Tough luck. I woke up this morning to the vibration of a different alarm clock, one in the form of a toddler’s heel crushing my bagpipes. My three-year-old daughter, sleeping beside me and perhaps dreaming of football, shifted in her sleep and accidentally hit me in the babymaker. I woke up the way they do in the movies when an actor has a terrible nightmare and bolts upright to the sound of clapping thunder. Except the lightning was in my bladder, my shriek as dull as the gray morning.

“My balls…!!!” I managed, clutching the family jewels to make sure there were still there.

The pain was like a killer tsunami. It began as a wave of unbearable hurt, much like watching an Adam Sandler movie. I assumed the fetal position and made some distant connection with my feminine side as the anguish gained momentum, looming large and bitter, making me wince and wish I’d written my last will and testament. I was engulfed in such a paroxysm of pain, it’s all that kept me from consulting the dictionary to check what “paroxysm” means.

My wife tried to help me by giving me a forlorn look and some words of consolation. Not that I could hear her; I was too busy trying not to drown in my own drool.

The pain eventually subsided and the sun came out. I gave up concentrating on dancing sheep and my glowing inner core. I turned to look at my still-sleeping daughter, wondering whether I should wake her and tell her how close daddy had come to enlightenment.

Any annoyance or remaining pain simply flushed away at the sight of my snoozing child. It’s hard to be angry when faced with a purring baby, especially one that smells like milk and morning sweat. I’ll miss her when she’s old enough to have her own room and Dora-themed bed sheets.

Parenting. I guess the occasional whack in the groin is worth it.

–

How to find out whether you’re fit or not?

Easy: go run in one direction for 20 seconds.

Done? OK, how do you feel?

If, like me, you experience shortness of breath, shooting pains in your shins, and generally feel like dying at the mere thought of running for 20 seconds then you, like me, are definitely out of shape.

Once, my wife and I went to the bank to pay a traffic violation fine. The security guard informed us we needed to present a photocopy of the violation ticket to the teller. We didn’t have a photocopy. I looked at the wall clock – 15 minutes to closing time.

I asked the guard where the nearest photocopying machine was. Somewhere down the street, he mumbled. Great.

So I left my wife and made a dash for the photocopy shop before the bank closed on us. At first, I walked briskly. No need to panic, I told myself. It can’t be that far.

I was right; it only took me five minutes to get there. I whisked myself to the counter and presented the ticket. Unfortunately, the owner was busy trying to figure out certain photocopying settings and, with her back to me, her head buried in the machine, she told me to hang on a sec.

I’m a polite guy and I hate rushing people. But “just a sec” turned into at least a minute. I started getting antsy. The bank would be closed in less than 10. I’m a paying customer – I’m not forking over P1.75 for this!

Soon enough, however, she photocopied the ticket. I bade farewell and returned to the street which suddenly seemed strangely long, as if stretched by unknown forces, warped forever in every direction. The time was about 2:55… I knew that a brisk walk back wouldn’t cut it.

So I ran.

Well, it was more of a fast jog than a bid for Olympic gold. But those 20 seconds of sudden energy were all it took to make me realize that 20 seconds was all I was gonna do. For not only were my shins exploding into tiny fragments with every pounding step but my belly was climbing out from under my t-shirt making people on the sidewalk wonder how on earth a man so skinny could actually have a gut the size of an American football.

I stopped before my heart crapped out on me. If the bank closes, the missus won’t be happy. But at least I won’t need bypass surgery. I turned a corner, breathing as if on Mars, and saw the bank in the distance. The security guards outside were craning their necks in my direction.

What, you’re gonna close? This very minute?? I began to pick up speed.

When I got to the bank the guards courteously opened the front door, which is just as well because I would’ve careened right through and had a spasm on the marble floor. I managed to find my wife, thrust the photocopy into her hands, and watch her scram to the teller while I curled into a sweaty ball on a nearby chair.

Fitness First beckons.

My love affair with books began when I was a little boy sprawled on the living room floor.

I was lying on the carpet, peering at a strange world of chair legs, fingernail clippings, and dead hair when I noticed something alien propping up the sofa.

It was a book. A small beaten paperback, valiantly subbing for a sofa leg that had died and gone to sofa leg heaven. Its hard work was unnoticed from the world above but from my ground-level advantage I could see that it was putting in the hours.

