Picking the Apple: How We Are Parenting Technology

I have been thinking long and hard about a famous story.  The story goes like this:

There was once an apple that changed the world, but not for the better.  That apple gave humans access to the knowledge of good and evil, and it destroyed our most valued relationships, with God and with each other.

 No---wait.  That's not the story I want to tell.  It goes more like this:

There was once an Apple that changed the world, but not for the better.  That Apple gave humans access to the knowledge of good and evil, and it destroyed our most valued relationships, with God and with each other.

Pretend like this cool pic has iPhones, Mini's, and iPads,
not innocent little nanos and shuffles.  I happen to love the music playing options.

I know this post is starting out a bit radical.  Maybe I am becoming a radical, although I've always viewed myself as a fairly normal, mainstream kind of gal.  The thing is--I find myself trying to forge a new path through the technology wilderness in an era when technology is a silent and often unacknowledged danger.  I'm no published expert on the speaker circuit, just a mere foot soldier in the battle.  But for the public record, I'd like to report the truth as I see it happening from the front lines of modern parenting.

We do own Apple products, in fact my 40th birthday gift was an iPad.  I've found that my daughter (7th grade) could care less about gaming or goofing around on touch screen technology and dislikes even reading on the Kindle.  She does do computer programming and a little game coding on the laptop, but this is a "creative" tool for her.  In other words, she uses technology not for entertainment, but as one would use a brush and paints:  to make something new out of nothing.  I'm all for that kind of activity.

My son (5th grade), however, loves to do anything that involves computer gaming.  He used to be hooked on the Wii, and when we got the iPad, he started small with apps like Scribble and Pop Math, which seemed innocent enough.  But all addictions start small, don't they?   Ask any addict of anything at all how it started, and I'll wager it was with something simple and seemingly safe.

With my son, he initially found himself mesmerized by the bright flashing features, the cool sounds, the constant motion on the screen.  Then he was sucked into gaming even deeper by his natural inclination to be loyal, even loyal to a digital team. The push notifications asking him to come back to play or telling him his troops were ready for battle (Clash of Clans) were like an alcoholic smelling the beer from outside the bar.  Despite his inner desire to restrain himself, he was constantly lured in for more (Romans 7:19).

I thought it was just a boy's fun.  That is, until I got my Visa bill one day and there were many, many charges of $9.99, $50, $100, that came to almost $3,000, all charged to my iTunes account that month.  I thought for sure my account had been hacked.  I only have bought a few songs here and there through the years, never anything more than a dollar or so a month.  Looking back, I was such a sucker to let a naive little boy on something as powerful as touch technology linked to a credit card account. 

The source was Baseball Superstars, which I thought it was a simple sports app, but that was a completely wrong assumption.  Doing more research after the fact, I discovered it really targets adult gamers and addictive gambler types.  As he got more advanced in the game, he was being asked to buy his team new uniforms on Baseball Superstars, give them massages, help them with special practices, all of which were bought with "points" that he thought were earned during the game but in reality were REAL LIVE MONEY being charged to my card.  Ouch and double ouch.

The slithering snake of deception, the one that preys on the young and vulnerable, reached right through that iPhone and bit me hard.

We warned him about passwords and such, gave him punishments of various sorts, and restricted the technology in his life (and he has never owned his own touch technology, just to be clear), but again and again we would see him fall into the same patterns of an addict: thinking about gaming the first thing when he woke up, sneaking my phone, hiding in the bathroom, lying to me.  If you know him, you would likely agree that these characteristics are not at all reflective of his usual personality.

To save him from himself, he is now off technology completely.  What else could we logically do?  There cannot be "a little on the weekend" or "just on the car trip."   He cannot take a single sip or he will fall off the wagon again.  It's a hard line to take as a parent when this very technology surrounds him, resides in his home, and permeates the lives of his friends.

Why so radical, you say?

Because touch technology will rob him of everything good in his life if we don't stand firm.

It will rob him of laughing in the kitchen with me, fully engaged and present in the conversation.  It will rob him of good academics and quiet times alone when he can think and reflect.  It will dissolve the lasting richness of in-person friendships and the satisfying small moments of wrestling around with his brother and talking football strategy with his dad.  It will rob him of nothing less than joy.

Kyle Strobel put it this way:

I think one of the most difficult aspects of being an American Christian is trusting that Jesus is right and that our culture is selling us something that ultimately isn’t a valid way to be joyful — and is actually the very thing that destroys joy. 

I love him too much to let him eat the Apple, only to be consumed whole by it in return.  Shockingly, apparently Steve Jobs agrees with me.  Did you know he didn't allow his own children to use the very iPad he created?  It's true--read it here.

And what of my son's friends and my daughter's friends, all of whom own touch technology?  That is for their parents to decide, but for now I am firm that my children will not go on overnights with children who have these products to use freely.  I will not have my son in a friend's basement, essentially unsupervised, with his buddy's iPad Mini where they will have access to things like pornography at a single tap.  While I absolutely cannot see my son initiating this kind of behavior, wouldn't it be easy for the other kids present to pull up?  I try to be very in touch with him, but how in the world can I possibly know and trust the private thought lives of his (also immature and vulnerable) friends?

Moreover, I find that I am in the thin sliver of minority when it comes to parenting technology and social media.  I ask other parents out of curiosity: "Why does such-and-such own this?  What are you thoughts on him/her having it?"  Or "Is this username trying to friend me on Instagram your son/daughter?"  One reply I hear frequently: "Well, they begged me to get them an account, so it's okay that they are under the age allowed on Instagram." Or I also am told, "Johnny bought it with his own allowance that he saved for a whole year, so how could I say no?"  Which leads me to my next question, one that I hardly ever ask aloud but put before myself on a regular basis: "Who is in God-given control of this relationship?  You or your child?"

