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| Sure could use some of that pixie dust. |
And as I hit the pavement this cold morning, the piercing air coupled with that horrible burning feeling in my calves led to this profound thought: if I don't get some training under my belt, I am going to (1) literally die on the pavement of Main Street USA or (2) watch my pride die as my sorry self gets picked up on the Mickey Mouse Golf Cart of Shame.
Nice visual, I know. I'm a visual, living-in-color type of person. And I savor a good analogy, so let's follow the "race" one for a few moments, because the whole time I was running this morning, I was thinking about the race of parenting, one that we are all thrown into together with that first child's first breath. We are a corporate body, fit or unfit, exhausted or bright-eyed, focused or scatterbrained, all hoping to cross the finish line with our sanity intact and our kids alive and in one piece.
We are all in this together, right?
Maybe not. Sometimes, when I look around, it seems like a chaotic and miscellaneous effort, like we aren't even running in the same direction or towards the same finish line with other parents. I have had to clasp my husband's hand hard in the hectic crowd and self-generate a kind of environment for my kids that is a tough row to hoe: one that to a certain extent goes against the cultural mainstream. We try to have our children off of technology as much as possible and plugged into things like good books, year-round math, outside play, and lively conversations with each other across the dining room table as a substitute for hours of TV, mind-numbing apps, continual texting of friends, and a full slate of afterschool activities. It is not a flawless effort, but we do have our share of good, old-fashioned times to show for it: they've sledded down the driveway (flat dolly + old fashioned sled), experimented in the kitchen, ziplined in the back yard, crafted till their fingers bled (durn chicken wire for paper mache!), not to mention played innumerable games of Four Square, Keep Away, Hide-and-Seek Tag, and its very evil twin, Dark Tag (don't ask--it involves the spooky recesses of my closet).
From 8-3, we've fought to send them to a school where they will be intellectually engaged by a rigorous curriculum that challenges them to think and articulate those thoughts and dig deep into knowledge. This is also not an extremely popular notion, because it takes a huge amount of commitment and effort to do it well. When you start saying things like intellectual inquiry, critical evaluation, rhetorical persuasion, let's be honest--most parents think you are a touch crazy, or you are showing off, or both. And they drop you as a running partner and you find yourself in a paltry group headed uphill on a barren stretch of the race course, wondering where the heck everyone has gone.
Which leads me to this question: why run the race with such intensity? Why even pursue a culture of excellence on a course so challenging that it makes your calves sting and your breath draw short? Yep, Mr. Temptation, I hear you way back there, hollering "Can't you just run the race like the rest of us, Roberts People? Do you have to push so hard and try to eeeeeek something out of every moment? Can't you lay off and join me in watching your favorite Bravo TV shows and let your kids sail through easy school and allow them plug into their apps with the rest of their friends so they will leave all us grownups alone?"
I don't apologize for the intensity. I am an inherently lazy person (really, I am), but God has set the purpose of raising five children before me and it's not a job for any slacker. There is something inside me that wells up and shouts in reply: THIS MATTERS. We have laid this privilege of parenting before the Lord and He has called us to something requiring intensity-- a state of living that commands both focus and commitment.
It's hard to accept, but I am learning that as parents, we are often running towards different goals. My goal is simply this: that my children fulfill God's purpose for their lives. That as much as it is possible, their gifts, personalities, minds, and hearts are 100% engaged in doing His will. Yes, I admit it: I don't care if they are "happy". Can I say this without being arrested by DCF? It's true--happiness is not my hope for them because I know it is a bottomless cup that will never be filled. Only in living within God's will can they find purpose and gain something greater: profound and lasting joy. As Olympic runner Eric Liddell said, "I believe God made me for a purpose, and he also made me fast. And when I run, I feel His pleasure."
And if they are going to run the race of life with success (and stay off the proverbial Mickey Mouse Golf Cart of Shame), it is most imperative that they be given some training in advance, or they will be just like I was today, huffing and puffing and envisioning myself as completely unable to cross the finish line without roadside assistance. So all these efforts to expose them to the history of the world, where we stand in it, how God is working through all of it, how to find truth and express truth with conviction---this is all part of a training of their minds, a pat-pat-pat-pat of their young feet on an intellectual road paved by the thinkers and scholars that came before them.
As a parent, I strive for them to achieve a high level of mental fitness so they can go out and engage in more difficult and important questions with greater ease: "Why do you believe in this religious stuff?" or "Why is this cancer cell mutating and what can be done scientifically to stop it?"
There is one person who never shied away from intellectual engagement, and that was Jesus Christ. He sat in and debated with the greatest religious scholars even at a young age; he didn't hesitate to present radical ideas to the masses and used penetrating questions and parables to challenge and stir up great debate amongst his closest followers. He modeled for us a fearlessness in engaging in tough topics and in clearly articulating answers so his followers would be prepared for that time when he would no longer be with them.
He knew his time was short; for us as parents, there is no way to know when our own finish line is going to rush up to meet us.
Actually, remembering that dreaded race calendar, I suspect my days might be numbered.
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