Entryways of Christ
Below is a compilation of journal entries I wrote just before the Covid-19 shut-downs in March of 2020. We had pulled our twins out of public school in November of 2019 and between November and March I had been waking in the middle of the night with memories and spiritual impressions flooding my mind. As these impressions came, I would write them down and eventually I had over 20 pages of writings. With all these pages in hand, I called my sister to try to help me sort through my thoughts and she encouraged me to re-write everything in an episodic timeline. As I compiled my memories, I discovered there was a beautiful spiritual pattern where I had always felt the Spirit speak to me at different parts of my life - He came in doorways and entryways of homes, schools, and hospitals. What an incredible testament of his love! I learned one of the most valuable spiritual lessons I’ve ever had that day: the Lord continues to teach us through the same literary patterns He uses to teach us through the scriptures - through stories, motifs, symbolism, metaphors, and similes.
As schools began to shut down across the world I reflected back on my middle of the night impressions and realized the Lord had been preparing me to lead and keep our family safe. I compiled these thoughts the first week of March and just a few days later on March 12, 2020 our local school shut down. I’ll never forget that feeling - the feeling of total security while the rest of the world was in chaos. And, as the months after continued to be chaotic, especially on the topic of education, we never felt any confusion or worry - we never doubted what the Lord wanted for us.
It is on this spiritual foundation we built our homeschool.
October 2019
It is dark. I am working on the computer. Emily, my six-year-old daughter, stands next to me, markers and crayons scatter the desk as she draws a picture --- a family of stick figures, hearts, a sky. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the picture and then, startlingly, see silent tears streaming down her face.
"Emily, what’s wrong?"
"Nothing. I am fine."
"Are you feeling sad? Are you feeling angry? Are you feeling happy? Are you feeling frustrated?"
"I’m happy and sad."
"Why are you happy?"
"I’m happy because I am drawing this picture.I’m sad because I have to go back to school tomorrow.”
And that picture...man. It just tore my heart to pieces.
Her family under a blue sky.
10/10 in marker. The word perfect neatly placed between two hearts.
And, mom written not once, not twice, but four times.
Memories beginning from about 2008-2019
2008
I’m standing outside the university’s education building, grass behind me, a pathway leading to the small front doors. Despite the warm air and beautifully green mountains, I am weighted in indecision, unsure of what major I want, unsure of what career to pursue. Nursing? Business? Art history? I’d taken classes in all of them. And yet here I stood, the doors of the education building wide open, welcoming. This building, now situated just north of the campus, used to be an elementary school. It used to be filled with children. Eventually, the university grew large and wide and the building ceased to be an elementary school and was transformed into a school for elementary school teachers. I take all this in, as I stand outside, still unsure. The doors are open, inviting in the summer air. I note the rough red brick. Is this where I want to be? Is this who I am meant to be? Working with children? Learning how to teach children how to learn? I take a few more steps, now I’m in the entryway, and see the tight knit blue carpet, worn with a thousand small feet - and instantly recognize the smell that lingers in so many elementary schools. It is a smell that represents the first day of school. It is pencil sharpeners and library books and backpacks and wooden blocks and childhood. I sense warmth, peace, and things that grow. My heart warms – a sensation runs through my body and I instantly know --- the Spirit touches every fiber in my body -- this is where I belong.
2011
Years later, after entrenching myself in studies and the workforce, I find myself in a new and unfamiliar place – green, so many colors of green, large live Oak trees, their curved branches draped in Spanish moss, the ocean not far, the smell of muggy and salty air constant. I have a job and it includes picking up two beautiful girls every day as they bounce out of a tall white brick school. They wear crisp blue uniforms and carry high expectations. The girls, privileged to attend a private school, are apart of a wonderful family – the parents both lawyers. I grow to love them as they treat me as one of their own. I had grown up in public schools, great schools—really, but public nonetheless, open to anyone, everyone. And now here I was, with a close-up view of what a private education could offer: bible studies, Latin, well-paid teachers, small class sizes, and individual attention. It is a unique school with a condensed day format. Despite the high price, studying is over by noon and home-based education is supported and encouraged the rest of the day. Mornings are academically demanding, but a freedom exists to explore – to develop talent – to serve – and to play every afternoon, the opportunity for sun to radiate children’s hearts. What does this mean? Does private education equal the best education? Does God belong in all of our education? Is this something I will want for my children? Will it ever be within my reach? If such an education arrived on my doorstep, would I take it for my children?