Somehow I got my hands on this book. I remember its wounded midsection, crushed by the nightly weight of a family bloated with dinner, settling down to watch TV. Did we care more for electronic entertainment than we did for reading? The injured book would have said so.

These are patchy memories of course. I don’t remember what the book was about (I think it involved a talking otter named Olga); neither can I remember what I did with it after taking pity on its broken chest.

What I do remember is that I enjoyed opening its pages, looking at the amusing illustrations, and trying to understand what all the words meant.

It was a strange book. You’d think a talking otter would be enough to capture the imagination of a 5-year-old wouldn’t you? Well, it didn’t. Mr Otter was bizarre and his conversations were lost on me. But his world, the literal pages in which he lived, musky and brown with age, were certainly alluring. It was nothing like the bright-colored Dr Seuss books in infant school. No, this was a different vehicle with a different universe. Were there others like it?

There were. I soon discovered another musty paperback lying around the house, a dog-eared book about Robin Hood. Like Mr Otter it had an aged, neglected feel to it and looked ready – almost eager – for prop-up duty. Luckily, I caught it before it could be shoved beneath a wobbly table.

This book captivated me. It was a definite improvement over Mr Otter; I could actually understand some of the sentences. Of particular interest was when Robin Hood dueled with Little John over a small river in the middle of Sherwood Forest. I could practically smell the oak trees and feel the autumn air gnawing at Robin’s face. I could hear their clashing staffs and echoing grunts. And I could truly sense Little John’s paradoxical joy of being felled into the cold waters by an impish yet fearless stranger. I knew they’d become friends. Indeed they became comrades.

I didn’t have the faculties to finish the book (it was clearly geared for young adults) but it had sufficiently awakened me to the power of the written word. I would dip again and again into my favorite portion of the story, the river duel, and reveled in my fragmented understanding. This, coupled with the book’s weathered charm, reinforced my belief in realities greater than my own.

Books were journeys, adventures in imagination. The people who wrote them, they had the best jobs in the world. Their tales were gardens of wonder; the price of admission was simply belief. All I had to do was open their books and enter the gates.

This was when I knew I was going to be a writer.

Thirty years and countless books later here I am, a product of all I’ve read, a lover of words. Ask me what my favorite tomes are and be prepared to wait in vain; there really are too many to mention.

From Enid Blyton’s Famous Five, Arthur Conan Doyle’s Hound of the Baskervilles, Steven Mosley’s A Tale of Three Virtues, to John MacArthur’s Ashamed of the Gospel, my loves are like the mismatched patches of a cherished quilt.

All I can say with certainty is that my first books are the ones I love the most. I know I can scarcely remember them and for this they tease me in the night. But they’re the ones responsible for my overloaded bookshelves. They’re the ones that keep me reading and writing, trying to recapture the smell of oak, the cool of the forest, the strangeness of sentient animals.

Mr Otter and Mr Hood, I owe you.

“Don’t think – feel! It is like a finger, pointing away to the moon. Don’t concentrate on the finger or you’ll miss all the heavenly glory.”

And so Bruce Lee introduced an entire generation to Eastern philosophy. That and lots of awesome Kung Fu.

I remember thinking, when watching Enter the Dragon as an 8-year-old, how awesome it would be to fight like that. To do a 360 backflip, kick a man on the chin and then land in exactly the same position without breaking a sweat… I’d be the toast of my street, my school, the entire town.

I never did think much of the whole finger-pointing-at-the-moon thing though.

Wait, that’s not entirely true. I remember thinking it sounded profound. Like something wise and maybe even true. But not enough to move me in a deep, philosophical way. Prepubescent boys in 1980s England were far more interested in Star Wars, karate, and quoting movie lines than pondering deep Zen mysteries, it must be said.

But of course, as a grown-up whose head is now crammed with an overabundance of cinematic one-liners, I often find myself pondering the profundity of such statements.

This thing about fingers pointing to the moon, it certainly does sound intense. I’m a stickler for good anecdotes and truth pictures, so I find myself trying to decipher Mr. Lee’s teaching, particularly in my context as a Christian.

Could it mean it’s dangerous to focus and obsess over a pastor instead of the Christ he proclaims? I can agree with that. Modern consumerist Evangelicalism is the perfect petri dish for this kind of superstar pastor hero worship. Have you heard so-and-so’s podcast? Have you read his latest book? Do you subscribe to his blog? Do you follow him on Twitter? You gonna catch him at next year’s so-and-so uber-conference? He’s just so awesome!