I may sound alarmist, but my mama instinct is sounding off that there is untold danger of the self-inflicted kind ahead for my children's generation.  Although The Screwtape Letters was published in 1942, C.S. Lewis sounds downright contemporary in writing:

It does not matter how small the sins are provided that their cumulative effect is to edge the man away from the Light and out into the Nothing.  Murder is no better than cards if cards can do the trick.  Indeed the safest road to Hell is the gradual one--the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts.

Or, if I may be so bold as to add on to Master Lewis:

Indeed the safest road to Hell is the gradual one--the gentle glowing screen, the easy to use apps, the smooth digital world without sudden jolts, without thinking minds, without limits on knowledge or images, without the Holy Spirit, without love....

So, how about you, fellow parents?  How do you manage this complicated issue in your home?

Food for thought: 
how would you describe someone who boldly holds out an Apple to us that he won't 
even allow in his own children's hands within his own home?

Thoughts on 42

The little one's blonde curls gleam in the twilight as he peddles his trike fast. The young'un with new skates asks for help with a buckle, so I kneel before him while the gravel bites my 41-year-old knees.

42 next week.

I stand up slowly and watch the five children slide up and down the driveway as the daylight dims and can't help but recall the young, young years, when I thought I had all the time there was to do whatever I liked.  The days on our shady street crept by so slowly that I had plenty of time to wonder if Miss Piggy would be on my cake and whether Mom would make the seven minute icing so I could taste what love is.

I am almost 42 and my knees ache and every day I bow before skate buckles and laundry and bills and spilled juice on the new rug.  I have no more chances to decorate my bike with crepe paper and parade the block with all my friends in tow.

I am old and serious now.

I do not skip down the street to piano lessons while eating homemade cookie dough or play hide and seek in the wide gutters along my sheltered road.  I no longer daydream on a velvet couch about what my husband will look like and whether I'll have a girl and yes, if I do, I shall name her Amanda Jane and her eyes will be brown, just like mine.

Instead, I grip the phone in grief when I learn my best friend has cancer and bang my palm on the table when I hear about another broken-apart marriage.  I cry over private heartaches of those I love and the shortening breaths of a grandfather much adored.

The candles--they glow dimmer at 42.

So I feel content to sit in the strange coolness of a summer evening and watch happy children skate.  When they fall, I know gratitude that their only care today is a skinned knee and who is the fastest and what's for dinner. I watch the treeline darken and the sky glow blue and, when I see the jet shooting a glistening thread overhead, I am reminded of you, God.

At 42, I accept that sweet-smelling baby curls will never come my way again.  I have been entrusted with five treasures, and I will try to raise them to be noble men and women who eventually park their skates and board the planes and leave this home in a golden streak of light.

At 42, I know the answers to much of my story, making it easier to release the carefree days that were filled with childlike wonderings about the future.  I live here, in this house, with these children and their carefully-given names. I relish each day of marriage to a man who has loved me for 23 years and who has gained my respect through integrity and wisdom.

As I put away stray balls, I watch my husband turn into home and travel the long driveway with children running behind.   The car door flings open and the littlest one shouts "Dada!" and stretches his arms as wide as they can go.  Five sets of hands jostle for a touch or a hug and the dog barks from behind the glass pane because she knows who is home.

Following them inside, I walk up the porch, open the heavy door, and cross the threshold to begin dinner.  Inside I feel peace.

For the rest of the story, it's now only beginning.

So Many Kids: What Gives?

Today at my favorite Publix, I checked out almost needing two carts since the summer elves have taken up residence and eaten me out of house and home.  I had a light crew with me this morning: only the baby, the newly-six year old and the seven year old.  As so frequently happens, the cashier eyed us thoughtfully, taking in the baby gumming his black checkout pen, the other child flipping through my open wallet like a teenager, and the third shiftily looking back and forth at the Redbox while brushing soggy free-cookie crumbs off his mouth with the back of his hand.

And like I have heard almost every single day over the past six or so years, he commented:  "Ma'am, you sure have your hands full."

Oh, how I have sought to come up with the perfect reply to this deft observation.  Not because I desire to be unkind, but because there is so much I would love share in earnest reply.  Today, I simply looked him in the eye and said: "Not really. There are two more at home," to which he could only glance at me with deflected pity and continue to scan.

This comment can be topped by the time I was in Walmart, eight months pregnant in a balloonish tent dress, pushing a 1 year old baby sucking two pacifiers at once, with several energetic preschoolers clinging to the metal sides of the cart.  Some well-meaning devout stranger put her hand on my arm at the checkout, leaned over and confidentially asked, "Aren't you so excited about the Pope coming to America next week?"  To which this Methodist mama with pregnancy-brain could only sputter: huh?

I admit in the general populace in modern America, it is unusual to see larger families. The diapers, the potty training, the forgotten putrid sippy cup under the passenger seat all the way through the mass feedings, chaotic sports schedules, wacky adolescent hormones and the jaw-dropping cost of college--it really is quite a lot to wrap your mind around.  I am always floored at my dental bill when I take all the kids at once.  I mean, really!  False teeth might cost less in the long run.

All hassles aside, having this many children comes down to one thing for me:  purpose.  At a certain point, the hubs and I came to realize that part of our purpose on Earth was connected to raising children in a Christian home, with a prayerful desire that they eventually go out into the world reflecting Christ in an authentic, respectful and intelligent manner.  So we went "all in" for this purpose, and now we sit here with five and absolutely no regrets.

The old adage is true: it's unlikely that someone will lie on their deathbed lamenting I had too many children! Woe is me!

And, to be honest, we like our kids. No need to overcomplicate things; there was no master plan.  We liked the first one so much that we had the second. We liked the second so much we had the third.  And so forth.

We want to be with them, we enjoy the process of raising them, we savor the chances for all of us to be together under one roof.  There simply is no shortage of entertainment with this many funny folks, nor any shortage of marvel at the people they are becoming.

