I’ve been a bit missing in action for the last month or two, and for those of you who haven’t guessed, it’s all due to a bit of a recent career shift. From here on out, if my posts start to sounding to you like those of a kindergarten teacher, you will be correct. It’s an exciting new chapter for us, but a busy one, with lots of adjustments to new schedules and more time spent researching literature and art projects for unit studies than composing blog posts. I hope to get back to posting more often eventually, but we’ll see!
Of course, I’ve always been my child’s teacher; that comes with the territory of parenting, as it does for every mother. Who else will teach her how tie her shoes or to look both ways before crossing the road? But choosing to be the one who also teaches her I-before-E-except-after-C (except for in a few odd cases, as I’ve been reminded!) and why mushrooms grow on trees, to take the full weight of responsibility for what the world calls her formal education, is another realm altogether.
It makes sense: who else in the whole world cares more about her success than I do?
It’s exciting: learning is an adventure I’ve always loved, and I can hardly wait to take her along to all manner of new and thrilling places.
It’s serious business: it will be my fault if some vital branch of learning isn’t covered.
That’s why my husband and I agreed that a few days retreat was in order for the teacher before this all officially commenced. A working retreat, in which to lay out lesson plans and familiarize myself with workbooks, yes, but also to recharge myself for the important task ahead.
And the first thing I did along that order? Take a hike.
I sensed, going into the retreat, that my ideas were good but jumbled. If you know anything about the world of home education, you know that the amount of resources available are both incredible and rather overwhelming. I needed some vision to narrow my focus down from all those fabulous options to what would work best for us—and I always think most clearly while walking. And if the walk winds through sun-dappled woodlands around the edge of a sparkling blue lake? If there’s not a sound to be heard but the crunching of leaves beneath your feet and the wind in the oak tree tops? All the better.
I took a book along, and on a short break, sitting in the warm grass with my back against a sturdy oak, I read these inspiring lines:
“Little by little,” an acorn said,
As it slowly sank in its mossy bed,
“I am improving every day,
Hidden deep in the earth away.”
Little by little, each day it grew;
Little by little, it sipped the dew;
Downward it sent out a thread-like root;
Up in the air sprung a tiny shoot.
Day after day, and year after year,
Little by little the leaves appear;
And the slender branches spread far and wide,
Till the mighty oak is the forest’s pride.
“Little by little,” said a thoughtful boy,
“Moment by moment, I’ll well employ,
Learning a little every day,
And not spending all my time in play.
And still this rule in my mind shall dwell,
Whatever I do, I will do it well.
“Little by little, I’ll learn to know
The treasured wisdom of long ago;
And one of these days, perhaps, we’ll see
That the world will be the better for me”;
And do you not think that this simple plan
Made him a wise and useful man?”—Author Unknown
The acorns rolled under my feet as I hiked on, and the seed of vision had been planted that I was looking for. Jumbled ideas melded into a plan in my head, and far-sighted goals broke down into the steps A, B and C that would get us there.
It was in honor of the role this poem played in my lesson planning process, that “A is for Acorn” was chosen as the topic of study for our very first week of school. For my students, it would look like nature hikes to identify oak trees, and making leaf rubbings, and listening to delightful stories about squirrels who love acorns. We would find out what acorns tasted like and learn about famous oaks of long ago.
But for I, the teacher, it would be an inspiring reminder that the great task I was beginning would be accomplished just like that of a humble acorn becoming a mighty tree: little by little. Letter by letter, number by number, line by line, book by book, concept building on concept, my young students would put down foundational roots, reach for the sky, and grow strong and mighty into a wealth of skill, wisdom and knowledge. And for what? The goal of the poem seems quite adequate to me, that the world will be a better place for having them in it.
“Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it.” (Proverbs 22:6)
Did you know?
…that multiple people groups consider acorns a delicacy (Korean, Greek, Native American)?
…that acorns have frequently been used as a substitute for coffee?
…that the name of the nut is derived from the Gothic word akran, which means “fruit of the unenclosed land”?
…that one of the greatest visionary statements of the Old Testament was made beneath an oak tree? Read about it in Joshua 24.
“Choose for yourselves this day whom you will serve…but as for me and my house, we will serve the LORD!” (Joshua 24:15)
…my camera gave to me,
It was the fifth place I’d stopped.
A scoffer might call it a coincidence, but I know it wasn’t. I labor under no delusion that just because I tell God something I want, He’ll snap His fingers and make it appear—but I also know that He can, and sometimes will. I also know that I have never chosen to acknowledge God’s power and control, while admitting my inadequacy, without finding Him sufficient to provide the very best. Sometimes His answer to our problems is different than the solution we visualized in our mind. Sometimes, it’s exactly what we were hoping for—and more.
