Back to School Looks Different This Year
Sometimes the greatest accomplishment isn’t completing the assignment. It’s simply walking through the door.
Back to school looks way different this year than I imagined, and yet I don’t think I would trade it for the world.
It’s not glamorous. It’s not easy. It’s been a long and exhausting 48 hours—forget two weeks, better yet, a couple of years—but here we are.
All three kids homeschooled.
Something that never, in a million years, crossed my mind. Something I never thought I would be so willing to do.
But here’s the thing: I plan and God laughs.
It’s how we roll.
His plans are always better than mine, and I have to say, today was a true testament to that.
For the first time since I dropped Logan off at preschool—and as the years progressed, looked forward to my kids getting back on that big yellow school bus after what felt like a never-ending torture session—I realized what a privilege and a blessing it was this year to not fall into the hustle and stress of all things back to school.
There was so much peace in the midst of tremendous medical stress because we didn’t have to contend with back to school.
Andrew and I talked about it a lot in the weeks leading up to the end of summer. For the first time, we had gratitude that our kids were heading down a different path. One that seemed to bring calm in the middle of the storm.
It was one less layer to navigate schedules around.
It was one less worry about their well-being.
It was one less worry about a list of things.
And at the center of it all was Jesus.
What a difference that has made this year in all our lives and in our home.
God has taught us a lot and taken us down paths we never saw coming, but He never abandoned us. He provided when things looked bleak. His provisions were perfectly timed. He gave us strength when we had nothing to rely on but His faithfulness.
He gave us the blueprints to healing generational wounds, and it came in the most unconventional and foreign way for us:
Hold our kids tighter.
Keep them closer.
And let them lead in a world that does anything but give them a say.
Their voices matter.
Their feelings matter.
Their safety matters.
Who they are matters.
Don’t get me wrong, they still drive us crazy, and they are still very much kids learning to become young adults. But something profound shifted this year by doing what felt the scariest—letting go of what the world says school has to look like in a district that did anything but protect my children.
And because of that—another failed system—the greatest blessing was given.
Addie loves being homeschooled. Her anxiety decreased the second she knew she never had to walk back into that school building again. Her education became centered around the one thing she loves most in this world: Jesus.
For Jax, he counted down the days until he was no longer an Old State Otter and officially, as he likes to say, a forever “car rider.”
There were no tears fighting him to get on a bus with strange faces and spend his day inside a classroom anxious and overwhelmed.
There were no tears at the end of the day because he was so upset about how mean kids are and how challenging his day was.
Today, he couldn’t believe that in Science they talked about JESUS!
A little boy who randomly breaks out in praise songs throughout his day got to experience something I wish we had done sooner.
He experienced what it was like to go to “school” with the people he looks up to most—his brother and sister.
One building.
One roof.
Lots of rooms.
And a whole lotta Jesus.
But this is where I reflect and smile the most.
Not because Logan has walked a road harder than most will ever experience in their lifetime, but because of the beautiful God moment built into a school day that would have otherwise been missed had anything actually gone the way we wanted it to this week.
Today was Logan’s “first day of school” in two years.
Most don’t know what it’s like to be 16—almost 17—and be asked what grade you are in and have no idea how to answer.
To be a mom watching his entire body brace, knowing what’s about to happen.
To fight the tears as you watch him grasp for words and try to explain the impossible in three words:
I don’t know.
Technically, he should be a junior in high school with a license and his whole future ahead of him.
Instead, what we thought high school would look like for him—and got a small glimpse of as he walked in on his first day of freshman year, only to ultimately never return—felt like such a gut punch that would only get harder as the years passed.
Watching the world around him keep moving while his peers and friends are getting licenses, jobs, playing sports, planning for college, and doing all the normal “teen stuff” became a cruel joke in an unfair world.
Just one week ago, he sat in a neurologist’s office and was told he had two choices in life:
- Get over his depression and anger about what happened to him and move on with his life.
Or...
- Go back to a grade that matches his cognitive ability and start at Kindergarten or first grade.
Let that sink in for a moment.
It wasn’t said to him just once.
It was repeated multiple times as tears streamed down his cheeks and he knew his plea for help had fallen on deaf ears.
Again.
And as his mom, I watched my son—who is taller and stronger than me—once again be belittled in a broken system where compassion is no longer part of medicine.
Maybe that is why today mattered so much.
Because somewhere along the way, we had to stop measuring Logan’s life against everything a 16-year-old is “supposed” to be doing and start celebrating the things no transcript, report card, or graduation timeline could ever measure.
Today there was no backpack filled with new notebooks.
No full schedule of classes.
No carefully planned first-day outfit and obligatory picture by the front door with an eye roll.
Instead, his first day of school began with an EEG.
Because sometimes life doesn’t look anything like you thought it would.