I know without a doubt that God has great plans for their lives, and I am very interested in being a part of His plan with the days I have been given.

My fortieth birthday, three weeks before the birth of #5. 
Gifted with tooth fairy money, this chair is physical proof that there is a teeny tiny 
return on investment for costly dental care. 

So to the clerk in Publix, our ever-patient pediatrician (who I saw twice on squeeze-in appointments in the last 48 hours), the beleaguered Honda salesman, the transient lawn helpers, and anyone else wondering what faulty birth control must be going on with this many children under one roof, I say: there is nothing in life more satisfying than living out your calling.

This happens to be mine and I joyfully accept it, even as my two college diplomas gather dust in the closet, the noise decibels in our home exceed the legal limit, and the dog was hand-fed a bag of party-size Fritos by the toddler for breakfast.

Yes, despite the shock of uncovering a secret trove of live frogs in someone's pink bedroom only this morning, I would not say I have full hands.

Only a full heart.

Why Blog? My (Very) Personal Reason

I spend a lot of time drinking coffee.  Iced, hot, strong, weak, Starbucks, Mr. Coffee or even International Delight (a holdover from my teenage years)--it really doesn't matter to me.  I have also been known to snarl slightly at anyone trying to swipe, sip, or piously criticize my Diet Coke.  But hey, hear me out: I need the pick me up.  We're at that tedious phase where my 21-month-old flies right into traffic, singlehandledly opens the front door when no one is looking, joyfully knocks over careful stacks of laundry, and shoots up the bunk bed ladder and rains down big brother's carefully placed trophies off the nearby shelf.

It's a tiring proposition, raising five kids.

So why would I add a single other thing to my already-busy life?  Why force another cup of caffeine into an already shaky hand?  Why in heaven's name would I be sitting at the computer, as I currently am, at 2:25am?

Simply put: why the blog, lady?

Let me rule out a few reasons. For one, I am not trying to project an image of togetherness (insert laugh, close friends), flaunt my limited writing skills, nor do I claim any superiority in my opinions.  I am fully aware of how mixed-up and poorly thought through numerous aspects of my life are, including but not limited to: my dated wardrobe, my limited ability to accessorize without my stylish sister's help, my general haphazard appearance and beauty products that might assist said appearance, my opinionated parenting technique, and even (gasp!) micro-aspects of my theology.

No, the real reason is this:

back row: Evelyn, JD, Virgil, Cleamon, and Laura Wilmalou (my Lala)
front row: Mimi and Clyde Elmo Pinner, my great-grandparents
(Unrelated: it's an undisputed fact that there were some serious slim pickins in the family name barrel.)

The five children standing in this picture are my relatives.  My grandmother is on the far right, the lovely lady who bravely raised my mother on a remote cotton farm in West Texas. And all five of these beautiful people had Alzheimer's Disease or severe dementia that is currently or eventually led to their demise.

And I suspect, as much as I pray against it, that my future is tied up in these genes and this related inevitability: one day I am going to forget.

And as much as my Lala loves her grands, she is now reduced to only remembering my third child, her namesake, who she no longer calls by her own name, instead loosely and lovingly as "that little girl".

Sadly, sometimes love itself is not enough to help one remember.

And before my day comes, even if it is many decades away, there are a few things that I want to process, review, organize, and articulate.  In writing, I find a way to seal my thoughts to words, words that will remain long after I can no longer remember writing them.  I desperately don't want to miss this chance to share with my children and those I love dearly the personal impressions, sometimes-feeble observations, but most especially the undercurrent of love and tender gratitude I feel for this often-chaotic, frequently amazing, incredibly satisfying life that the good Lord has given me.

So have patience on me when my eyebags look darker and droopier than ever. There's a greater mission on my heart than publishing a blog post.  And I hope in some small way this humble space will leave a legacy in the face of loss, so that if/when that loss comes, a part of the real me remains.

So thanks for reading, y'all.

~ ~ ~

Teach us to number our days, 

so that we may gain 

a heart of wisdom.  

Psalm 90:12

All Tucked in Their Beds

I just made my middle-of-the-night rounds, checking to see that the covers were pulled up and heads were straight on pillows and favorite blankies were within arm's reach, and now I can't pull up my own covers and get back to sleep.

There is a groundswell of excitement in our home this weekend, and I've been trying to put words to what we are all feeling as summer breaks upon us.  I suppose it's the sense that Time itself is rolling out, a deep carpet of limitless ocean.  

We find ourselves on the brink of relentless heat and careless joys and fewer responsibilities, and it feels grand.  It most certainly seems like a never-ending reserve, this time, and surely it might allow for some fiddling around in its great expansive space that stretches to the very horizon, one that makes us feel small and enveloped and like we will never reach the end of it.

This feeling I relish even though I know it is the Great Deceiver, the very reason we turn to television and iPads and pretty magazines and yesterday's paper rather than towards each other.

But for tonight I rest content knowing where the hearts I love are sleeping.  I am certain they had a square meal for dinner and their teeth were brushed and they each were hugged before drifting to sleep with the dim nightlight casting peaceful shadows.

For tonight, their breaths rise and fall within the confines of my home, in a comfortable place where the alarm is armed and the air conditioning hums.

In this quiet dark, their parents lie beside each other on familiar pillows with the fan always on, and I know even though the trough of my bed curves deep that if I sleep right there, just so, they can find me in the dark.

We are safe.

But in a certain number of tomorrows, we will be spread out by obligations and the secure space of this home will be breached by impending adulthood and responsibilities and expectations that will suck them right away out of their cozy beds and into harsh reality, where sheets aren't pulled to their chins in the midnight silence and where favorite foods become an issue of what's in the monthly budget rather than a delicious and familiar something waiting for them on a tray when they expectantly open up the big refrigerator door.

