Education Decision 1-2-3, A Guest Post by Jenn Lebow

Aside

This is a post in a series, Jesus At the Blackboard, a place to come and share our stories about educational choices in order to broaden the conversation without making parents feel bad about themselves. You can find all of the posts in this series here.

Jenn Lebow is one of the reasons that I love the internet. Her Mercy Mondays link up was how I got to know her, and frankly her thoughtful posts really challenged me as a writer, and the other links REALLY challenged me as a Jesus Lover. When it comes to education, been there done that could totally be her model and I really enjoy her thoughtful honesty here.

Education Decision 1-2-3

I grew up in two cities in Texas – Fort Worth and College Station – and attended public school from kindergarten through my senior year in high school.  (Though I must confess that as a kindergartener, my school was in Ann Arbor, Michigan, while my father spent a year on a journalism fellowship. My parents hustled me back home to Texas when they heard me calling the eating utensil a “faaark” instead of a “foe-work.” Because a Texan worth her salt knows how to add a syllable to any given word and still make it sound good.)
As the product of a public school education, I assumed I’d send my children to public schools, too. In fact, sending children to private schools seemed wasteful and foolish to me as a child. I remember feeling sorry for parents who didn’t realize that perfectly good schools existed, right in their neighborhoodfor FREE! My parents didn’t express that opinion around me; I don’t remember whether they had a strong opinion about private schools. They did, however, volunteer at the schools I attended, so their interest and involvement in my education remained strong.
One indication of the importance of education at my house: I was in eighth grade, 13 years old, before I realized that going to college was optional. Our teacher asked if we had an interest in going to college, and if so, where we wanted to go. I looked around the room in confusion. “IfIf we wanted to go to college?”
It’s fair to say I was a little naïve, not to mention that I sometimes formed assumptions about the “right” course of educational action without having all the facts.
As I look back on my children’s educational paths so far, I remember public schools in Texas, private American schools in foreign countries, private French schools in foreign countries, a private Christian school in America, one year of homeschooling, a private French school in America, and a public school in Virginia. Pretty much the only things we haven’t done so far are boarding school, military school, and unschooling.
Although the year of homeschooling swerved dangerously close to unschooling several times, if we’re being honest. Let’s just say I am not cut out to be a homeschooler. I’m far too prone to call a “stay in your pajamas and read any book you want” day. Or week.
From all of these experiences, I’ve identified three factors that most affect my children’s success in school. Working from least effecting to most, they are:
3. School’s approach to learning: Interestingly, Einstein and Blossom, as different as they are, both responded best to a “one size fits all” approach. Instead of the teacher letting students work at their own pace or in smaller groups according to academic level, Einstein and Blossom do their best work in classes that expect everyone to work through the curriculum together, even when (or maybe at their best when) the teacher set higher standards than they found comfortable. Cartwheel liked staying in the middle of the pack, too. None of the three of them excelled when self-paced study ruled the classroom. Cartwheel struggled not to fall behind everyone else’s pace. Einstein raced through work, only to find himself bored waiting for others to catch up. Blossom felt lonely without friends working alongside her, and lost her motivation. Small groups didn’t work well, either. No one wants to be in the slower group, some get a bit too much ego from being in the faster group, and some find talking to their friends too great a temptation. (For the record, I’m not naming names when it comes to these effects, and some of my kiddos fit into more than one of the aforementioned statements.)
2. Class size: As homeschoolers in an official class of two students at two different levels, plus a baby-sized mascot, Einstein and Blossom agreed that our class size was too small. Einstein has also been in a class of four, which even for an introvert was too small. Blossom has nightmares when she even thinks of that size class: “Mommy, how would I go on without at least ten friends???” On the other end of the spectrum, all three kids reported feeling lost or unnoticed in classes of 25 or more. I don’t blame teachers for class size, nor for having limited time for each student when more than 25 kids sit in one classroom. I understand also that without more money, schools can’t feasibly form smaller classes in most school districts. However, when we talk about quality of education, my kiddos have most enjoyed classes of 13-20 students, in which a sufficient number of friend options exists, but the variety does not overwhelm. In which academic competitiveness flourishes, but small groups remain mostly unnecessary. In which teachers feel pulled in only four million directions instead of forty million, God love ’em.
And speaking of teachers….
1. Teacher attitude and ability: Hands down, without question, my shy kid, my brainy kid, and my gregarious kid responded most to the attitudes their teachers projected in class. From the kindly British teacher who reminded his students of the importance of “not being a jerk,” to the strict French teacher whose frowns motivated her class to improve and receive her sunny, approving smile, the most progress came when our kids’ caring teachers took the time to gauge the reaction of the students. Our hardest difficulties occurred when teachers turned their classrooms into popularity contests or tried to eliminate all traces of humor and personality from their lesson plans.
In short, what we’ve learned about education from our smorgasbord of schools so far is that every type of education offers some advantages and some disadvantages. No one system is right for every family, every student. No one system exclusively embodies academic virtue. If we’ve picked up one overarching lesson, both from school and life so far, it is that each family should do what works best for the people in that family, and should offer empathetic support to families who choose differently. Everyone aims for success; thankfully, each of us achieves it when we steer toward our strengths and abilities, whatever academic route we choose to get there.