2012
I leave the home by the ocean, and I come back to my mountains and start a new job, with a new family. This family runs an active dental practice --- the mom spends her days drilling and scraping teeth – while the dad is piled in paperwork running the front office. They work hard to support another highly priced private education for their young children. It is spring and the flowers are slowly waking from their winter slumber. The mountains slightly snow capped. The children are bright, and they love their school. I park the car and as I walk into the large beautiful glass entryway, it is in those moments, the goodness of the Spirit, so evident in the school, warms me like sunshine, right there, standing on the grand tile, typical red bricks, but there is something so different than any other school. I walk through the halls, glance into the classes. I see pictures of modern temples and modern art, quotes from scientists and scriptures from the Book of Mormon and the Bible, pictures of George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Thomas S. Monson, Russell M. Nelson. It is a type of learning I had never really grasped - the integration of secular studies and teachings of The Restored Gospel, and suddenly a desire to one day have this for my own children reaches deep into my soul.
2013
I am in physical pain. My body is carrying two babies. I am laying in a hospital bed – the IV is dripping and the August sun is hot, seeming to permeate the hospital walls, exacerbate the pain. And yet there is light, bright and white and clear. I can feel it, beyond the August sky. It seems to effuse my cells, shoot energy into what it is I am doing, what it is I am about to do, to make happen what this day will bring—the arrival of these two small babies, just tiny lives soon to be fully in my hands. I am praying for my agency. I want these babies today so that I can choose these early years for them. If I wait too long and September comes…a year of education might slip by. I want to choose. Let me choose to guide them, to teach them to swim, to dance, to pick dandelions. Let me choose to give them cotton candy and ballet slippers. Let me choose how they will learn, how they will grow, so that they know that above everything, they have the potential to soar. Let me choose. They arrive, and I am a mother of two babies – fresh spirits from a heaven – an instant love. The light from the windows is brilliant.
2018
For five years I search for answers. They go to pre-school. They eat cheese sandwiches and carrot sticks and play with unicorn stuffed animals and dress up clothes. I watch them grow. They turn one, then two, then three, then four. Each day, every single day I think: Which school will they go to? Will it be private? Will it be public? Will it be charter? How many hours a day should they attend? When will I send them? Will they thrive being the oldest? Will they suffer being the youngest? How will I ever integrate the gospel into all learning? How will they ever learn about the Restoration and the Enlightenment? Brigham Young crossing the plains and Columbus crossing the ocean? I immerse myself in secular studies. And I immerse myself in words from the prophets. In scripture. In the temple. In prayer. I talk to whoever will listen. And with every word I read and with every word I hear – my soul yearns for the Spirit to touch me – what do I need to hear? Lead me. Guide me in this decision for my children.
2019
Puzzles. They are all over our house. Puzzles of barn animals and princesses. And I am standing there holding all of the pieces, and I know I had them put together in the right way. I had a picture: it was kindergarten and public school and all the delight they had as five-year-olds in school, playgrounds and crayons. Surrounded by a community that loves them. A community they worship with and will grow with. I will integrate the gospel where I can. Help them see the Lord’s hand is in all learning. All knowledge is His knowledge. But as I stood there, in their first-grade classroom, something was wrong. Something had gone missing. The picture wasn’t right. The puzzle was falling apart. The pieces were there, but one was missing. What piece, the center piece, the child, the children—both of my girls. Where was their voice?
I walk into my twin’s public school doors – a year after walking into them regularly. The front doors empty into a large carpeted space, halls stretching into eternity, no windows. I’m standing there, and my soul is searching for an entryway and there is none. I look around. The walls are a familiar red brick. A metal plate hangs on them, ushering students into a front office. The principle’s window is ahead, the blinds shut. I’m listening for children’s voices, but it is midmorning and while the classes are full, the halls are empty. There is only silence. I am here to see their principal because my children are unhappy. Their souls used to bounce bubbly around our living room, dancing with the sunlight while giggling and telling secrets to one another. But, now, they scream into their pillows with frustration, pull at their hair, and cry for hours upon hours. These are not my little girls. What is happening? There is no light, in the evening; they deflate like balloons, dreading the next day. Emily and her sister are not where they need to be. How will I fix it? What needs to change? Where is the line between intervening and letting go? I spend hours diving back into research, seeking council from friends and family, from the Lord. And, the answer becomes clear, and I am not sure that I want it. In fact, this is not the answer I had wanted.