I pondered this swelling sensation of time as we spent several hours at the local retirement community today.  I watched the walkers roll to and fro, filling the elevators and lining the halls with their own slow-wheeled traffic.  I saw many silver-haired strangers with bowed backs that have been so shaped by time that they strained to lift their chins at the thunder of feet as my children curved around their lane and ran ahead in their Sunday best, leaving a flood of memories in their wake.

"All my babies are in their sixties," one spry fellow in a beret confided to me as my children stormed past.  "Well done," I replied back, unsure of what else to say as I stared at his sloping black hat and he watched my kids turn the far corner and move out of sight.  "I'll be saying that before you know it," I told him.

And I will.

"All we have to decide 

is what to do 

with the time that is given us.”

Gandalf, Fellowship of the Rings

A Little Secret: How I Switched Shrillness for Stillness on Easter

At this Sunday's Easter service, our church was packed to the gills.  I am always amazed at the finery that shows up that particular Sunday, and it's simply good people watching to see folks in their expensive clothes with the store tags freshly snipped off intensely walk/running to a pew so that they won't be left without a seat in those final moments before the service.  We were no exception, scurrying in at 9:20 and masterfully claiming the last line of folding chairs on the back row.  With Josh tucked in the nursery, that made six slightly damp and out-of-sorts Roberts in coats and ties and starched dresses all perched mercifully on a chair to call their own, awaiting the "Super Bowl" of Sundays to begin: the message of resurrection.

9:25am.  This is Collin and one tired-looking mama taking a victory selfie that we made it on time to score a seat on the back row.  The hubris was short lived.

I had gotten up late that morning.  Big mistake.  I had 12:30 luncheon at our home to finish preparations for, with a good 80 minutes required for the ham that I threw in the oven while my hair was still dripping.  The baby sat watching me, feeding the dog off his high chair tray and throwing the rest against a nearby wall.   Despite explicit instructions the prior evening, certain socks, shoes, and hair accessories could not be quickly located by the remainder of my brood, with one rain-soaked loafer eventually found in the middle of the driveway (!).  I forgot to press about four garments that needed wearing, so I whipped that job out before shoving on my high heels (the closed-toe ones that wouldn't show my chipped polish) and tossing a linen Talbots number from the resale shop over my still-wet hair.

My life, no matter the level of planning, is an unplanned mess.

As we waited for the hymns to start, we realized that so many people were in the foyer that it seemed some were giving up and leaving.  David jumped up and disappeared for a few minutes, then came back and waved us over to him.  What?  Give up our seats?  No way, man.  These are golden.  The waving intensified.  Okay, okay--I reluctantly gathered up my chicks and was directed by the hubs to a never-noticed, vacant old sound booth near one of the central pilasters.

With only three chairs.

We climbed the short stairs, jammed in, and tried to get situated as the choir began to sing a sort of rock 'n roll contemporary blend.  In the back corner of the choir loft, there was a middle-aged man with freshly combed hair in his coat and tie.  Not only was he not singing, he looked downright miserable.  David glanced at me and we both looked at the poor guy, realizing that the ushers had filled the empty choir seats with unsuspecting latecomers.  This fella looked like he was dying inside.  Like maybe he had not been to church in a long, long time and not only did he not know the words, he had come with no intention of singing or participating at all.  Never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined ending up in that loft with the entire church filled to the rafters and looking right back at him.

In the meantime, as we inched towards the sermon, I jostled to situate all the kids happily--something that was never going to happen in such a cramped, seat-less space.  I went from one kid on my lap to two kids on my lap to not feeling my toes or much of anything below mid-thigh.   I wanted to cry a little.  This was Easter Sunday!  We're supposed to worship and feel gratitude and be struck by the magnitude of His sacrifice!  Instead, I was made pretty miserable by our close quarters and the thought of my unfinished ham and the iron I had possibly left on and a particularly cantankerous child whispering loudly and continuously in my ear.  Ugh!  What to do?

I glanced all around, from the beleaguered guy in the choir loft to the music minister with his hands held high to the on-time regulars who were glued to their regular pews, unwilling to budge a single inch even for this Sunday.  Noticing a dark niche under the empty sound booth counter that appeared to have some free oxygen, I decided retreat was the best option.  Much to the amazement of my kids, I gathered up the hem of my nice dress, flipped off my shoes, and hunkered down comfortably under that counter for the remainder of the service.  High heels, nice pearls, pretty dress were all irrelevant to finding a spot where my heart could be still.

I wondered who inherited our comfy seats on the back row.

I wondered what all the proper Methodists would've thought if they could see me hiding in my secret spot right there in their midst.

I wondered if the gentleman in the choir loft would like to switch places with me.

And switching places is what I couldn't stop thinking about the rest of the service. Because, the more I thought about it, the more I was overcome with the revelation that Easter is all about switching places.  It's about me deserving to be up on the cross because of my broken and sinful nature, but Jesus switching places with me and taking the brunt of undeserved punishment, even to death.

He gave up his seat in this world for those who had no space at God's table.  He knows all about my highly imperfect life, just as it played out in the rush of that morning, and yet personally and lovingly is preparing a place for me in heaven. 

Easter worship is knowing that because of His resurrection, my distracted attempts to praise Him will one day be switched out for a kingdom of singing angels where I may glorify Him completely and know peace without end.  

And I prayed during that hunched-up time for the man in the choir loft, that this seemingly punitive hour would not keep him from the limitless hours of eternity.  I prayed that Jesus himself would switch something in that man's heart and every person in that room who hadn't darkened the door of a church all year to know that He didn't come only for us Methodists in all our finery--He came for those who struggle, who doubt, who deny, who refuse to come at all for the show.

He came for the mess and in spite of it felt it was worth redeeming.

Thanks be to God.

Hey!  Put your hands by your sides and smile like normal people!

Now that's better.

Why Oh Why Don't I Love My Neighbor?