Sure we can and should love our pastors. And it’s OK to have Christian heroes to look up to and emulate (I have plenty). But things go awry the moment we admire the pastor in exchange for the Jesus he’s preaching (if, indeed, he preaches Jesus at all).

In this age of nifty digital content, slick video, and even slicker websites, it’s easy to idolize the messenger while overlooking the Message.

Could Bruce Lee have referred to revelation? Could the “pointing finger” be the stuff about God, the theology, the right doctrine, the ideas and truths that show us who God is?

If so, I say “concentrate on the finger!” Theology, the study of God, allows us to see, understand, and revel in the glory of our Maker. To think that doctrine and “the deep mysteries of God” somehow distract from the awesomeness of God is a falsehood. We study to know, to plumb the depths of His knowledge, to drink deep the pure waters of His revelation in order to celebrate Him, to be refreshed, instructed, rebuked, and grounded in God.

To NOT study about God is to gaze into heaven, ignorant.

This is important, as Jesus is the ultimate “finger” that points us to God. “Whoever has seen me has seen the Father,” He told Philip in the upper room (John 14:9). If we set our gaze on Jesus, if we seek to know Him intimately, we get a fuller, clearer, and richer understanding of our Creator.

More importantly, Jesus is the only way to be reconciled to the Father (John 14:6). If we want to know this righteous and holy God, if we want to be hoisted from our sinful quagmire and restored to Him, we need to focus on Jesus, the very revelation of God, who gave his life as a ransom for many (Mark 10:45).

To not focus on Jesus, to sort of throw our hands up and assume that God is too nebulous to properly grasp (which is what a lot of Christians actually believe these days) is dangerous for the soul, to say the least.

Of course, Master Lee had neither of these things in mind. He was simply telling his student to not overthink Kung Fu. According to Lee, the act of raising your leg and kicking someone 4 feet into the air was simply a wonderful thing to bask in – to feel – rather than to analyze and figure out.

So actually it’s not as mysterious as it sounds. But I thank Lee for pointing me to Jesus.

I’ve always struggled to live the Christian life. Call me a dolt with an unquestionably thick skull but I’m the kind of believer that easily forgets what Christ has done for me, focusing instead on what I must do for Christ lest I incur His wrath and be smitten across the forehead with a lightning bolt, ala Harry Potter (though infinitely more hideous and not nearly as cool).

That or sometimes I just fail to obey coz, you know, it’s just so hard.

These days, by God’s grace, I’m not as passionately obsessed with sin that the gospel is eternally eclipsed. I’ve learned to glory and rest in the power of the gospel, to embrace the love of Christ than be oblivious to it.

But still there are days when the narrow way feels more like a tightrope.

I suspect that you, dear Christian friend, often feel the same way. That’s sort of how it is I guess; God bridges the chasm between His and our unrighteous selves, He saves, regenerates, and gifts us with His Holy Spirit, reassures us of His love, grants us the power to live victorious lives and what do we do? We go back to building some sorry excuse for a bridge in an attempt to connect both sides of the chasm, as if Jesus Christ were not enough, as if He has not already reconciled us to Himself.

This is human nature, of course. It is counter-intuitive to believe in a sovereign God who alone redeems us and makes us holy. It is anathema to our fallen minds that the Lord would choose to save us without ever asking us for our approval or to at least chip in and aid the process. As many of us like to quote, there’s no such thing as a free lunch. We practically fall over ourselves to contribute, to give, to do something in order that we might own our salvation.

It’s just that God will have nothing of the sort.

You see the gospel declares that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us (Romans 5:8). Did you get that? Christ died while we were still sinners – rebellious people, dead in trespasses, unable to please God, indeed not even seeking Him. Salvation, in this light, is wholly of the LORD and not some cooperative effort between Creator and created. We wouldn’t have anything to do with Him, much less cooperate with salvation.

No, the gospel is an act of God, a divine accomplishment devoid of human will. And to God be infinite glory because it means He gets ALL the credit.