I am standing in the dark, undecided. Behind me is a well-lit path stretching back into my own history: standing in the education building, learning about private schools, about Gospel centered schools, about public schools, about kindergarten and always, there are my girls, now 6-years- old, dancing through the house, tending their dolls, building with blocks, jumping in the grass, growing toward the sun. And ahead of me is another entryway, and it stretches into eternity, and I know I need to take that first step. This is the plan. It’s not the plan I wanted --- so much work, so many breadcrumbs to be swept up, clothes to wash, diapers and dishes and dance class and vacuuming and grocery store shopping and, well everything that keeps my day moving like a freight train from 7:00 am and for every minute until late, late and the house is quiet.
But the light starts to grow, and I realize there are no more shadows, no more doubt, no more questions, no more missing puzzles pieces, no more unheard voices. It is the Spirit, whispering profoundly: Go. Walk. Step. Trust. They belong at home.
Father, I have followed every path you have shown me, light the rest of the way for me – assure me that my children will continue to grow, strong in spirit and in health and in mind. Assure me that they will learn and prosper. Assure me that I can do this. Assure me that this is Thy Will. Light the whole path.
March 2020
And suddenly, I see. I see what my children had seen all along.
Our entryway, our home, will house the Spirit of education that has so deeply touched my soul. There will be an atmosphere where He is free to weave in and out of Galileo’s sun-centered universe, an opportunity to teach metaphors and similes through the scriptures. The Spirit will flow in pencils and paintbrushes and keyboards and piano melodies. Truth is truth and His hand is in all things. There will be autonomy and agency, passion and security, and so much love and sacrifice. An individualized education that comes with high expectations, discipline and structure, but is equally met with flexibility, creativity, and an imagination that knows no bounds. Every day we will work hard and train and develop the gifts that have been given unto us. What were we doing before this life? What is expected of us here? All the while, teachings of Christ will mingle in our stories and studies and an unspoken freedom will linger in our hallways.
December 2019
A few short weeks into homeschooling, and I am looking out of the window. The snow is falling. My little girl is painting.
“Tell me about your picture, Emily.”
“There is a little girl in a red shirt and she is outside. It is snowing and there are flowers.”
“Flowers in the snow?”
“Yes!”
“And how does the little girl feel?”
“Happy, Mom. She’s happy. She can feel God’s love for her.”
March 2020
One of the very first things I felt impressed to do when we pulled our girl’s out of school - was to re-style my entryway to reflect a Christ-centered home. It was like a burning nag I couldn’t set aside. So, we purchased a Christus and I pulled my decorative olive branches out of storage. I am drawn to their symbolism of peace and the Gathering of Israel. At the same time, I had felt a very strong impression to write some of my experiences surrounding our decision to homeschool onto paper. Even though I was actually pretty resistant to homeschooling, I knew with my whole heart it was the path we were supposed to take. We took so many of the first steps on faith, but simultaneously I felt there was more I needed to discover. And, it was almost like every instinct in my body knew I needed to comb through my personal history to figure out why we belonged here. I wrote for four months - sorting through ideas - compiling random thoughts that would come to me in the middle of the night. I knew I had a bunch of ideas that felt right, but I still felt like there was more I need to know. One morning, I called my sister and told her about my 20 pages of random writings and she simply said, why don’t you try re-writing your thoughts in an episodic timeline? And, within a few hours, it became very obvious that my most unique and influential spiritual experiences had all taken place in entryways. It was a very revelatory experience - one where I realized - Christ continues to teach us through the same literary patterns He uses to teach us through the scriptures - through stories, motifs, symbolism, metaphors, similes, ect. Our spiritual experiences are indeed intentional and I have no doubt they align with His divine plan. And, as I came to realize this, much like my daughter experienced in her own personal journey, I was overwhelmed by my Savior’s love for me. He had been preparing me for a path I didn’t even know existed — for years. I still do not know the larger view and what part I play, but I do know we are right where we are supposed to be.