Today my docile black lab sat calmly outside while I shucked the last of the Christmas tinsel off of my white Easter tree, when suddenly she growled low and took off in a dead-on gallop with her ears pressed back and her hind legs kicking up in a beeline down the long driveway, across the street, and right into the sacred personal space of my mail-checking neighbor.

But not just any neighbor.

This guy has a track record with us.  I don't know his name, to be honest, but he knows ours because I've found handwritten notes in our mailbox detailing his complaints. At first they were anonymous but finally he had the bravery to sign his name. On moving-in day, he also complained about our POD in the driveway within hours of it being delivered.  Excuse me, but between my husband and myself, we moved every blessed piece of furniture out of that POD and into our home. Not a other single hand lifted a single item/armoire/dresser/sofa that we owned.  And yet he was reporting us to the HOA for having a storage unit in our driveway for 48 hours? What the what?  

The acrimony is palatable.  It must be if gentle Kate Middleton could sniff out the wafting pheromones of hairy bearded humans who are antagonistic towards her master and rush the suspects accordingly.

Okay, so here was the perfect time to make friendly with this guy.  To introduce myself and my dog, shake his hand, ask how his wife was doing (who just gave a kidney for a transplant, which I know through a mention in the last note of complaint about our recycling bin--most certainly, my guilt deepens), or to be generally friendly, for the love of Pete.  I call myself a Christian and Jesus said plain as day that the second most important commandment (Mark 12:31)  is to love thy neighbor and I've read it dozens if not over a hundred times and WHAT DO I DO?

Snap an apology, grab that rascally pup by her collar, turn on my heel, and march back across the street and down the long driveway to home.

Ahhhh, what in the world is wrong with me?

Of course, I know the answer to that question. Boy, do I know it.  I am such a fallen human being--this is only additional evidence on the heap of daily examples I could cite.  I am angry at myself for falling short of the ideal of Christian behavior yet again. Is there any hope for a recidivist like me?

I grieved through this while making non-organic (yet homemade!) chicken nuggets for the gang tonight.  Why do I constantly sin when I know the right thing to do?  Why do I give in to the momentary feeling of exhausted snippiness instead of overcoming it with noble and God-honoring behavior?  How do I have the right to call myself a Christian when I act more miserly and pitifully than the non-believing friend?

The silver lining, I think, is that my sin is ever-present in my mind.  Perhaps hope can be found in the fact that I see the wrong and that I am acutely aware of my need for redemption.

Oh, me. I need Jesus. It's that simple. Incidents like this only remind me all the more.

As the chicken nuggets were consumed, a family conversation about why the palms were waved fanned the flames of my previous thoughts. (Palm Sunday being tomorrow after all, which I was reminded of by a very proper member of our church yesterday who asked "of course your children are waving the palms tomorrow? to which I answered....um, no ma'am, not if it requires us being in any way shape or form early to church, which is not in the realm of possible right now.  thankyouverymuch.")  The discussion turned to the notion of Pentecost, the Jewish view of the lamb's sacrifice, and ultimately to why in the world the most learned, scholarly Jews would beg Pontius Pilate to kill the one person who fulfilled all the scriptures they had spent their lives pouring over in the Torah.

Shouldn't they--above all else--have seen the Christ for who he was?

When my child looked me in the eye and asked this tough question, in that moment I was reminded that it's not enough to have the head-knowledge.  It must be accompanied by gritty acknowledgements of a groveling heart and all that goes with them--admittance of poor behavior, missed opportunities, painful regret, difficult consequences, self-reflection, and--most importantly--coming to the space in my thoughts to search for and accept free grace, that undeserved forgiveness by the very One who asked that I love my neighbor.

My prayer is not only for forgiveness, but for another chance to get it right. And perhaps a leash when that opportunity comes around.

Thank you, Tim Keller, for the balm of these words:  

The gospel of justifying faith means that while Christians are, in themselves still sinful and sinning, yet in Christ, in God’s sight, they are accepted and righteous. So we can say that we are more wicked than we ever dared believe, but more loved and accepted in Christ than we ever dared hope — at the very same time. This creates a radical new dynamic for personal growth. It means that the more you see your own flaws and sins, the more precious, electrifying, and amazing God’s grace appears to you. But on the other hand, the more aware you are of God’s grace and acceptance in Christ, the more able you are to drop your denials and self-defenses and admit the true dimensions and character of your sin.

and to Paul, because nothing is new under the sun:

So I find this law at work: Although I want to do good, evil is right there with me. For in my inner being I delight in God’s law; but I see another law at work in me, waging war against the law of my mind and making me a prisoner of the law of sin at work within me. What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body that is subject to death? Thanks be to God, who delivers me through Jesus Christ our Lord!  

Romans 7:21-25

No Such Thing As Summer Break {and other musings}

When I was sitting in the school office this week, a very sweet boy who had attended math competitions in the past came up to me and asked:  “How did Collin win the Mini Mu?”  It was worded exactly so, and his pleading look made me very much wish I could give him a short, practical answer.

I can see how it might look like it “just happened” to a fellow kid.   From the outside, there’s not much about Collin (or Madeleine, who has also done well at these things) that screams “Math!”  If you look at the event photos, the children who make it on stage for a trophy are almost uniformly Asian or Indian.  (This is simply a fact of observation.)  And to the child who approached me, Collin’s school routine seems remarkably similar to his own.

So how did it happen? 

Completed practice tests---yup, there were quite a few.

Madeleine at her second math competition.

I’ve pondered the question over for the past week while we’ve been on a little vacation, and here are a few Roberts Family Philosophies (RFPs) possibly at work.  These are not a reflection of a “know it all” attitude by any stretch, but rather a gradual coming-to of beliefs as our family has grown that I thought I’d share.  I very sadly admit that I haven’t read lots of parenting books (with the exception of Shepherding A Child’s Heart, which I’ve read multiple times), attended parenting seminars, or even joined a MOPS group.  Why?  I guess I’ve been too snowed in with the never-ending task at hand: parenting.