Charles Spurgeon explained it this way:

And if GOD does require the sinner—dead in sin—that he should take the first step, then he requireth just that which renders salvation as impossible under the gospel as ever it was under the law, seeing man is as unable to believe as he is to obey, and is just as much without power to come to Christ as he is without power to go to heaven without Christ. The power must be given to him of the Spirit. He lieth dead in sin: the Spirit must quicken him. He is bound hand and foot, fettered by transgression; the Spirit must cut his bonds, and then he will leap to liberty. GOD must come and dash the iron bars out of their sockets, and then he can escape afterwards, but unless the first thing be done for him, he must perish as surely under the gospel as he would have done under the law.

…Salvation is of the Lord. The Lord has to apply it, to make the unwilling willing, to make the ungodly godly, and bring the vile rebel to the feet of Jesus, or else salvation will never be accomplished. Leave that one thing undone, and you have broken the link of the chain, the very link which was just necessary to its integrity. Take away the fact that God begins the good work, and that He sends us what the old divines call preventing grace-take that away, and you have spoilt the whole of salvation; you have just taken the key-stone out of the arch, and down it tumbles. There is nothing left then.

A splendid summation of the doctrine of salvation, I say. I mean how marvelous, how wonderful, right? God predestined me to be saved and He did it without my contribution, and while I was a filthy blasphemer to boot. That’s what makes God so awesome; He can do what no one else can. He loves like no one else can love and saves our sorry selves to prove it.

But back to the quandary of holy living. Why do we have difficulty in living the victorious life? Why does it seem, after having acquired so great a salvation, that we’re more comfortable trying to build a make-shift bridge to the Divine when the cross has been permanently jammed between that otherwise impassable crevice?

It’s because the heart is fallen. Our default setting is to think we can earn our salvation, that somehow we can perform a righteousness that’s pleasing to God. The apostle Paul, while still a murderous rabbi, boasted a pre-salvation resume that listed achievement after flaming achievement. And yet, in Philippians 3, after acquiring a knowledge of Jesus he swiftly declared his human righteousness as dung. His accomplishments simply couldn’t compare to the righteousness of Christ, “which is through faith in Christ—the righteousness that comes from God on the basis of faith” (v9).

Did Paul struggle with sin after being saved? For sure. Romans 7 couldn’t be clearer. The real question is how’d he balance things? How did Paul, as he traversed the tightrope that is the Christian life, keep from falling into the frothy pit of legalism on one side and the bubbling pit of antinomianism (otherwise known as “extreme grace”) on the other?

Good question. Especially as this is how it’s been for the vast majority of Christians – a constant struggle in striking a happy balance between the two. Legalism or extreme grace: finding dead center is like pinning a tail on a donkey while blindfolded. And made to turn in multiple directions. With a steel ball chained to your leg.

You see, for the legalist, the Christian life is a laundry list of do’s and don’ts. Don’t drink, don’t smoke, don’t dance, don’t go to the movies. Piety is defined by the barriers we erect, the strict codes we live by, and the many extrabiblical regulations these entail.

Legalism is difficult because it’s work driven by fear and powered by human flesh. The love of God and Holy Spirit have been chased out of town.

For the antinomian, the Christian life is all about grace, grace, and more grace. Forget the law; it only brings death. The antinomian isn’t interested in pondering God’s commands because he believes God demolished the law through Jesus. Or in other words, the less concerned about the law you are, the less likely you are to be caught in its trappings.

Both positions are helpful in that they spotlight good things that go a long way in helping us purse holy living. After all, the Bible DOES command us to obey God, flee immorality, and despise evil. And yes, the gospel does liberate us from the tyranny of the law and point us to a better way, namely Christ who saves us and through whom we can do all things.

And yet both positions, on their own, can be terribly destructive. Legalism wears us down, breeds self-righteousness, and pushes us away from God rather than closer to Him. It’s like munching aspirin – an awfully grim way to fight pain wouldn’t you agree? Not just that but legalism also gives rise to rebellion against God because sooner or later He’ll seem “too hard to please”. We burn out, bow out, sometimes taking almost forever to return.

Extreme grace frees us from the law, yes, but often results in a disregard for the law that leaves us vulnerable to sin. One extreme I’ve seen is a disdain for confession of sin and a reinterpretation of Luke 11:4 and 1 John 1:9 to reinforce this notion. You know you’re going off the deep-end when you reinvent theology and play origami with Scripture to make it all fit.

But what to do? Mesh the two together? Cut out all the bad parts and live by some hybrid, gospel-powered observing of the rules?

Actually, sort of.