After everything Logan has walked through medically, cognitively, physically, emotionally, and spiritually, we made the decision that this semester wasn’t going to be about credits, grades, or catching up.
We honestly don’t care when—or if—he graduates.
Which, as a parent, may make you pause.
For us, it removes stress over what we can’t control anyway.
Right now, the goal is much simpler:
Just show up.
One class.
Bible.
That’s it.
And even that is a lot.
Before we ever made it to school today, though, God had something else planned.
The appointment that wasn't supposed to happen today
Logan's EEG had already been canceled twice this week.
A week without much wiggle room, packed with endless medical appointments and a deadline before we head back to Boston next week.
Today, we were simply trying to get it done, even if that meant another excruciatingly painful, long day.
We were both exhausted this morning.
We packed his feeding supplies, his go-bag, his Bible and notebook, and headed out.
He tolerated the EEG beautifully, and when it was finished, we had a little extra time, so we walked next door to our new favorite spot, Peach Grove Market.
Logan wanted to see if they had anything gluten-free—ideally a coffee...
Such a small decision.
We had no idea what was waiting on the other side of that door.
We were greeted by Mark.
On the outside, Mark was kind, friendly, and looked like anybody else.
What started as a conversation about a gluten-free brownie somehow became a conversation about suffering, faith, invisible battles, and what it means to keep going when life hasn’t turned out the way you expected.
Two people, decades apart in age, with very different stories—and yet somehow they understood each other.
There were tears.
There was honesty.
There was faith.
And the Holy Spirit was ever so present.
At one point, Mark shared how much HE had needed that interaction that morning.
I watched something shift in Logan.
Because when you’re 16 and your body has betrayed you in ways your friends can’t understand...
When your brain doesn’t work the way it used to...
When appointments, feeding tubes, pain, weakness, and uncertainty have replaced so much of what teenage life was supposed to look like...
It can become very easy to wonder:
What is the purpose in any of this?
And then a stranger looks at you and essentially says:
Your presence mattered to me today.
Just writing those words brings tears to my eyes.
Tears I fought all day so I could give Logan space to feel and not worry about Mom.
And maybe that was the part that hit me hardest.
For so long, Logan has been the one needing something.
Needing doctors.
Needing help.
Needing feeds.
Needing answers.
Needing someone to understand.
But standing there with Mark, he wasn’t a patient.
He wasn’t the sick kid.
He was simply Logan.
And somehow, just by being Logan, he had something someone else needed.
Suddenly, suffering doesn’t feel quite so empty.
Had the EEG happened Monday like it was supposed to, we probably wouldn’t have met Mark.
Had it happened Tuesday, we probably wouldn’t have met Mark.
But today?
On Logan’s first day back to school?
There he was.
And Logan walked out of that bakery a little different than he walked in.
And then we went to school.
When we arrived at Glasgow Christian Academy, I could see the uncertainty.
This was new.
He didn’t know what to expect.
And yes, Mom was going into class with him—which, when you’re 16, isn’t exactly the first-day-of-school experience you’re hoping for.
For the record...
I made sure we matched.
Yup. Not even sad.
Most people probably didn’t notice, but I know deep down he thinks I’m pretty awesome.
Or at least that’s what I am going to keep telling myself!
Especially when I’m your mom and I am excited about going “back to school” for reasons far deeper than he would understand.
When my simple goal of walking this otherwise crappy road alongside you is a true gift and blessing because of what God has done in the midst of it all.
What an honor and privilege to teach you things I learned in my 40s so you can have the head start I never got.
I was actually really excited for Logan—and maybe a little for myself—when we got the welcome email from his teacher and learned the focus of this year would be studying the apostle Paul.
A man who chose to REJOICE in prison.
Ironic given the circumstances.
Even more so because on one of our worst days, I remember Andrew walking down the stairs quoting Paul, shouting:
REJOICE! Again, REJOICE.
“Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice!”
~ Philippians 4:4
While chained in a Roman prison, Paul was writing a letter teaching that true joy is an inner peace.
It does not depend on easy or happy physical circumstances.
Paul reminds us to rejoice and praise God regardless of the season we are walking through.
BUT GOD.
I had emailed his teacher ahead of class to share a little about Logan, his story, and that while he may look like his peers on the outside, he is anything but.
My simple request to her was that I just wanted Logan to show up.
We didn’t care if he failed every test, quiz, or Bible verse because I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, what he needed most would be found inside those four walls.
God would meet him where he was.
That was all I was asking for.
I never got an email back, so I was anxious walking into that room with him, unsure if she had even received my email.
And if she had, maybe she had no idea what to say or how to handle such a complex situation.
But then she walked in and, within minutes, began sharing her testimony.
She knew who I was already, and she could see the discomfort on Logan.
She read his body language.
And I quickly realized what I hadn’t been certain of yet:
She had read the email.
And she was already praying for him.
