Things are beginning to bloom and buzz again at our family nature journal, Blossoms and Bees. Michael and Stephen designed a new look and Mary Beth posted some of her bluebell pictures. Here's hoping that by tomorrow we'll actually have some tulip blossoms! It will be spring in Virginia; I just know it will. And we're looking forward to capturing it at Blossoms and Bees.
Monday began as a quite ordinary day. My friend Megan dropped her children at school and then came to my house for tea. Within moments of her arrival came the news that schools were closing early. The winds were howling and the weather was menacing. It was too dangerous to keep the children in school.
Megan stayed for a little bit, let her Katie play with my Katie, and then set about to retrieve her other children. Just as she was leaving, the power went out. The winds whipped louder and the house grew darker. I hustled my brood upstairs and tried to shift gears to an academic program that didn't include the computer or the copier. My little guy for whom a digital clock in every room is security grew restless and agitated. His day was listing out of his perceived control. My sense of panic rose.
This was odd. I love weather. I love storms. I even like power outages. It stirs in me a Laura Ingalls spirit. But not on this day. On this day, I was beginning to tremble. And I couldn't explain why. It was just the wind. A fierce, fifty-mile-per-hour wind, to be sure, but a just a wind nevertheless. It felt like the breath of evil.
The phone rang. My husband calling from the newsroom. I felt the panic in my throat now, as I recognized that voice--the one he uses when he tries to sound calm during a tragedy.
"Everything okay, there?"
"We're fine. No power, but all the trees are still standing. We've lost some siding. Stephen's practice has already been canceled." My heart was pounding. Just get to the tragedy part.
"Honey, there was a gunman on campus at Tech. Thirty-two people died."
An evil wind.
He continued on for a moment or two. Something about the basketball team and the football team being accounted for. My mind raced. My eldest child stood a few feet from me. The last time he was in Blacksburg, it was a day like this one--wind blowing, rain and snow coming at him sideways, gray and dreary as the massive stone buildings. He was there for a recruiting tournament. There to decide whether to live there as a student. There with his friends and companions--all bright-eyed kids on the way to a future.
This was not Columbine, as horrible as that day was. This wind was howling fiercely in my ears. This is was much, much closer to home. And not just because we have friends there. Not just because we have neighbors there. Not just because both the gunman and some of his victims went to school here, in our immediate area, before they left for a college adventure there. No, this was different because, since Columbine there have been the Beltway snipers, the police sniper (a stone's throw from the high school where this shooter went to school), and the Amish tragedy, among other school shootings and senseless acts of violence. This time, I didn't react the way I did that time. This time I knew that evil lives and it's not abstract and it's not distant.
This time, I am older. My children are older. That time, I circled them into my arms and I had a sense (false though it might be) that I could keep them safe. I didn't send them to school. I could protect them. This time, I watched helplessly as my son text-messaged his friends in Blacksburg, counting each and every one. This time, I tried to reassure my twelve-year-old that it was all far, far away. But he and I both knew that my words rung hollow. The wind howled here.
The power returned briefly at dinnertime. My husband came home and we tried to walk through the normal evening routine. We reset the clocks and reassured Nicholas that time was just as it always had been. We settled the children into bed. I fell asleep nursing my baby. Just before midnight I was awakened by the wind. The power was out again. I felt horribly sick. I was horribly sick. As I helped children to the bathroom in the pitch black night, I was overcome by the hugeness of my house (and my house is not huge). I couldn't protect them all at the same time. Michael's room in the basement felt so far away. I was too ill to get up and go check on him, but I was overcome with the feeling of growing and present danger.I wanted to gather my babies into my arms. But I couldn't.
And that wind. That wind menaced just outside our windows. That wind screeched relentlessly, sounding like a band of demons circling our home, our town, the commonwealth where our families grow.
All night long I listened. All night long I prayed.
Dear Lord, eternal rest grant unto them... And please, please Jesus, comfort the grieving mothers.
I think that in His gracious Providence God made spring to follow winter--a beautiful, magnanimous gift. This year, winter came late and lingered. Perhaps that's why I'm hearing so much about burnout. In our discussion of ways to prevent and cure burnout, much must be said of the cure provided by the Divine Doctor: nature.
I'm talking about nature study, in the traditional Charlotte Mason sense, but I'm also talking about Mountain Days and even entire semesters devoted to being outdoors and 
restoring one's soul. To cure burnout--better yet, to prevent burnout--it's time to go outside.
Every spring for the last six years, my family has hiked about half a mile in on a muddy trail to the banks of Cub Run. There, we are treated to the splendor of Virginia Bluebells. This year, just as the blooms were promising us our winter reprieve, we had fierce, biting cold. I fretted over those precious wildflowers. I think , really, that I was worried I'd forever be stuck in the winter routine. Without the bluebells, could we break free of the boring and embrace again the joy 
of real learning? I didn't want to take the chance. On Friday, we pulled on our winter coats and went to see if there was any chance that it would indeed be spring this year.
When we arrived, I thought for a moment or two that we would not be warm enough, but as we made our way down the trail, we all warmed--to the idea of being in this very special place, to the idea that no matter how dreary the winter had 
become, it would indeed be spring again. And as our heartbeats naturally quickened, our pace picked up as well. There were the fairy spuds, dainty and white flowers that herald the arrival of the more glorious bluebells. They always make me think of Lissa, because they beg to be in one of her novels, if only because of their name.
When we approached the long planked walk that is the well-known end of the trail, Stephen could barely contain himself. He broke into an all-out run.
"They're here! They did bloom! They ARE here!" Indeed they were. In all their splendor. God's Easter gift to one tired mom who was ever so glad to know that school is not a place. It's not even a place in my house. No, "homeschool" doesn't cover it at all. "Home education" doesn't even cover it. What we're doing here is throwing open our arms to all of God's glorious goodness and sharing in it--day in and day out--with our children. It's all good. I count it all joy!
Thank you. That was really very kind of you; I'm blessed to be in your company.
Nicholas: I'm not good at layups.
Me: I'm not good at layups, either. We'll have to practice together. Then, we'll get better.
Nicholas: No, that won't work. You're old. You can't get better. You're a mom. Moms aren't as good as dads...And dads aren't as good as they were in college.
Well, that settles it. I'm up at dawn to practice layups. Old, indeed.
I'm Elizabeth. I'm a happy wife and the mother of nine children. I grab grace with both hands and write to encourage myself and others to seize and nurture the joy of every day. I blog here with my daughter, Mary Beth, a wholehearted young lady on the brink of adulthood.
Like what you see here? Support this space by treating yourself to some of these good things.
Powered by Squarespace.
