RJ practices basketball at a local elementary school. The school is brand spanking new. The bleachers extend without creaking and are designed so that coats, shoes, and little feet won’t fall through the cracks. The lobby speaks more "moderately priced hotel with continental breakfast" than elementary school. The scoreboard in the gym is electronic, and it works every time.
Our little Lutheran school is a little different. There’s no scoreboard, and no bleachers. It is possible to lose a Curious George doll between the wall and its protective padding. Sometimes the potties are out of order—just one, not all. Our basketball goals accept three-pointers just the same, but there’s something more. Our gym is filled with families celebrating Thanksgiving each year. The walls hear our cheers and our prayers. It holds tables filled with used Christmas decorations and hot air popcorn poppers each September as we raise money for scholarships. Every October, hundreds gather to play games and best each other in bidding wars over homemade cakes.
Our classrooms are spread throughout the building, and our students find their way to the sanctuary, the choir room, and the church office. The lunchroom boasts a trap set and a soundboard alongside portable tables. It's dark, and occasionally smells of last night's soup supper. In the mornings, the tables are covered with artists’ paint—the beginning of so many art projects. We struggle to find permanent space for our classes; we’re bursting at the seams. When there’s a funeral, our students eat quietly at tables in the hallway so that a grieving family can join in the ritual of a meal inside the lunchroom. On Sundays, the lunchroom is a place for learning and praising.
We do have three new classrooms. Classrooms that were hard fought and paid for by friends, families, and committed church goers. Classrooms that will protect RJ, Gigi and their friends if we ever see the unthinkable storm.
I’m often asked about our little Lutheran school. "It’s kind of homeschool, church school hybrid," I tell them. "Do you have sports?" "What about music?" "Do you think your kids are learning as much as they would in public school?" Yes. Yes. Yes. A thousand times yes.
RJ plays "500" at recess every day. I don’t understand the rules, but it makes him laugh and run and feel good about himself. That’s "sport." Last Tuesday, he sang all fourteen verses of "Froggy Went a Courtin" at our open house. Fourteen verse. Memorized. Sung under the direction of a conductor. The older kids have band practice once a week in the gym. He reads, really reads; and he’s a whiz at math facts.
We went skiing a couple of weeks ago (stay tuned). While other children spun in circles and slid haplessly down the hill, Gigi stood with her hands behind her back, eyes on the teacher. At school, it goes like this, "My hands are locked behind my back, I’m standing straight and tall. My eyes are forward; my mouth is closed. I’m ready for the hall!"
RJ and Gigi say please and thank you. To each other. To their friends. School parties often seem a church potluck—the attendees are happy, ready to have fun, and they know how to say a proper blessing.
The lunch ladies know them by name. Miss Karen has a time machine around her neck (an old watch); she brings pictures from her time travels (historical and old photos).
Gigi’s teachers teach her the alphabet and sharing; and when she has an accident, they wipe that up too—nose or bottom.
This week, we celebrate National Lutheran Schools Week; this week, we’re asked to re-enroll for next year. I always ask myself, "Is this the right thing?"
Yes. Yes. Yes. A thousand times yes.
This was dress-up day. They sang at a nursing home.
"Mom!" he told me, "I got to shake hands with some of the old people!"
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