It’s the beginning of the year. December has come and gone—and with it, Christmas break.

I think I’d like to stay on break for the next four years. 

Relate much?

Last week, I went upstairs to organize our school shelves so that we’d be ready to start fresh today. I thought I’d shuffle some papers around and tidy up a bit.

The place was a mess. In the rush to Christmas vacation, they (those people who claim to be my well-taught, well-trained, tidy children) had thrown all their stuff in piles. There were piles everywhere. Under the table, behind the couch, on the bookshelves and stuffed behind the door. (So that’s where that last load of laundry went.) I was a little annoyed, but I had a Plan B in mind just in case it was a disaster. (Plan A was a 10 minute-tidy.) It was such a mess that I found my laptop charger, fired up Netflix and set to sorting through and organizing.

Before long, I was in a fairly, shall we say—bad mood. Even watching old episodes of Downton Abbey wasn’t helping. The deeper I dug into the mess, the more upset I became. I started talking to myself. Soon, my talking turned into ranting:

“These kids! They never put their stuff away! I’m always cleaning up after them!”
{Slam old papers into the garbage. Stub my toe—the same one that always pays for it when I’m angry.}

“Why doesn’t anyone ever put the lids back on the highlighters? Is it that hard?”
{Throw four million dried out pens away.}

“I’m so mad! You kids didn’t finish the last three days of work! That’s called d e c e i t in case anyone’s listening!!”
{…throw the last three days of work in the garbage—undone.}

I wanted a break. I wanted to take my kids down to the school district and enroll them. I entertained visions of quiet days and a clean house as I purged, tossed and organized. I imagined what those shelves would have on them if they weren’t crammed with eighteen years worth of math, science, history, grammar and handwriting books.

It’s funny. I was doing the thing I always tell my kids NOT to do: I was letting my frustration determine my attitude. Like many tired homeschool moms, I just wanted to forget about homeschooling for a few more weeks—but I know my own schedule. Two weeks of a break is all we can afford this year. I had two options: quit or keep going.

For the next hour and a half, I struggled to create order out of the leftover Christmas chaos.

Hot tears began streaming down my face as I thought about all that I had on my plate besides homeschooling. “Why am I even doing this? Does it really matter? I hate this! I want to QUIT!”

Just then—because God knows when we’ve had enough—I heard a little knock on the door. I dried my eyes. The door opened and  two big brown eyes peered in at me from under little blonde bangs. “Mommy? Are you okay? The kids said you were crying. Are you missing grandpa too? Are you mad? …Would you like my cookie?”

A cookie. I suddenly felt very foolish. We sat down on the floor and ate the cookie, me and the youngest of our seven, surrounded by big white garbage bags and a lot of self-pity. I was embarrassed to admit that I wasn’t grieving the loss of grandpa. I told my little one the truth: I was just mad and feeling sorry for myself.

She seemed okay with that. I get the feeling four-year olds do it, too.

As we sat there eating our cookie, God worked on my heart. Looking at my four-year old daughter, I thought about how patient God is with me. In all my years of walking with Him, He hasn’t quit on me—and goodness knows, I’ve certainly deserved it from time to time.

About the time we were done with our cookie, I noticed a homeschool notebook from ten years ago sitting on a shelf. It belonged to my now 23 yr old daughter. When I opened it, my heart smiled. Beautiful hand-drawn images danced across the pages. She loved to draw. We discovered this when she was in 6th grade. The life cycle of a salmon. The anatomy of a flower. A report on George Mueller. A drawing of her baby sister. A poem for winter. A terrible drawing of me with really bright red lips … kissing her dad.

My attitude was softening as I thumbed through pages. Those years went by so fast—and these years—they’re going by fast, too.

Saylor and I spent the next few minutes looking through old notebooks from her older brothers and sisters. She pointed out things I hadn’t seen in a while—pictures and assignments from kids who are now adults.

What I really needed was not to quit—it was to see things new; to back up and look at the privileged life I lead. Privileged. Homeschool moms get to witness (sometimes after tears!) the first words our children will ever read. Privileged to know everything that’s on the “scope and sequence” for any given school year. Privileged to take an impromptu trip to see the orcas or spend a day at the library when it’s pouring down rain and no one else is there. Privileged to struggle right alongside my kids until we both have an “ah-ha” moment.

It’s been 18 years. I’m realizing that math has precious little to do with the reason we homeschool. Grammar is great—but I’m not homeschooling so my kids will have a shot at a high SAT score (although it’s a nice side-benefit.) I’m not homeschooling to feel good about myself.  I’m not homeschooling so that I can say that I do it. (Good grief.) I’m not homeschooling for prestige or for accolades from our kids. I’m not doing it for peace and quiet. If that’s the reason, then I really do … QUIT.

I’m homeschooling our children because I realize what a precious, privileged opportunity it is. I’m homeschooling because I believe it’s a privilege for our children. I’m homeschooling because I know it’s the best thing for our kids—and the best things often require sacrifice.

If you want to quit homeschooling, take a step back. I’m not saying homeschooling is “the answer” but if you’ve been called, don’t quit. Please don’t quit. The finish line isn’t that far off.

You can do it—and it will be worth it.