At the Start of a New School Year
JAMYE DOERFLER | CONTRIBUTOR Seven years ago, when my family moved to a new city, we had a drastic change to our children’s schooling. My three boys had been enrolled in a teeny Christian school with an excellent curriculum and godly teachers. I served on the PTA and spent many hours in the school planning fundraisers and running the book fair. Our family loved both the education our kids received and the environment in which they received it. Then, we had an opportunity to plant a church in a new city. As we were praying for God’s leading in this possibility, I distinctly remember having a strong sense from the Spirit that said, “You’re going to plant a church, and your kids are going to the public school.” I myself had only attended parochial schools and then went to a Christian college, so I felt some trepidation about this idea. And yet I felt confident that this was from the Lord. In fact, I knew it was God’s will because it was not what I otherwise would have chosen! Plus, it made sense logically: if we were to be missionaries in a new place, we needed to be part of the community in a meaningful way, and we needed to be where non-Christians were. Still, it was heart wrenching to say goodbye. I had watched my oldest son thrive in the Christian school for six years, but our younger two were only just beginning, and it made me sad for them to miss out on what he’d experienced. On the last day of school, one month before we were to move, I was a blubbering mess of tears as I circled the parking lot one final time. And what a fearsome thing awaited us! My oldest son would be switching from a class of 6 to a class of 225 in seventh grade. And in middle school—the scariest age of all! On top of that, he’s never been like everyone else. He marches to the beat of his own drum. I mean, this was a kid who wore three watches on his wrist for no apparent reason at all. What would a bunch of public school kids think? The first day of school, I was terrified. I was sure he would be bullied. As the day ended, I stood at the end of my driveway peering up the street like the father of the prodigal son, desperate to see my child return safely. Finally, I saw him. There were no visible bruises. His hair did not appear to have been flushed in the toilet. Maybe he was…okay? “How did it go?” I asked when he arrived. Completely nonplussed, he replied, “It was good.”...