Surely I don't still need it... it has been 10 years. I learned, this week, I mostly certainly need it... or stock in Earl Gray and Rogaine.
The climax came yesterday, day two of our fullish day of school schedule, and my 13 year old with his earmark deep yet crackly voice... his speech impediment from being def for the first three and a half years of his life... his dyslexic sideways-upside-down way of tackling all that he does... yes, that 13 year old challenged me in my raw state beyond what I felt capable of enduring. Agitation riddled most of what I said and did, though the years of teaching two of my children with disabilities has trained me in better self-control... it has not yet trained me in the BEST self control.
My heart ached... it literally ached. My veins were sore from the pulsing as I wearily set out dinner. Hubby home, all smiles and cheers. Me, wondering if Rogaine fits in the budget and not daring to suggest it for a spelling word that will never be mastered, I moved quietly, wishing to be invisible. Wishing to be alone. Wishing it wasn't so hard. Fearing for what will become of my child who just-doesn't-seem-to-get-it.
Dyslexia, Amanda, he has a heart to learn and serve... don't loose sight. Spelling challenges, unintended attitude with a seeming-to-him odd request from his mom as we worked on an unpacking project... he is my sweet child... oh, 13, give him back. It whirred as I sat, taking my place at the table and bowing as 13 was picked to pray.
So quick, the speech impediment, the strings of ridiculousness at odd things asked, the playful-at-all-the-wrong-times disappeared as his prayer drifted through the air. The prayer of a young man not a 13 or a child or a soul lost and searching. No. The firm, confident, prayer which cut straight into my aching and tumbled heart as I slumped across the table from this man child who had challenged me all day,
"And thank you, Lord, for our teacher...and thank you, that our teacher is our mom." Tears broke through the rims and only a miracle of the Spirit kept me from sobbing. I had been so short with him, so intolerant and unwilling to offer up grace for the moment.... the new school year, the new schedule, the new ways things are being done in this new place. I missed how compliant and willing he was. I missed how hard he worked (even in-between the goofing off). I missed his desire to conquer his challenges and overcome in order to achieve a greater goal and purpose in this life (and the next). I didn't deserve gratitude... but he wanted to give it.
Oh, the lessons of grace from the sweetest, simplest, most undeserving places... from someone who did not care about the temporal, rather, only for the eternal. Oh how Christ-like my man child has become.
But that is homeschooling. More than book-learning are the lessons in the moments between. The ones where student and teacher look oddly unexpected and the material becomes that which hands can not hold but hearts treasure forever.
Be Blessed in all the moments God has granted.
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