The Bible is chock full of holy directives, positive and negative. Pray without ceasing. Love your enemies. Put on the whole armor of God. Don’t grieve the Holy Spirit. Flee immorality. Don’t be anxious for anything. These and a whole host of practical commands dot the entire New Testament.

I think it’s safe to say that God expects us to obey these commands and live pure, faithful lives.

And yet, not I but Christ, amen? Galatians 2:20 makes it clear that it is not we who live but it is Christ living through us. It’s a mystery, I confess, and I don’t think I’ll fully understand or resolve the tension of this verse while sinful and earthbound. But I do accept this truth and happily concede that God lives through me. How this pans out involves rest in the finished work of Christ, I’m sure.

But obedience is still key. Grace doesn’t nullify our obedience to His word; it empowers us to fulfill it. And while we may not perfectly obey, there’s no doubt Christ will continue to work in us to make us more like Him (Phil. 1:6).

In short, I believe we must make every effort to be holy (Hebrews 12:14), to obey Christ and to live lives that conform to the Word and its prescriptions. We simply have to make sure that this obedience is powered by the gospel. In other words we don’t obey to be accepted; rather, we obey because we are accepted in Jesus. We don’t do good works to earn salvation but we’re saved and therefore able to do good works as a result.

Will we ever find a perfect balance in this life? It’s definitely the goal. And yet I know, as a fallen creature, I’ll always veer into one of those two extremes. Thank God we have an Advocate who prays on our behalf and guarantees ultimate victory. And thank God this same Advocate, the Lord Jesus Himself, has promised not only a final day of deliverance from sin, but the grace to live in holy anticipation of it.

In many a skirmish these heroes did flog
a great many devils with well-worded blogs
that honor the Word, the truth that sets free
Hush they heretics with strokes of their keys

Johnson, the chief, that pesky ol’ thorn
Is keen on the graphics; like Spurgeon he warns
Men on the downgrade, and all who would hike
Warren, Falk, liberals and pomos alike

Turk, the hellraiser, he smashes all fetters
That bind up poor souls; with his open letters
He questions and pleads with powerful zest
For when one is wrong the Gadfly won’t rest

Phillips, expositor, Proverbs he knows
Detailed, exacting, he urges we grow
in grace. Misread not the Biblical texts
For he will rebuke and then proclaim NEXT!

Mighty these men, in word and in deed
Shielding us from heretical screeds
And pompous decrees that clearly do breach
All that we know the Scriptures to teach

Voices are many, “teachings” abound
Sea billows roll and toss us around
But thanks be to God for these faithful scribes
Who champion truth and point us to Christ!

–

Read the Pyromaniacs and be blessed.

A friend of mine had posted a link to an adult video, complete with a pornographic thumbnail for everyone to see. Or rather, some malicious code had infiltrated his Facebook account and done the dirty work for him.

Now I know my friend would never do something like this and I emailed to tell him about the dirty post. He probably clicked on an innocuous link which led to a site with malware waiting to be activated. It’s a common hacker trick and can happen to the best of us.

The danger this poses, however, is immense.

What if my son (or any other 11-year-old for that matter) accidentally saw this online? What if he clicked through and actually watched this thing?

All it takes is one dirty image or video to awaken unholy passions in a child.

I really want to prevent that from happening, with all the practical power I have.

Which explains why my wife and I have chosen not to allow our son an FB account. We’ve talked to him about it and told him that while some of his friends are on Facebook, a lot of stuff can happen on there that can damage the soul, especially if you’re a kid.

He can be on Facebook when he’s older.

I don’t expect him to fully appreciate this right now but I’m grateful he accepts our counsel and decision.

I’m also happy that he cooperates with our attempts to monitor his internet usage. Maybe he secretly resents me in some way for this (it doesn’t look like it, thank God) but even if he does, I’m not gonna sit on my thumbs for the sake of popularity. I know “brooding cyber-fascist” isn’t one of the more cherished job descriptions of a loving father, but I’ll willingly take the heat.

You see, my son’s mental and spiritual health – and perhaps entire future – is at stake. I know this because I know the effect porn can have on a young mind.

I was first exposed to pornography when I was about 9 or 10 years old. My friend had unearthed a couple of adult VHS tapes buried in his dad’s cupboard which we watched, unattended, stunned. It was inexplicably beguiling; shock, intrigue, and lust instantly coursed through my veins.