I don’t know if anyone else within five lonely forest miles heard me yelling my excitement and thanks, but I know He did—and I hope it made Him smile.
If you walk out into the middle of the woods and stand very still for a while, a very delightful thing will happen.
You’ll note a tiny clump of British soldier lichen clinging to the edge of a mossy stump that would have only registered “green” in hurried passing.
You’ll tip your head up and see the beginning of the swelling red of the maple buds overhead, fanned against the sky.
You’ll notice the delicate lacy veins of last year’s leaves, splendidly illuminated in the morning sunlight, and also the way a certain flap of simple birch bark is catching the sun just right to make it glow.
Your eyes will follow the slant of a fallen log down to a hole and, well, look! The very culprit of the rustling himself appears.
There is no shortcut to the gifts that come from being still, but they are always incredibly, beautifully worth it. And, incidentally? The same is said for the soul and the best gift one could ever ask for.
In the golden light just before sunset, the baby leaves and buds are like haloed clouds resting across the branch tops. 
A little closer, and they are like green and gold lace and perfectly strung strings of 
Up close, there is a tiny world of intricate unfolding beauty to discover.
Step 1: Bathe everything in a very generous amount of warm sunshine.
Step 2: Wait for an awful lot of all this to melt. Allow it to soak in thoroughly.
Step 3: Enjoy the results, springing up from the sun-soaked, well-watered, nitrogen-infused happy earth.
Since the leaves are mostly fallen now, I sat down the other day and sorted through all the autumn pictures I’d taken this year. As I did so, I found it interesting to note the varied locations they were photographed in. One was from our backyard, another across the front yard. Some were along familiar trails, others along never-before-hiked trails. Several were taken deep in the heart of the Chippewa National Forest.
…
Where do you look when you are hiking through the autumn forest?
Do you look straight ahead, at the path winding mysteriously out of sight and beckoning you on? At the receding layers of craggy barked tree trunks marching along its edges, with the occasional surprise mushroom accessory? Or at the jaunty straw hat and satisfyingly fall-ish plaid shirt of a walking companion ahead?
Or do you look down? Down at the dainty trailing vines between the tufts of orange pine needles, and the tidily capped wee mushrooms springing whimsically up along the damp mosses of aging stumps? At the calico of autumn leaves softly layering over the creeping cedar and wintergreen?
While I was hiking with relatives recently, we talked about this, and discovered that our answers differed. Some in our hiking party were more inclined toward one than the other, therefore each bringing their own unique perspective to the commentary that enlivened our exploration of the forest.
The Bible calls these things gifts, and they are. Sometimes, though, I think we can lose sight of this in the nitty-gritty of real life. It can be easy, for instance, to get annoyed with that other person who is always worried about mowing the grass (looking at mushrooms) when you’d rather be discussing the accuracy of the latest Bible translation (looking down the path)—or vice versa. However the fact is that each perspective is valuable and needed, and they’re all meant to weave together in harmonious balance, not at odds with each other.
“Just as each of us has one body with many members, and not all members have the same function, so in Christ we who are many are one body, and each member belongs to one another.
It took six hours of driving to get there.
The bad news, however, is that when we arrived at the much-anticipated first scenic viewpoint, all we could see was white.
Because sometimes, you just need to go higher and then everything becomes clear.
It wasn’t a strong or stormy wind. It was a soft, pleasant spring breeze, just stiff enough to ruffle the tops of the big pines we were walking through and cause them to whisper mysteriously together. It rose and fell with drama up above us, compelling enough to get our attention, but not enough to so much as sway the massive trunks rising around us. Sometimes, in the moments between the squeals of little girls discovering spring blossoms along the forest floor and the chattering of squirrels indignant at our intrusion on their private retreat, we’d stop to just listen to it.
There was a kind of music to it, the kind that made me want to lay right down on that thick, soft carpet of pine needles and soak it in while I stared up the towering pillars of tree trunks to the bits of blue sky like a mosaic of stained glass above. Then, as we neared a swamp hollow, the fluted tones of spring peepers harmonized as only nature can, and I had flashbacks to a beautiful wind concert I attended once, performed by talented musicians under the soaring ceilings of a grand lobby. But, I thought to myself, could a wind concert be performed in any grander a place than this remote and silent cathedral of a forest, by the actual wind itself?
At that moment, it was hard to believe not. And if you listened closely enough, you could almost hear the words…
Rejoicing Hills 