What Happens When You Turn Off the Television...

"There is a little danger in these days of much educational effort that children's play should be crowded out, or, what is from our present point of view the same thing, should be prescribed for and arranged until there is no more freedom of choice about play than about work. We do not say a word against the educational value of games (such as football, basketball, etc.). . . . But organized games are not play in the sense we have in view. Boys and girls must have time to invent episodes, carry on adventures, live heroic lives, lay sieges and carry forts, even if the fortress be an old armchair; and in these affairs the elders must neither meddle nor make." ~Charlotte Mason  Home and School Education

twelve

My firstborn turned 12 this past Sunday. Twelve. Such a funny word. Who says "twelve" really? Not me. I never say twelve. And now I will have to say it many, many times over the course of this year. I don't really want to say it. But no one asked me what I wanted. {sigh} What's so wrong with eleven, anyway? I was starting to like eleven.

Twelve is pushing me. Pushing me into doing things I've never had to do before. Talk about things I really wasn't ready to talk about. Again, no one really asked me whether or not I was ready. So. Here I am. Right smack dab in the middle of twelve. It's okay though. I'm feeling the grace to do twelve. And thirteen and fourteen and all the numbers after that. It's okay. He's holding my hand.

 

He even wanted so much to be sure that I knew this that He told my sister-cousin to send me a little book in the mail that would help me. Talk about the things I wasn't ready to talk about. So today I pack up my little gift-book, my bundle of nerves, the book that understands me, along with my freshly-turned-twelve-year-old and her BFF (a ripe eleven...shew! eleven I know!) and set out to start this whole twelve thing off right! As we drive to our favorite place to be girls...ahem...women, we sing loudly to Kelly Clarkson and Misty Edwards. Both ladies are singing of love. One sings of love gone wrong. The other of Love Himself. I don't expect them to understand the irony.

We shop for teacups. Me getting all shaky inside as they twelvishly handle the expensive ones that I don't want to buy. We find the perfect ones. Don't they each want a different pattern? Shouldn't we look some more? Maybe our time will run out and I won't have to face failure. Them looking at me awkwardly. Or asking me about my first kiss. No, they say they are hungry. Anxious to know what all this is about. We are seated. Would I have to speak over all this noise? So distracting. I have my doubts.

I drink my tea fast. I don't even like hot tea.

I read Paul's words. Such good words. They're looking around. I read louder. "If you keep yourself pure, you will be a special utensil for honorable use. Your life will be clean, and you will be ready for the Master to use you for every good work." Just like the fine china, I say. You wouldn't come in from a run and drink water from it, would you? You wouldn't let the little ones drink from it, would you? They laugh. I breathe.

They talk about friends. Friends who want boyfriends. (I didn't mention boys...Holy Spirit, did You?) They ask me about her Daddy. They want to know about the first time he held my hand. I am giddy, remembering.

Being set apart is not always beautiful. It can get lonely at times, I say. But "enjoying the companionship of those who call on the Lord with pure hearts" helps. If they will ask God to help them, He will. He wants to hold their hands too...  

Who wouldn't want to be different? I think to myself.  A twelve year-old, that's who. Mine shares a story of a friend's email. Asking her what she should do about a boy who is giving her mixed signals. She tells us she replied with, "Well...you're not gonna like what I have to say, but here goes:  Wait for your prince charming to come! Is this boy really what you've always dreamed of?... But... you should pray. And not just take my advice because He cares about every single little detail of your life!"  I think of the box. And all the desperate Mommy-prayers. "God! Give 'em wisdom beyond their years!"

I show them my ring and tell them He was the first to hold my heart and my hand. And I'm so glad of that.  They lean in close.  I bought that ring to help my heart.  Because it's so deceitful.

I tell them it has to be their decision. No one else can make it for them. But that if they choose to remain "set apart", they will never regret it, no matter how difficult it is.

We giggle some more and have to get back. Tonight we will hide wildflowers under our pillows and pray for our husbands.  (Oh! The giggles when I tell them that one!) Because it's mid-summer, right? ;)

"What is so rare as a day in June?"

"What Is So Rare As a Day in June?"

by James Russell Lowell

And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays;
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,
An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
The flush of life may well be seen
Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
The cowslip startles in meadows green,
The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean
To be some happy creature's palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o'errun
With the deluge of summer it receives;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?



Now is the high-tide of the year,
And whatever of life hath ebbed away
Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,
Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;
Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it,
We are happy now because God wills it;
No matter how barren the past may have been,
'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green;
We sit in the warm shade and feel right well
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;
We may shut our eyes but we cannot help knowing
That skies are clear and grass is growing;
The breeze comes whispering in our ear,
That dandelions are blossoming near,
That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,
That the river is bluer than the sky,
That the robin is plastering his house hard by;
And if the breeze kept the good news back,
For our couriers we should not lack;
We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,
And hark! How clear bold chanticleer,
Warmed with the new wine of the year,
Tells all in his lusty crowing!
Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;
Everything is happy now,
Everything is upward striving;
'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,
'Tis for the natural way of living:
Who knows whither the clouds have fled?
In the unscarred heaven they leave not wake,
And the eyes forget the tears they have shed,
The heart forgets its sorrow and ache;
The soul partakes the season's youth,
And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe
Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth,
Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.