The Lies of the Homeschool Gremlin
There are days in homeschooling when something as small as a single math problem unmasks more of me than of my child. The problem itself wasn’t even incorrect—and yet the gremlin inside of me rose up anyway. It whispered, “He shouldn’t HAVE to struggle. He’s not paying attention. We’re going to fall behind, and THEN where will we be?” It’s startling how quickly that voice surfaces, even after years of knowing better. I know I should step back. I know I shouldn’t intervene too quickly. But fear—especially fear dressed up as responsibility—has a way of crowding out what I know to be true.
And then I catch myself with the question that has become a kind of litmus test: Behind what? Behind whom? We are not beholden to a factory-style system. We are following a method—a deliberate, relational way of learning that sees the child as a whole person. And if there is no system, then “behind” loses its meaning entirely. It becomes a phantom, a pressure that only exists when I invite it in.
When I peel back the layers of these moments—this supposed “inattention,” this struggle that isn’t really a struggle—I find that the hard part isn’t my child at all. The hard part is me. It is my pride, my tidy picture of how our days should unfold, my unspoken loyalty to the very system I claim to have left. Often, what I label as his distraction is really my own inconsistency. What I interpret as his stumbling is sometimes just my lack of doing what I ought with our days. When I’m honest, the weakness in homeschooling isn’t his pace—it’s my grip on expectations that were never meant to be ours in the first place.
This is when I have to return—quietly, deliberately—to the deeper question of what I actually want for my children. I want them to grow into people who have formed real relationships with many things: ideas, books, nature, work, beauty, and truth. I want them to be equipped for whatever God calls them to, not just for whatever the world declares marketable. I want their lives to be shaped by vocation rather than merely job training. Preparing a child only for a profession is far too small a vision. But preparing a child to respond to God’s calling—whatever that looks like—is large enough for a lifetime.
If one of my children becomes a plumber who also reads Plutarch and ponders the good and the beautiful while fixing pipes, then our work will have been well worth it. And if they build families who know and serve Jesus, that is a legacy far more enduring than any earthly accomplishment. I used to imagine them traveling the world, making some grand mark somewhere worth writing about. But the older I get, the more convinced I am that what truly impacts the kingdom is the quiet faithfulness of a servant-hearted life. A person who listens for the still, small voice of the Lord will shape the world in ways that will never be captured in a résumé.
And so the math problem becomes a mirror. Not a measure of deficiency or delay, but a reminder of the deeper calling of home education. We are raising persons, whole and complex and beloved. We are shaping character, forming habits, tending souls. The work is slow, sometimes hidden, and often humbling. But it is holy work. And the more I release the fear of “falling behind,” the more I can see my children clearly—where they are, who they are, and who they are becoming.
In the end, it is not what my child does that matters most. It is who he is.