She was excited to have him because this was her calling.
For seven years, she prayed to teach high school Bible class before the spot finally opened up.
She was full of energy, enthusiasm, joy, laughter, and unapologetically authentic.
Her testimony—amazing.
Her story—inspiring.
But what she said next was everything I knew Logan needed to hear.
She struggled with reading.
She wasn’t a fast reader at all.
She takes things slow and step by step.
Her job was simply to encourage and facilitate conversation around one of her favorite apostles, who at his lowest point could sit in a prison cell and praise Jesus.
She made it clear we were going to go through this year slowly. And for some that may be boring, but slow was exactly how we were going to take things.
A week earlier, someone looked at everything Logan couldn’t do and reduced him to it.
Today, his teacher looked at everything he couldn’t do and simply made room for him anyway.
Slowly.
Gently.
Without pressure.
And little by little, I watched Logan’s body relax.
Then he chuckled.
And then he chuckled again.
He would whisper hilarious little comments to me as his face started to light up with a sense of relief and wonder.
How is this possibly school?
I sat there thinking about the timing of the entire day.
The EEG.
The bakery.
Mark.
And now this classroom.
A Bible class, of all places.
Maybe this semester isn’t about Logan proving what he can still do.
Maybe it’s about creating enough space for God to meet him in what he can’t do right now.
At the end of class, I went up to his teacher, and she gave me the biggest hug as I fought back tears, just thanking her.
The conversation exchanged created safety, peace, and most of all, healing.
It’s going to be okay.
God has gone before us, and while the waves still pound the shoreline, He keeps us safe in the storm.
After class, Logan spent lunch with his friends from church and his sister.
She was so excited to sit at lunch with her big brother.
The smile on her face as she looked out for him, making sure she found him so he wouldn’t be left out...
Her bucket was overflowing.
He laughed.
He smiled.
His feeding pump continued running beside him.
And for a little while, he was simply a 16-year-old boy hanging out with his friends at school.
That matters more than I can explain.
Healing doesn't always look like getting better.
The rest of the afternoon reminded us that we’re still very much in the middle of this.
By the time we stopped at Costco, the day had caught up with him.
The stimulation became too much.
Frustration escalated.
His headache returned.
His stomach became increasingly uncomfortable from his feed, and eventually we had to stop it.
Then his legs began hurting.
The weakness increased.
Eventually, he couldn’t continue standing and had to remain seated.
By the time we got home, he was done.
He went to his room and stayed there for the evening, playing video games with friends and decompressing.
His salad sat untouched.
His stomach still hurt.
Hours later, after Jax was in bed, Addie—craving a late-night Wawa run—convinced Logan to come for a ride and get a treat together.
He came home smiling and laughing.
And honestly, she was just excited he was agreeable to go and spend time with her.
And perhaps that’s important to share, too.
Because I don’t want to turn today into a neat little testimony where God showed up and suddenly everything was okay.
Everything isn’t okay.
Yet.
The past couple of weeks beat me down.
But they didn’t take me out.
Logan is still struggling.
We still have questions.
So many questions.
His body still has limitations.
There is still pain, weakness, cognitive difficulty, feeding intolerance, appointments, therapies, and an enormous amount of uncertainty.
His siblings are hurting just as much as he is.
Our family is still figuring out how to heal.
How to move forward.
How to press in harder when the fight feels like it will never end.
But today reminded me that healing can happen in the middle of all of that.
Sometimes healing looks like completing an EEG.
Sometimes it looks like walking into a classroom when you’d rather turn around.
Sometimes it looks like laughing with your friends while a feeding pump runs beside you.
Sometimes it looks like recognizing that you’re overwhelmed and stepping away for ten minutes.
Sometimes it looks like reconnecting your feed at 9 PM because you know your body still needs nourishment.
Sometimes it looks like a late-night run to Wawa that you would have otherwise turned down without hesitation just days before.
And sometimes healing looks like walking into a bakery for a gluten-free brownie and discovering that perhaps God arranged the appointment, the delay, the stranger, and the conversation long before you ever got there.
Today wasn’t the first day of school I would have imagined for Logan.
But maybe that was the lesson.
We don’t need to know what this entire semester is going to look like.
We don’t need to have his future figured out.
We don’t even need tomorrow figured out yet.
For now, the assignment is simple:
Show up.
Show up tired.
Show up uncertain.
Show up with the feeding tube.
Show up with the cognition challenges.
Show up with Mom if that’s what it takes.
Show up with questions about God and faith and why any of this has happened.
And then leave enough room for God to meet you there.
Because sometimes the places we thought were delays are actually divine appointments.
Sometimes the person you think God sent to encourage you needed you just as much.
And sometimes the greatest accomplishment on the first day of school isn’t completing an assignment.
It’s simply walking through the door.
Today, Logan walked through the door.
And for this season?