Falling and Faith

I was twelve and headed into middle school. We were in the middle of the Appalachian mountains, at a Bible college in West Virginia. Rock climbing, rappelling, rafting for Jesus. I was in the middle of a log slung between two trees and the best way for me to get down, was to fall. Cross my arms over my chest, and tip my body backward. Trust that the rope was going to catch me. Racking sobs followed a very brave tipping backward. You have to trust that the rope is going to do what it is there for. You have to have faith in the rope. Then: Fall.

They don’t tell you, in the devotional around the camp fire when you recount your heroing tail, that in life you don’t get to choose when your falling. You don’t always get to steady yourself and take a deep breath before you pitch yourself over the edge. Sometimes you get pushed, sometimes the platform you were expecting is pulled from under you, sometimes you look around and realize you have been falling for a while. There isn’t always, before that fall, the chance to take a breath and decide that you do trust the rope, that there is faith that the rope will catch you.

But it isn’t in the fall or even the moment before the fall that you decide to put your faith in that rope. It is the moment, on the ground, before the adventure begins, when you hitch your harness to the rope and tell your guide you are ready. That is the moment you have chosen what you trust in when you fall.

I am linking up with Lisa-Jo Baker’s Five Minute Friday. Check it out!

On Marking Time

I walked into the house with my sister already in the shower, pounding her feet on the floor and moaning a little bit. She had alerted me to the fact that her contractions were starting around 11. By the time I got there after school we needed another coping mechanism. So I did what worked for me, what worked for my friend earlier that month. We counted. Starting at one we counted until the contractions were over. 2…3…4…5… sometimes we made it until 60, sometimes to 100 only to start over until the wave of pain was over. We counted from 5 when I got there to after midnight when it was time to push.

It is tiring to stand next to someone and help them birth a baby, remind them that their pain is temporary and normal. It is draining to stand next to someone and hold their concentration with yours. But it is totally worth it, to get to be there to witness the very first glimpses of a life.

I was visibly tired at church on Sunday. I’ve been carrying my friend’s burden. I didn’t know I could have community, real community with people I have not yet met. But this woman who I love, she was promised joy and it was replaced with sorrow. More waiting, more hoping, more not yet. Again. My husband asks me what is wrong and we talk about how messy this world can be, how someones yes is so often the bitter no to another, how hard it is to sit in the ashes and wait for the beauty to grow into it, how I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else right now. I love her, even if it is hard, it is a privilege to help hoist this burden even for a moment, across the country, over the internet.

Marking the time with someone, letting them know you are there. We don’t know how long it will last, but we are keeping track for you. Somehow the counting makes you feel less abandoned in the pain, it lets you ride from on top of the crest, and not underneath. It still hurts, maybe even as much, but it helps somehow to mark the pain, count the moments.

I was in a wedding this last weekend. There were bells and flower girls who behaved beautifully, and ring bearers who were just ornery enough to evoke an audible awwww from the guests. There were 5 other bridesmaids holding a beaded beauty high enough that the bride could step in and let the dress float down around her.

That dress, it held a story of its own. It was bought while planning a wedding six years prior, and after the ring was returned and the tears had dried, the bride told me she may not have found the man, but she knew she had found the dress. 22-year-old bodies and 28-year-old bodies are simply not the same. Even if the numbers on the scale were the same, the zipper wouldn’t budge, so a master seamstress doubling as a good friends mother put in a series of ribbon woven into the back and around the last button, and the dress was more beautiful than before. New panel, new story, a little more complicated, completely breath-taking.

We marked a lot of time in those six years, a major move and two babies for me, a trip to Hawaii, a summer in NYC, and a graduate degree for her, six schools between us. Countless cell phone minutes on our separate commutes, a hundred times I told her I would call her back and didn’t, answering my phone with a crap I am so sorry. But I did answer the text, “how soon is too soon to get engaged,” it seems fitting that I was literally in labor with my second.

I was not the only one to have marked time with this friend. She gives herself easily, and many had been rooting for this happiness for a very long time, counting the days with her. As they danced their first dance I looked around the room to see people who were overjoyed to be able to celebrate the first glimpses of their new life together.

I want to wrap this up in a neat and perfect bow. To promise to count with my friend until that joyful bundle finally arrives in her arms, to pledge to answer my phone when my single friend calls, to mark the days with her as our other friends change their facebook statuses to “engaged.” But isn’t that the scariest thing about these hopes and dreams we have? What if it never comes?It is so hard sometimes to believe in the ressurection in our own lives.