So here are some RFPs, such as they are, in no certain order:

We, the parents, are the guardians and gatekeepers of their time.  We do not like our kids gaming, watching junk TV, or surfing the Internet.  They do not have their own smartphones, Instagram accounts, or Facebook pages.  As parents, we are the ones who set the “norm” in our household, and it includes lots of foursquare, tag, touch football, hide and seek, Legos, puzzles, reading, crafts, polly pockets, pillow tents, hand-sewn Barbie outfits, a little Khan Academy, and, yes, math.  Do the occasional apps and Disney Channel sneak in?  Of course they do, but as the official time gatekeepers in Casa Roberts, we have no problem powering down these scenarios mid-stream.  

There is no such thing as summer break.  Reading and especially math go on to a certain degree ALL YEAR ROUND in our household.  For instance, two summers ago, Collin finished a math text on his own under our (David’s) supervision. This summer, he steadily completed a series of Mini Mu sample exams as his summer project.  Our younger kids get math facts sheets or clock worksheets or any number of challenges that David prints out and presents with enthusiasm at the breakfast table.

Hard work trumps natural smarts any day.  I can testify to this by my college experience.  I went to a top-20 university by a squeaker admission.  I scored a whopping 1070 on my SAT and, even though I was in classes with National Merit Scholars and Valedictorians, I was so grateful to be there and so intimidated by the big brains surrounding me that I put in the hours and finished magna cum laude with a full-tuition-plus-stipend scholarship offer in hand to graduate school.  It continues to shock me that this RFP is true, but I most definitely watched it happen in my own life.  Did Collin have the highest IQ on the stage?  Probably not.  But he certainly put in the hard work in his own free time which, when all things considered, rendered IQ scores irrelevant.

Our organization, intentionality, and logistical support affects our child’s outcome.  I am not outstanding in this area, but I am very conscious of it as a factor (does that count?).  Who makes the trips to the library, scouts the book lists for good reads, pulls out sewing patterns, or suggest a good recipe?  It's not going to be the child, I can assure you.  Knowing these competitions were on the calendar for the upcoming year, I set about in early June to printing Collin’s math practice exams, organizing his summer folder, arranging a “Study Zone” at a quiet desk, and questioning him regularly about his progress.  David supplied absolutely critical tutoring support by explaining how to solve tough questions and often times supplying two or three possible means of solutions for a single problem.  Collin was disciplined to complete the task, but we—the parents—set him up for success.

Whether deliberately or not, we build a culture of what we value in our home.  Kids pick up on all the cues.  I value literature, music, and art very highly, so you will find paintings on our walls, art books on the tables, Pandora often running on the classical station, and a very active bookshelf in our kitchen where books in progress, just finished, and to be read are lined up alongside our Bibles and several favorite Bible commentaries.  We also value an active lifestyle, so there are swim googles, road bikes, baseball equipment, basketballs, and all manner of sports paraphernalia in our home.  David uses math every day in his job, and the kids know that math is one of the brain tools Daddy relies upon to support our family.  You better believe they realize how important it is to learn and how we simply without question expect them to do so.  I have very fond memories of a four-year-old Collin perched at our breakfast bar, having an absolute blast going head-to-head with Madeleine (two years his senior) in speed round fast facts math sheets, often coming out the winner.  My guess is that if you visited the homes of the children who lined the stages with my kids, they would have a culture of math in their households as well.

There is only so much that can be achieved in a day.  It takes consistency, day in and day out, to see true progress.  There is no room for procrastination in parenting (believe me, I’ve tried).  We build into their character, discipline, behavior, and knowledge every day, little by little, balancing fun free time with focused learning time.  It’s brick upon carefully placed brick rather than a blow-up house you plug in for quick success when college admissions roll around.  And if one day, week, or even month is a big flop, I reassure myself that tomorrow will bring a new opportunity to try again.

So, that poor fella’s simple question in the school office led to this long train of thought and possibly triggered the most boring blog post ever placed on the web.  But I feel satisfied that I have at least part of the answer in hand, and hope one day my kids will come back to the RFPs when they are wondering just why their childhood played out the way it did.

Mother Bear For The Win

He won, HE WON!

Yes, Collin won 1st place at the regional math competition this morning.  Twenty-eight area schools, 500 kids in two grades, two hour-long tests, one combined individual score.

This pic says it all.  The math whizzes are looking nervously at their parents or the announcer while my son is amused by his kid brother picking his nose in the audience.  Really.

I had an out-of-body experience when they pared it down to 20 finalists on stage, then 19, and 18, then 17 and 16....then the final three....and then there was one.  I was tingly all over, the stuff dreams are made of kind of happy.  When a well-rounded boy who QBs his football team and happily helps pack lunches every morning and patiently throws pitch upon pitch to his little brother in the front yard comes out over the plethora of math-only, math-insane, math-obsessed nerds who show up at these events, well, you just gotta be plain old happy for a kid like that.

I cried a bunch today just thinking about it.

Because you know from this post that I've had to be a Mother Bear about his education.  I never expected it before I had kids, but now, on the other side, I realize that sometimes you have no choice but to fight for them.  You have to be tenacious.  You have to pipe up and be convincing and say your peace to try to make it better, challenge their hearts, play into their gifting, increase their preparation, and (most importantly) have unshakable faith that the end result will produce virtuous, thoughtful people who can make a difference in the lives of those around them.

I'm talking in abstract philosophies, so let me tell you a story instead.

When we saw the math problems we were having when Collin was in 1st grade, we had a conference first with his teacher, and then, not feeling anything might change, with the principal of our A+-rated school.

Sitting across the desk in her office, David calmly explained the situation: our son was intuitively good at math and for the moment still liked math, but if the school couldn't help us with a better math curriculum and/or challenge than what was being presented to him each day, then he would probably end up hating math.  We implored with her.  Please, give us anything to help us help him.  We aren't professional educators--you are.  Send the math home, we will work through it with him.