We knew we had seen something forbidden. But I had no idea of the long term effect it would have on me: my perception of sex, future relationships, and very pursuit of God would all be seriously tainted. I thank God for His gospel of grace which sets us free and cleanses us from sin. But boy, I wish I had never seen those tapes.

I feel sorry for my tender, young self whenever I think back to those days. I wish I had a time machine so I could travel back and redeem the younger me. To cover my eyes, destroy those tapes, and point me in a different direction.

But I don’t have a time machine. All I have is present time. And the eyes and minds I can protect are those of my two kids.

Which is why, in the battle for my children’s purity, Facebook can definitely wait.

“Homeschooling? What’s that?” If I had a dime for every time someone asked me those twin questions, I’d insist on Philippine pesos so I’d at least be able to spend my small fortune.

So anyway, homeschooling. What is it and what’s the big deal? I get this all the time along with other questions like, “What about your children’s socialization?”, “Won’t they end up becoming axe-murderers?”, and “Why does your facial hair grow so fast?”

I don’t tire of these questions; in fact, I relish them. Like most homeschoolers, I feel I’ve been appointed to change the world one query at a time and therefore have to provide the meatiest, most persuasive answers to all homeschool questions, friendly and hostile.

I have my critics too, you see. And let’s face it, walking through a mall with my kids when, by society’s standards, they should be sitting in a classroom copying notes from a blackboard does warrant a decent explanation rather than a simple wink of the eye.

Oh and did I mention the fact that my kids rarely sleep early at night, sometimes eat candy before meals, don’t always go to church, and love playing all day?

Sacrilege, huh?

When my friends/relatives/government officials/the CIA start showing up at my door with frowns and bludgeons, I find the situation easier to deal with when I have credible answers.

So how about those answers? I’m sure if you’ve read this far you’re interested in homeschooling to some degree. Or maybe you’re waiting for me to say something damaging that you can use against your homeschooler cousin-in-law whose six kids all manage to ace the local quiz bee every year, despite the fact that your kids are doing extremely well in school and yes, they are excellent spellers in their own right.

Question #1: What do you mean, “Nuclear Education”?

OK, I’m a writer. Frankly, the term “homeschooling” has become a little boring. In fact, despite its fairly obvious connotation, a lot of people still don’t get it. So I figure that changing it up a little won’t hurt.

Nuclear Education, while admittedly not the most earth-shattering improvement on the word “homeschooling”, implies dynamic, energetic learning. The kind of learning that doesn’t happen in a classroom. The kind of education brewed in the fires of the living room and backyard, where love and chaos are one and the same.

It’s the type of education that only a mother and father can give, boiled in tears and sweat, steeped in fear and optimism, fused together by a torrent of parental passion and love for God, culture, and all things beautiful and good.

You see, homeschooling is not about sitting in a classroom with 40 other same-aged students who are only allowed to speak or question the teacher at allotted times. It’s not about having kids eat their snacks and play at predetermined stages of the day. It’s not about creating well-behaved, cookie-cutter people who will eventually blend in with society as easily as their gray uniforms blend in with the winter sky.

It’s about letting a child discover the world with a different set of lenses. It’s about introducing them to your values while giving them the freedom to examine the beliefs of others. It’s about allowing them to interact with people of all different ages, outside a classroom where they can feel the sun on their skin and not have to pine for it through bolted windows.

In other words, homeschooling is about giving your kids as varied and natural a learning experience as possible.

This often means that our home looks and feels like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse have just galloped through. I am daily vexed at how my kids can go from 0-100 in just 5 seconds and wreak havoc throughout the house before I’ve had my morning coffee.

But somehow, it’s all good.

They’re not in a classroom, forced to sit still under the threat of detention. They’re not required to read stuff they don’t like or engage in experiments they’d happily see go wrong, just for kicks.

They’re not coerced into mingling with foul-mouthed kids whose lurid stories rival the latest issue of Bandera.

They’re at home, working on stuff we all love, enjoying our time together.

It’s never dull or boring. For the most part, it’s a mess – books are everywhere, board game pieces are flying all over the place, colored ink adorns paper crafts and kitchen walls. Tensions are high, passions are raised, brains are worked, stuff is LEARNED.

It’s nuclear and the most frighteningly insane fun we have with our kids.

Question # 2: Are you mad?

