Christmas in July

And is it true? And is it true,
This most tremendous tale of all,
Seen in a stained-glass window’s hue,
A Baby in an ox’s stall?
The Maker of the stars and sea
Become a Child on earth for
me? . . .

No love that in a family dwells,
No carolling in frosty air,
Nor all the steeple-shaking bells
Can with the single Truth compare—
That God was Man in Palestine
And lives today in Bread and Wine.

--Christmas, John Betjeman

John Betjeman was the most popular British poet of the twentieth century. Poet Laureate from 1972 until his death in 1984, he won the affection of the British middle classes, and his books were bestsellers at a time when poetry had generally ceased to sell.

The Wood Between the Worlds

In Dumbing Us Down, John Taylor Gatto writes:

One thing I do know though: most of us who've had a taste of loving families, even a little taste, want our kids to be part of one. One other thing I know, is that eventually you have to come to be a part of a place, part of its hills and streets and waters and people -- or you will live a very, very sorry life as an exile forever. Discovering meaning for yourself, as well as discovering satisfying purpose for yourself, is a big part of education is. How this can be done by locking children away from the world is beyond me.

Some people think homeschoolers are depriving their children by locking them away from the "real world." They would probably agree with Gatto's statement if they didn't know its context. Homeschool families find this a very strange and incomprehensible point of view. In fact, we tend to think exactly the opposite -- as Gatto is actually asserting, that it is institutional schooling which locks children away from the world.

What is really at odds is not so much the definition of schooling, but the definition of home. Home in our modern society has been deconstructed into little more than a way-station, a place to sleep and eat (and not always even to eat!) and watch TV and store your stuff before you go out into the real world and live your real life. Home is a Wood between the Worlds:

"No, I don't believe this Wood is a world at all. I think it's just sort of an in-between place."
Polly looked puzzled
"Don't you see?" said Digory. "No, do listen. Think of our tunnel under the slates at home. It isn't a room in any of the houses. In a way it isn't part of any of the houses. But once you're in the tunnel, you can go along it and come out in any of the houses along the row. Mightn't this wood be the same? -- a place that isn't in any of the worlds, but once you've found that place you can get into them all. "
"Well, even if you can --" began Polly, but Digory went on as if he hadn't heard her.
"And of course that explains everything,' he said. "That is why it is so quiet and sleepy here. Nothing ever happens here."
---C.S. Lewis, The Magician's Nephew


Nothing ever happens at home. How can children grow up if they are trapped in such a nowhere place all day every day?

One of the essential elements of homeschooling, as a movement, as a philosophy, is the reconstruction of home and family life, of home as the hub, home as the place where the most significant interactions take place, home as the place around which the activities of life revolve. I have yet to meet a homeschooler, fundamentalist, atheist, or other, who doesn't seem to have at heart a profound concern for the restoration of genuine family and community life.

It isn't in any of the worlds, but once you've found that place, you can get into them all. After all, isn't a Wood-between-the-Worlds exactly the right place for children with magic rings?

On War

"You've gotta learn that you can't shoot at people without letting them shoot at you."
--Aidan, age 6

In Reality...

I've got a post in my drafts that I've been working on for awhile (and will continue to work on for awhile) about why I'm Lutheran -- the "why" being mainly the Sacraments. I have long desired to spell out my reasons in detail for my confused family and friends, and I am better able to do that in writing better than in conversation. In the meantime, Rebellious Pastor's Wife discusses with a Baptist how baptism now saves you also (1 Peter 3:21)

The title of her post calls to mind one of the turning points for my husband and I in our conversion. The footnote to 1 Peter 3:21 in the NIV Study Bible begins, "In reality..." and goes on to explain how "baptism now saves you" doesn't really mean that baptism saves you. How can you begin a study bible footnote with "in reality"? It belies a fundamental lack of faith in the words of Scripture, as if the Apostle Peter were a bit mistaken about reality and needs the commentator to help him out. That was when the scales began to fall away from our eyes. As evangelical protestants, we claimed to possess the highest view of Scripture, taking the words on the page at face value. But -- in reality -- we were reading our theological presuppositions into the text.

Presuppositions like: baptism is a human work. Human works cannot save. Therefore, baptism cannot save. So, almost unconsciously, we read "baptism" as "the spiritual reality that baptism symbolizes" -- or even "spiritual baptism".

But St. Peter, far from being out of touch with reality, goes on to clarify: "not as a removal of dirt from the body" (because he is talking about an actual physical washing with real water, he specifies that its effect is not ritual outward cleanliness) "but as an appeal to God for a clear conscience" (the remission of sin and guilt). How can water do such great things? "...through the resurrection of Jesus Christ, who has gone into heaven and is at the right hand of God, with angels, authorities, and powers subject to Him."

First Butterfly

Today the first of the swallowtails emerged from its pupa in our butterfly house:

We set him free in the back yard this afternoon. He fluttered across the lawn and visited two rosebushes before leaving the yard for the big world beyond. You can see one other pupa on the back wall in the photo. We still have plenty of big fat caterpillars devouring dill and parsley and pooping at an astonishing rate. (I had never really considered the scatological implications of keeping the Very Hungry Caterpillar in a small enclosed space!)

By the way, we ended up building a very different butterfly house from the one pictured in my previous post. This one is made from a cardboard box, with pieces of fiberglass screen taped into place over the windows. (The instructions can be found in Nature Smart by Gwen Diehn.)

One thing that I haven't been doing that I need to start doing is lining the bottom with paper towels so that the poop (frass) doesn't build up, creating a moldy environment. I keep their greens in a small vase, narrow necked to prevent any caterpillars falling into the water. A second vase is handy for replenishing the dill/parsley every few days. I take out the old vase full of greens, caterpillars and all and set it on the kitchen counter. I prepare a fresh bouquet in the second vase, then I carefully transfer any stems with caterpillars on them to the new food supply. (It's important to move the caterpillars by cutting off the stem or leaf they are standing on and carrying that. Pulling them off the branch with your fingers can tear off their prolegs, the false legs at the back of the caterpillar's body used for gripping and climbing.) Then the old vase is washed out and ready for the next feeding.

Color by Numbers

About a month ago, we learned that Aidan has some "color deficiency", as the ophthalmologist put it. Poor guy -- he was squinching up his eyes and glancing alternately at me and the doctor unbelievingly as he tried to see the image on the card that we assured him was there.

This week, Erin asked me, "Mom, why do numbers have colors?" My eyes got round as I questioned her further; it appears that we have a synesthete in the family.

All this is making me wonder about my own genetic weirdness -- both of these are X-chromosome linked traits.

Punk Pastoral Care

So yesterday was the Fourth of July. We had a good time at the city's hot dog feed at the park, and met up with several of our parishioners there. As we were saying goodbye, M. said to my husband, "See you Sunday, Pastor!"

To which the Man in Black replied, "Do I need to get out to the golf course for that?"

This isn't the first time Punk Pastor has gotten away with this sort of thing. When we were on vicarage, he visited H., a parishioner who hadn't attended church since anyone could remember, in the hospital. Now, this was in southern Arizona in the summertime, and temperatures were soaring into the 100s. The sidewalks were like the walls of an oven, and H. was in the hospital for treatment of second degree burns on his hands and thigh that he gotten falling on his driveway. "It was hot like hell," he told the vicar.

With holy love and almost-apostolic authority, the vicar speaks. "Hmm. Let that be a warning to you, then."

Blame the office of the Holy Ministry. "That must have been my office talking," he told me later, "because it wasn't me!"