She looked at us like were were plumb crazy.  Like no parent had ever asked that of her before.

She calmly described their wonderful FCAT scores, how blue-ribboned their school had become, how stellar their gifted program was, and even refused our very simple request to at least switch teachers.

The more she went on, the angrier I felt.  Nearing the end, I lost it a little and blurted "I honestly don't care about your achievement scores.  I want you to go to bed at night and ask yourself:  Did Collin Roberts learn anything today?"

Uh oh, Mother Bear was roaring out of her cave, so David whisked me out of that place as fast as he could.

The next week, Collin switched to Christ Classical Academy, where they've allowed him to do math until his brain hurt and he's loved every minute of it.

But sometimes you gotta fight for your cubs.  So I cried a bucket today with sheer relief.  This moment in time almost didn't happen, and I knew it.  I cried with the vindication of a mother who stood up years ago at a time when it was painful, confusing, and costly.

And wouldn't you know it, God is so good.  Did He have a hand in that very principal sitting there today watching Collin on stage, as he edged out her school's students at 2nd and 3rd?  It's possible.

And I hope she goes to bed knowing Collin Roberts learned something today: exactly what it feels like to be not just good, but truly great, at something God has gifted you to do.

His mama learned a little something, too.

Who's Flying This Plane?

I'm looking out the plane window today and feeling a little unsteady.

Parenting will do that to you. 

I knew I was boarding a flight marked Destination: Mom.  I heard the hatch click on her birthday and the engines hum and felt the sensation of movement and the rush of force as we took off. 

Now, as she enters the middle school years, we've hit 30,000 feet and I'm finally looking out the window for the first time.

Holy altitude, Batman.  I'm high up here in the thick of it.  There's no getting off this here plane and it's a blistering long way down.

I'm a mom, but thankfully I have a mom.  She logged many a miles with me as her passenger, so with full street creds she sent me the following email* today about my middle schooler, who has shed tears as of late and struggles with feeling like a misfit toy.  Boy, do I remember those tortuous marvelous middle school years like they were yesterday.

I feel good about how Madeleine sees herself and the world around her. When she was three feet tall and was visiting in the summer here in Houston, I took her to the public library for story time. I had never been there and did not know that it would be crowded and you had to arrive early to get a seat.

When she and I walked in my heart sank because there was a mob of little children, moms around the wall and well, what to do about that? After they gave very tiny Madeleine a carpet square to sit on, she looked over the situation for about 30 seconds, did not talk to me and marched right up to the storyteller in the front of the room and set right under her.

The moms were looking at me like…you allowed her to cut in front of my child! I ignored the stares and listened to the story. This is a very short example from years ago but very “Madeleine”.
1.      Nobody is going to rain on my parade.
2.      I want to hear this story and you are not going to stop me.
3.      Who cares what they think, I care what I think.
4.      I have the power to change the situation if I have an idea to do so.

She is a leader and not a follower. She will lead in great and interesting ways in the future. Oh, I hope I live to see this.  God has given her so many gifts. She knows that but she will have to figure out how to use those gifts and be a happy person.

I still remember the pain of it all. We are in the basketball stadium at Robert E. Lee HS, you had tears running down your eyes because you were not elected or chosen for some thing that you wanted badly. (Hey Mom, it was drill team officer.) I kept saying to you, ‘it is not your time’. And, it was not.  (Truly an example of God's mercy. No more splits on the football field in white cowboy boots. Ahem.)

Who wants to really compare lives, but if we ever could see into the future, you and I would see that you would get into Vandy early admissions even though the counselor said that you would never go there. That you would love college, learn to waltz, do well, actually pass physics (excuse me, three courses in physics! Art history major here!), impress those who taught you at Vandy so much that they would invite you to teach in Paris?  That you would meet a prince, work at the Smithsonian, marry, have 5 small near-famous children....

Life is hard and once you realize that it is not so hard, you wonder....who said that?

Oh growing up!!!

You are a great mom and wonderful person to talk to.  Lucky Madeleine.  Love, Mom.

*Biased grandma alert.

I guess there's no way to know the rest of the story in advance for any of my kids. There are many chapters yet to be written. Looking back on my life, I can only say it was grace, grace, all God's grace.  I really didn't know what the heck I was doing.

Still don't.

But I can look to where He's brought me and know it most certainly wasn't of my own efforts, brilliance, life strategy, or---dare I say it---the parenting I received during the middle school years. Whew, that's a relief.

Someone else is flying this plane, and I'm gonna have to look to Him for a steady landing.

If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, 

who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you. 

James 1:5

Lead me in your truth and teach me, for you are the God of my salvation; for you I wait all the day long. Remember your mercy, O Lord, and your steadfast love, for they have been from of old. Remember not the sins of my youth or my transgressions; according to your steadfast love remember me, for the sake of your goodness, O Lord!

Psalm 25:5-9

The Grumpy Train

Every single year around this time I get the blues.  Is it because Christmas is post-mortem and the effort of it wipes me out?  Is it the "back to the grind" feeling of doing the plain hard work of everyday life without the sparkle of white lights? 

Well paint me blue and call me a CareBear!

Case in point:

We went to a newly forming Bible study last night, billed for "couples raising children."  It was an info sort of thing, so they had a few more mature couples share about their marriage.  One very kind, wise, and experienced woman spoke about how she and her spouse work out their differences: for instance, on vacation he likes to read but she likes to shop and explore, so they do these things independently then meet up in the evenings for dinner and entertainment.

Since this is my blog, and not a polished marketing piece for perfect living, I will confess that all I could do was sit there in a fog, chin resting on palm, bleary eyes almost watering from the exhaustion of preparing five kids a healthy dinner, having them rush to finish homework before we left and lay out clothes for school tomorrow and put the dog in the kennel and turn on the alarm and drive over and check each of them into the childcare all by the 5pm start time to the Bible study, only to find it was across the street so we walked in late.  To go to that effort, and feel so wiped out, and to hear about a vacation scenario that will not happen for me for eighteen years was pretty depressing. 