I think so. You need to be, to a certain degree. Robin Williams once said, “You’re only given a little spark of madness. You mustn’t lose it.” I agree. And therefore I choose to channel my madness through some select things, homeschooling heartily included.

Look, educating at home is tough. First it entails NOT putting your child through conventional school. The grief this entails is enough to make most people curl into the fetal position and never emerge from a hot shower.

Not letting your child go to a “normal” school is like saying you’re waiting for the Rapture to happen and you don’t think education is that important anyway. Your friends and family will ridicule you. You may as well wear tin foil on your head and eat canned sardines for the rest of your life.

Not only that, but YOU become truly responsible for your child’s education. Which means that you need to really take an interest. No more coasting through life, taking a backseat as your child “learns” at school. One needs to own his child’s education and not just leave it to the pros.

For the most part, moms assume teaching responsibilities in a typical homeschool arrangement. We dads are trusted to bring home the bacon, cheer at sports events, say stern things when our kids screw up, and slouch on the sofa when we’ve had a bad day (so that mommy can say to her fledglings, “It’s tough being a grown-up little ones; it’s important we study hard so we can deal with the curve balls life often throws our way” or some similar object lesson.)

But just because mommy is on the front lines teaching math and other abominable subjects, it doesn’t mean that we can slink into the shadows and watch TV in the other room. On the contrary, we men have to stand up and show our kids just what responsibility looks like. Like how a man honors his wife, how we deal with crises, how we fix toilets and cook food when mommy is sick (without setting the kitchen on fire).

Homeschooling means stepping into the lives of our kids and influencing them for the better. No more abdicating solely to the teacher. No more relying on a school to be your kid’s all-encompassing yaya.

You can’t phone in your participation. You really have to be there. 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

Like I said, madness.

Question # 3: Won’t your children grow into anti-social misfits?

As any homeschooler worth his salt will tell you, this is the quintessential homeschool concern. And I understand it, I really do. But let’s break it down shall we?

What do you think is more conducive to developing a child’s ability to function properly in society? Lumping him into a classroom with a mass of students all the same age or having him interact with everyone in the outside world, from the grocery stacker down at your local Puregold to scary Aunt Hilda who smokes like a trooper and still can’t get over the amount of shoes Imelda used to own?

Which more closely resembles real life?

I can understand if a child is raised by a pack of wolves. Or is home-educated but locked in a cabinet and fed cat food when the textbooks and whip are put away.

But this nonsense about children becoming dysfunctional because they’ve never set foot on school grounds… puhleaze.

If anything, keeping them out of school protects them from undue influence. I’m so glad my son is homeschooled because it means he doesn’t hurl invectives, tell crude jokes, or make fun of other people like his neighborhood friends often do. That’s not to say he’ll never ever do these things; you can’t completely shield a child from peer pressure and the world at large. It’s just that our strategy is different.

My wife and I do our best to teach a correct, Biblical worldview to our children so that they’ll be armed with an accurate way of understanding the world. That way, for example, if some kids talk to our son about sex outside of marriage, he at least knows what the Bible says about the issue as well as what we feel about it. Which is better than not knowing what to think and caving to peer pressure and compromise.

As a wise parent once wrote, it’s better to teach a right view of things at home than to correct wrong views learned outside the home. I paraphrase, but you get the point.

Question # 4: Why are you so confident you’ll succeed?

I’m not. Really, I share the same fears as most other homeschoolers. And that is, what if it all goes pear-shaped?

The truth is I don’t have any confidence in myself. I have a lot of confidence in my wife!

Seriously though, homeschooling is sometimes as frightening as when we first embarked on this journey 10 years ago. But it does get better and things do get more relaxed.

As you hit your stride and get a handle on how your child best learns, you begin to feel more comfortable and assertive. And as you begin to notice fruit (your child starts learning how to read, solve math problems, convince you to buy him load for his mobile phone coz he’s done x,y, and z and deserves a reward) you become less anxious and more excited about his learning trajectory.

It’s all very scary, for sure. But like all things nuclear, scary is part of the package.

Ultimately, all the passion you pour into your child’s education, all your energy, devotion, prayers, tiresome days and sleepless nights – the amalgam of these raw investments is a homeschooling experience that will shape your child in stunning and unique ways.

There are more questions, I know. And the answers will come.

For now, I’ve explained myself. So the next time you catch me at the mall, you know why the kids are tagging along. And why we’re all smiling.