The Not-So-Pinterest Perfect Classroom

Every year for the last fifteen years, August has felt the same.

A new master calendar. New and returning teachers. Staff meetings. Welcoming day for teachers and bootcamps for students. There is something about the beginning of a school year that has always felt exciting and hopeful to me.

Last year was our first year that felt different. It was our first year of homeschooling.

This year, we are starting school in a camper.

Instead of onboarding new staff, I'm sitting at a tiny camper table piled high with books, wondering how in the world I'm supposed to make learning come alive in such a small space. 

And if I'm honest, this isn't what I pictured.

When I first imagined homeschooling my boys, I had a very specific picture in my mind. There would be a dedicated classroom. Built-in bookshelves filled with beautiful books. A large table where we would gather every morning. Plenty of room for projects. Organized shelves. Everything in its place. It was very much like a picture out of pinterest. 

God had a different picture.

As I sat thinking about the start of this school year, I realized something.

The classroom was never the point.

As someone who has spent most of her career in traditional education, structure comes naturally to me. I like plans. I like calendars. I like knowing what comes next. There is a comfort in order that I probably won't ever completely outgrow.

But homeschooling has slowly been teaching me that children don't always need more structure.

Sometimes they need more margin– because margin means there is time to think, and explore– time to wonder. The point isn’t that a clock says it is time or the schedule mandates we move on to the next thing.

I'm still learning that.

This year, I have a few goals for our family that have very little to do with checking boxes.

I want to hold our schedule a little more loosely.

Not because routine isn't important—I actually think rhythm is one of the greatest gifts we can give our children—but because I don't want our days to become so rigid that we miss the opportunities God places in front of us.

I also want our boys to experience things that stretch them in new ways.

Rather than trying to fit every enrichment opportunity into every week, we're planning to focus on one "special" each month. Pottery. Spanish. Art. Maybe a cooking class or something we've never even considered before.

Not because they need another item on their transcript someday.

But because childhood should be full of trying new things. I want my boys to discover what they love, but I also want them to learn that it's okay not to love everything they try. Both are valuable. 

And then there's the goal I'm probably most excited about.

I want at least seventy-five percent of our learning to happen outside.

Even when it's cold, muddy, and far less convenient.

I spent years believing that learning happened best inside four walls because that's where I had always seen it happen.

Now, I find myself believing something different.

Some of our richest conversations happen while we're walking.

Science becomes much more interesting when you're holding it in your hands instead of reading about it in a book.

Writing comes easier after climbing a hill than after sitting at a table all morning.

And God's creation has a way of slowing us down enough to notice things we would have otherwise missed.

Living in a camper has certainly not been what I expected. Most days, I wish we had more space. I miss having a place for everything. I miss a dishwasher. I miss not having to move school supplies before we can eat lunch. 

But then I remember something I've written before.

The best things in our lives rarely happen because everything went according to plan.

They happen because we were willing to be faithful in the season God gave us instead of waiting for the season we wished we were in. 

So this year, our classroom may be small and our table may have to serve three different purposes before lunch.

But I have a feeling our boys won't remember any of that.

I think they'll remember the mornings outside, the hikes, the exploration in the creek, the pottery class, and the time with their friends.

And when they are 15 or 30 years down the road, they probably won’t look back and think about where they learned it at all. I pray that they will just remember we learned it together.

With grace and grit–

Kehla