In my head I pleaded: give me some practical info that I can use, or inspire me to keep focusing on marriage in the whirl of parenthood, or something helpful to justify the effort that went into simply being in attendance right now. 


I am SO getting this on the upcoming Disney trip.

So that pretty much illustrates my state of mind. Those married folks are so well-meaning and the fault lies only in how I received their words.  But what can I say?  I've had a headache for five days straight, my pants are too tight, I've put away the toys about a dozen times already today, the just-mopped floor was doused with Gatorade, the car needs servicing across town, the 100 days of school project isn't finished, and all those resolutions like closet cleaning are looming.  I look at the iced tea pitcher on the counter and think that if I don't put it away for the millionth time, then it will sit there and grow dusty because no one else will ever make a move to put it in the refrigerator. (I know I sound ridiculous. No use looking for logic when logic has left the building.)

Of course, God knew this funk was coming on because last week, while squeezing in some reading of a Tim Keller book David gave me for Christmas, I not-by-coincidence stumbled upon this most excellent quote by C.S. Lewis:

Hell begins with a grumbling mood, always complaining, always blaming others... but you are still distinct from it. You may even criticize it in yourself and wish you could stop it. But there may come a day when you can no longer. Then there will be no you left to criticize the mood or even to enjoy it, but just the grumble itself, going on forever like a machine. It is not a question of God "sending us" to hell. In each of us there is something growing, which will BE hell unless it is nipped in the bud. 

Just the grumble itself, going on forever like a machine. 

Ouch. That hurts.

Maybe it hurts just enough to pull myself together, make a hot cup of coffee, put away the negativity, and turn the grumpy train around.

Churchy Thoughts: Beyond Sunday Morning Sermons

Lately--make that for almost 10 years--I have been visiting and revisiting the matter of church in my mind.  I will say straightaway that (a.) I am a lifelong Methodist and (b.) I am no theologian nor have I hashed through third, fourth, and fifth level doctrinal issues and (c.) I believe that going to church on Sunday is very important beyond what is said from the pulpit. 

Moreover, I continue to independently seek truth through reading the Scriptures firsthand, but there is no practical way to discard years of pastoral input and have a fresh and truly uninfluenced opinion.  In my naiveté , I used to think things came down to two camps: Christians and Non-Christians.  Now I realize that folks are a-campin' out every which way- Fundamentalists, Prosperity Gospel, Evangelicals, Post-Evangelicals, Charismatics, Relevants, Reconstructionists, Revisionists.....need I go on? 



I grew up and married in this beautiful Methodist church, built in 1890.

It's a lot for me to wrap my mind around.

Sometimes, I gotta go back and simplify it all.  I know the Gospel.  I believe that Jesus Christ is the son of God who died for my sins.  I am well aware of my brokenness and my need for a Savior.  I believe that I am saved by grace through faith. I read my Bible, go to church each week, discuss God with my kids every single day. 

But when I attend the service on Sunday morning, it sometimes feels limiting.  I hunger to be fed.  This doesn't always happen through the particular pastor preaching that day and/or through my chosen worship setting (traditional, contemporary, blended, what should I pick off the church menu?)  Sometimes I am distracted (my emergency nursery number flashes on the sanctuary screen), sometimes I am exhausted (getting five children into dress clothes, plus me), sometimes we are super late (see prior parenthesis), sometimes the message is esoteric or the preacher's just not feelin' it or, most often, my heart is not focused and ready to listen as 9:30am rolls around.

But, goodness gracious, I could use a Word.  God knows how badly.

Thankfully, the use of modern technology is completely changing how I view "church."  I currently have three church apps loaded on my phone--one from Montana (Levi Lusko/Fresh Life), one from Texas (Matt Chandler/Village Church), and one from North Carolina (Steven Furtick/Elevation).  (And lest you think by this list that I've given over completely to the young, funky crowd, I also enjoy Tim Keller, Andy Stanley, and Bill Hybels, just not on an app yet.)  I regularly listen to sermons from these particular pastors when I'm driving around town, taking a morning run, folding laundry.  And it has been just what I needed, meeting me right where I am, when I can pay the fullest attention, digest what is said, reflect on how it applies to my life, replay it in the really good parts, and pause it to change a diaper or two.

I am not a unilateral fan of technology, but access to sermons outside of the Sunday morning routine and perspectives from pastors well beyond Tallahassee have been a game changer for me.  And not one of them are Methodist, I should note.  And that's okay with me, because this decade of questioning church has led me to a few basic observations:

1) The most religiously wise sects of Jesus's day, those who knew Judaism inside and out, missed the very person that scripture prophesized over and over would come, so their intricate knowledge of doctrine and laws by their "denominations" did not keep them from being blind to the Most Important Thing, and

2)  When Jesus was talking with Peter, who he was hand-picking at that moment to found the future church, he didn't give a long interview with nitpicky questions like "Peter, do you believe in infant baptism? Do you agree with predestination?  Okay, what are your thoughts on celibacy, birth control, and divorce?  Was the world was created in 6 literal or figurative days?" 

No, he simply asked one thing: "Do you love me?" (John 21)

So I'm embracing the fact that God can and will use a wide variety of wise, well-respected preachers who he has anointed to teach in order to feed me along this spiritual journey.  And this crazy busy, sometimes distracted, often tired yet well-intentioned wife, mom, and Methodist is thankful.


Do you regularly use a church app that you can recommend? Leave a comment and I'll be sure to check it out.

Staying off the Mickey Mouse Golf Cart of Shame

Big Mama's gonna run another race.  A Disney half-marathon to be exact.  In approximately two months.  


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.