I no longer have the answer for those questions. I have learned the hard way to stop talking so much. You feel a wave of pain coming, just keep breathing. 1….2…3…4…If we get to 100 we will start again, and I will consider it a privilege to bear witness to it all.

Hold’ja Momma

I call her my naughty monkey. Not yet two, she likes to tell you what she is not supposed to do moments before she does it. “No hit mama” is quickly followed with a whack to my head when I am trying to lay down with her so she will go to sleep. She has monkeys on her ‘jamas and I rub her back as I hold her ribs because she is tired and can’t seem to sleep, even when her eyes are so heavy they remained closed. Her little heart beats in my hands as her crying stops, but only so long as my hand is rubbing circles in her back. Even as I am exhausted by the bending over the bed, I recognize this is as a privilege.

Hold ‘ja momma, hold ‘ja. She holds her hands up to me multiple times a day. Sometimes she cries it while I am already holding her. Hold ‘ja momma. She wants to be held a little higher, a little tighter, a little closer. I don’t think my arms will stop hurting until I go back to school. There are days when I need and take a break. But she is the closest I have to a baby at my house. Come here baby. I’ll hold ‘ja.

I pooped! Dipey change. She waits for me to gather the necessary supplies before taking off around the circle of our house. Pat, pat, pat, pat, pat, EEEeeeEEE! I tickle her and tackle her and up she goes again, Nakey Buns! hehehehehehehe. Who knew diaper changes could be this much fun? Who knew they could be this exhausting. I am generally doing something else when the race through the house begins.

I am busy when she brings me the mask. Chicken! chicken! (It’s a duck.) I keep trying to put it on her but that isn’t how this game works. Her dad has been donning the masks himself and chasing the girls around the house as he makes the animal noises and they scream in delight. I keep trying to ignore her, but she persists, putting the mask on my keyboard, chicken mama, chicken! Sigh….Quack, quack, quack, AAAAAaaaah! What’s one more trip around the circle?

I am trying something new and linking up with Heather for Just Write. I needed this excercise today.

Choose Wisely: A guest post by Lisa Bartelt

This is a post in a series, Jesus At the Blackboard, a place to come and share our stories about educational choices in order to broaden the conversation without making parents feel bad about themselves. You can find all of the posts in this series here.

How much do I love this post by Lisa Bartelt? It is so honest and so, so true. It captures the way we have this discussion and they way we need to be having it. I am so excited about sharing it with you!

Jesus at the blackboard: choose wisely

There’s a scene toward the end of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade where the ancient guardian of the Holy Grail advises the greedy Nazis and the archaeologist/adventurer to “choose wisely” when picking from a room full of possible cups.

In a way, deciding the education path for our kids has been like that scene: one wrong choice and we’re doomed.

Before we had kids, the “holy grail” of education was homeschooling. We had friends who did it and loved it and made it sound so appealing, and my husband and I were sold: We would home-school our children, if and when we had them.

Then, our daughter was born. And her social needs outpace my capacity to meet them, and I found myself quickly abandoning any notion of homeschooling. Then another child came along, our son, and I couldn’t imagine trying to teach my kids and care for a house and be a writer. (And I’m still in awe of women who do all of these things!)

Now our daughter is five and starting kindergarten in the fall. And school choice is no longer hypothetical but an actual decision that has to be made.

Some time ago, we decided that public school was the way to go. My husband and I both attended public school (I’m not sure either set of parents had much choice in those days) so it’s a place that’s familiar to us. What sealed the decision for us was the built-in community nature of public school. We moved our family 800 miles from our hometown so my husband could attend seminary, and now that he’s graduated and we’re about to move again, we need a place that will offer us a way to connect with people.

Public school provides that opportunity. And our daughter will thrive being with other kids and a teacher all day. At least that’s our hope.

Even with the public vs. private vs. homeschool decision behind us, choosing where to move based on the schools has been another weighty decision. We’re moving to a city where the schools have a bad reputation because of poverty and ethnic diversity (I think) but rent is low, and where the rural schools are better overall but rent is higher. I’ve dismissed the city schools as not good enough for my daughter because I’m afraid she won’t be challenged the way she needs to be.

But God has been softening that stance, forcing me to face the sources of my fear. That she won’t be safe. That I’ll be counted among the poor and marginalized. That she’ll act out if she’s not challenged enough.

Choose wisely.

I’ve been making school choice a life-or-death decision, as if where we send our daughter to kindergarten will shape the rest of her life. As if God can’t—or won’t—meet her in the classroom, wherever it is and meet me where I’m at in my fear.

The choice, then, isn’t about where we send her to school or what type of school it is. The choice is whether I’ll trust God to be God wherever that school is.

Like Indiana Jones finds out, the wisest choice might surprise me yet.